Enzo pushed the double doors open and stepped back into the competitors' waiting room.
The moment the soles of his heavy boots touched the marble floor, the constant hum of conversation, laughter, and the clinking of glasses ceased. It was as if someone had cut the audio cable to reality.
The room, which had previously ignored him as if he were part of the furniture, now focused entirely on him. The "shark tank" had found a new predator, and the other fish didn't know how to react.
Enzo kept his expression neutral, walking toward his usual corner, leaning against the pillar. He felt hundreds of eyes burning into the back of his neck. Anonymity had died in the arena.
He didn't see fear in their eyes. He saw curiosity, yes, but mostly he saw disdain. He saw the wrinkled noses of the Celadon elites and the thinly veiled disgust of the Silph Co. sponsored trainers. He could hear the whispers, low but venomous, ricocheting off the walls.
"... unnecessary savagery...""... Dark types are unstable, they shouldn't be allowed..."
Enzo leaned his back against the cold marble and crossed his arms. To block out the palpable hostility of the room, he forced his brain to drift toward something technical, something absurd. His mind retreated to the mechanics of Pokémon biology.
"Weezing..." he thought, frowning slightly under the brim of his cap. "My Weezing has two heads. I know they are two distinct consciousnesses, the small head talking to the big one that controls the motor functions..."
His eyes glazed over as the logic wandered.
"But what about the Magneton that Houndoom just destroyed? It's three magnetic units fused together. Who controls the body? Is it a democracy? Do they vote before using a Thunderbolt? Or is there a 'master head' and the other two are just passengers? And if all three want to go in opposite directions at the same time? Does the body tear itself apart, or do they just vibrate in place?"
It was a stupid question, but it was better than focusing on the hate he felt radiating from the room. He was just about to consider the biology of a Dugtrio when a shadow fell over him.
Someone had approached his pillar. Enzo looked up, snapping out of his daydreams about Pokémon anatomy.
It was a tall guy with dark skin and eyes that seemed permanently closed in a stoic expression. He wore a practical travel vest, a stark contrast to the gala suits of the other guests.
Brock. The son of Flint, the Gym Leader of Pewter.
The entire room held its breath, waiting for the confrontation.
"Wow," Brock said, his deep, calm voice breaking the tense silence. "My name is Brock. Let me tell you... your style is a bit violent for my personal taste, but that was a great battle."
Enzo blinked, surprised by the direct approach. Brock didn't look disgusted; he looked analytical.
"Brutal efficiency," Brock continued, crossing his arms. "You didn't waste a single movement."
Enzo immediately activated his "Polite Rookie" mask. The cynical smirk vanished, replaced by a respectful nod.
"Thank you," Enzo replied, softening his tone. "I know who you are. Leader Flint's son, right?"
Brock smiled, a genuine, earthy smile.
"That's right. Even though my father is the Leader, I try to keep up with the new talent. And you just woke everyone up."
"It's an honor to hear that from you," Enzo said, and part of him was actually being sincere. Pewter was the old guard, pure resilience. "I would love, one day, to have the opportunity to visit Pewter and challenge your father. Test my team against the famous rock defense."
Brock's smile widened. He seemed to appreciate the respect for tradition.
"My old man is as stubborn as a Geodude, but he respects strength when he sees it," Brock said, extending a hand. "The day you head up there, let me know. I'd be happy to see how he handles that Houndoom of yours."
Enzo shook his hand. The grip was firm, calloused from hard work.
"It's a deal."
"If we meet later in this tournament..." Brock released his hand and took a step back. "Good luck, Enzo. You're going to need it. The crowd doesn't really like what it doesn't understand."
"Thanks. Same to you," Enzo replied.
Brock nodded one last time and headed back toward the food table.
The interaction lasted less than two minutes, but the effect was immediate. The fact that the son of a respected Gym Leader had spoken civilly with the "savage" Dark-type user broke the tension. The looks of disgust softened into cautious curiosity. People went back to talking, though the volume remained low.
Enzo let out the breath and leaned back against the pillar.
On the giant screens scattered along the walls, other matches began, filling the silence with the sounds of explosions and the shouts of generic trainers.
But on the velvet sofa by the window, something had changed.
Steven Stone was no longer looking at the meteorite shard. The rare stone, which moments ago had been the center of his universe, now rested forgotten on the coffee table.
His steel-blue eyes, cold and analytical, were fixed on a single person: the boy in the leather jacket leaning against the pillar.
Steven's posture of boredom had vanished. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced. He had seen the match. And unlike the crowd who saw only violence, or Daisy who saw a lack of elegance, Steven had seen something far rarer.
Silence.
"He barely opened his mouth," Steven thought, dissecting the memory of the battle. "Houndoom wasn't just obeying orders; he was anticipating them. That level of synchronization... where the Pokémon reacts to the trainer's intent before vocalization... that takes years to build. Or a lifetime of surviving together."
Steven felt a tingle in his fingers. That competitive desire, that "itch" to find someone who could truly test his Metagross, flared up in his chest.
He made a move to stand up. The movement was subtle, but the unofficial "bodyguards" from the Devon Corporation reacted instantly, ready to follow him like a school of Remoraid trailing a Mantine.
Steven stopped mid-motion.
He looked at Enzo, who was trying to remain invisible in the shadows. Then he looked at the circus surrounding himself, the heiresses waiting for a smile, the photographers waiting for an angle, the corporate vultures waiting for an opportunity.
"If I go over there now," Steven reasoned, with a maturity that belied his age, "I'll bring this entire circus with me. I'll put a giant target on his back."
Steven already carried the crushing weight of the Stone name and the Devon legacy. Everything he touched became news.
Steven relaxed his shoulders and leaned back into the sofa, frustrated but decided.
"Not yet," he decided, picking up his glass of sparkling water again. "I'll let you be in peace for now, Enzo Vance. But I am watching you."
Time in the Cerulean Main Arena seemed to have entered a distorted, violent loop.
For the audience, it was a horror show. For Enzo, it was just administrative work. He walked in, Houndoom destroyed, the bell rang, he walked out.
Match 2: Enzo vs. A Water Trainer The opponent, a nervous boy with shaking hands, made a fatal error: he tried to use the arena's deep pool to shield his Wartortle, thinking the water offered sanctuary. Houndoom didn't wait, he fired a concentrated Dark Pulse directly into the water surface. The liquid acted as a perfect conductor, amplifying the shockwave like a depth charge. The pool erupted in a violent, black geyser, blasting the Wartortle out of the water and slamming it onto the cement deck with a sickening crunch, leaving it sliding across the floor like a limp ragdoll.
"MERCY RULE INVOKED!" The arena's digital voice echoed mercilessly.
"The hydrostatic pressure of that attack..." Professor Birch muttered, frantically adjusting his glasses while scribbling in a notebook. "He used the water's density as a conductor for impact rather than an obstacle. Brilliant!"
"He cracked three tiles on the pool edge," Daisy hissed, her voice trembling with contained rage, her "hostess" smile failing completely. "Those tiles were imported from Kalos! Who is going to pay for this?"
Match 3: Enzo vs. A "Bug Catcher" A Butterfree flew high, attempting to scatter Stun Spore over the field. Houndoom simply inhaled deeply and released a short, precise Flamethrower. The fire vaporized the powder in mid-air and singed the insect's wings in the blink of an eye. The Butterfree fell, smoking.
"MERCY RULE INVOKED!"
"Oh..." Erika covered her mouth with her kimono sleeve, looking away from the fallen Pokémon. "Poor creature. There was... no chance for defense..."
"It's barbaric," Daisy cut in, fanning herself hard enough to generate wind. "There is no class, no grace, no choreography! It is just... industrial incineration. Where did Lt. Surge find this boy? In a slaughterhouse?"
Matches 4 and 5: The Blur The arena became a chaotic blur of black flames, sulfur smoke, and bodies hitting the floor. In Match 4, a Raticate was intercepted mid-Hyper Fang. The impact of Houndoom's Crunch was so severe it sent the rodent flying across the field to smash against the retaining wall, leaving a spiderweb of cracks in the concrete. In Match 5, a Pidgeotto attempted an aerial dive but was shot out of the sky like a clay pigeon, scorched by a precision burst of fire before it could even screech. Through it all, Enzo didn't even take his hands out of his pockets. Houndoom moved like a well-oiled killing machine, a predator who didn't waste a single breath or a single movement, dismantling three Pokémon in a row per match with terrifying ease.
"The thermal efficiency remains stable!" Professor Birch was nearly jumping out of his commentary chair. "Five matches, fifteen KOs, and Houndoom shows no signs of overheating or respiratory fatigue. This is Elite Four level conditioning, impressive!"
Match 6: The final opponent of the day was a young boy, maybe twelve years old, with his cap turned backward and shaking like a leaf. But unlike the others who had mentally fled before the match even started, he slapped his own cheeks to focus.
"I won't give up!" he shouted, throwing the first ball. "Go, Rattata!"
The small purple rat materialized, hissing. Enzo didn't even take his hands out of his pockets. Houndoom simply opened his mouth and let out a short burst of Ember. It wasn't a flamethrower; it was like a sneeze of fire. Rattata, caught mid-Quick Attack, was engulfed by the flames and fell rolling, unconscious.
"Rattata is unable to battle!" The referee didn't even have time to take a breath.
"It's okay! Go, Spearow!" The bird launched itself into a suicidal dive, trying to peck the dog's eyes out. Houndoom didn't dodge. He waited until the last millisecond, tilted his head, and bit Spearow's wing in mid-air. With a sharp snap of his neck, he whipped the bird against the concrete floor with enough force to create a small crater. Spearow didn't get up.
2-0.
The stadium was in a sepulchral silence. The "Mercy Rule" was one kill away.
The boy looked at his last Poké Ball. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I trained for this. We trained for this. Go, Machop!"
The gray humanoid Pokémon leaped into the arena. He didn't roar. He immediately assumed a kickboxing combat stance—fists raised, guard tight, feet light. An electric murmur ran through the stands.
"A Fighting-type!" Daisy's voice went up an octave, desperate to narrate a turnaround. "Machop has natural resistance and an offensive advantage against Dark! If anyone can pierce that defense, it's him!"
The crowd leaned forward. Could it be?
"Machop, Plan B! Low Sweep!" the boy ordered.
Machop was fast. Very fast. He slid across the ground, spinning his body to sweep Houndoom's back legs. The goal was to take away his mobility. Houndoom realized the intent and jumped back, but Machop used the momentum of the miss to launch himself forward.
"Don't let him breathe! Karate Chop combo!"
Machop closed the distance in the blink of an eye. Pah! Pah! Two dry strikes hit Houndoom's flank. The dog grunted—the first time he had made a sound of pain all day—and was forced to retreat defensively.
The crowd exploded. "He hit him!" a spectator shouted. "He's backing up!"
Machop didn't stop. He was a disciplined fighter. He kept pressing, cornering Houndoom against the arena wall with a rain of precise blows, careful to avoid the dog's mouth.
"Finish him! Vital Throw!" the boy shouted, tears of emotion in his eyes. He was going to do it. He was going to defeat the monster.
Machop grabbed Houndoom by the horns, preparing to use the dog's own strength against him and throw him through the air in a judo move.
In the VIP box, Steven Stone narrowed his eyes. Mistake, he thought. Never grab a dog that exhales fire.
Enzo, leaning against his pillar, finally took one hand out of his pocket. Not to give a complex order, but to make a cutting gesture with his finger.
"Smog."
Houndoom didn't try to bite. While Machop held him by the horns, face to face, Houndoom opened his jaws and expelled a dense, black, toxic cloud of gas directly into Machop's eyes and open mouth.
It was a dirty move. It was brutal. Machop gagged instantly. The gas flooded his lungs and eyes. He let go of the horns, stumbling backward, coughing violently, his hands clutching his throat, blinded and suffocating.
The crowd's applause died in their throats.
"Now," Enzo whispered.
Houndoom shook his head, clearing the remnants of the previous attack, and surged through the cloud of purple smoke like a shark in murky water. Machop, blind and in panic, tried to throw a punch at the air. He missed.
Houndoom didn't use fire. He lowered his head, hardened his neck muscles, and accelerated. Headbutt.
Houndoom's bone skull collided with Machop's chest with the sound of a baseball bat hitting a wet bag of cement. CRAAACK.
The impact was so violent that Machop was lifted off the ground. He folded in half in mid-air, his eyes rolling back to white, before being projected ten feet backward, landing limp at his trainer's feet.
The silence that followed was heavy. The boy fell to his knees beside his defeated Pokémon, shocked.
"Machop is... unconscious," the referee announced, swallowing hard.
Enzo didn't celebrate. He recalled Houndoom to the ball with a beam of red light, turned his back on the boy crying over his fallen Pokémon, and walked toward the exit.
"MERCY RULE INVOKED! WINNER: ENZO VANCE!"
On the giant screen, the bracket updated. Enzo Vance: 6 Wins, 0 Losses.
Daisy dropped the microphone onto the desk with a dull thud.
"Thank God it's over," she said, not caring if the audio was live for the stadium to hear. "If I had to watch five more minutes of that animal dirtying my arena, I would go down there myself and use my Starmie to teach him some manners."
Erika placed a hand on her friend's shoulder, trying to calm her, but even the Princess of Nature looked relieved that the slaughter had ended.
But Professor Birch was oblivious to the mood. He was practically vibrating with excitement, staring at the data on his monitor. He leaned into his microphone, his voice booming across the stunned stadium.
"Incredible," Birch declared, ignoring Daisy's glare. "Simply incredible! Look at the stats! That Houndoom just defeated eighteen Pokémon consecutively. He neutralized an advantage from a Water-type and completely dismantled a Fighting-type Pokémon! Ladies and gentlemen, we are looking at a serious contender for the finals... that is, if he doesn't have the misfortune of running into Bea before then."
In the waiting room, the atmosphere shifted. The "tourists" and rich heirs continued sipping champagne, oblivious to what they had just witnessed.
But the true talent, stood in shocked silence.
In the corner, Nessa and Bea, the Galar prodigies, stared at the stat screens in disbelief.
"I went 6-0," Nessa murmured, sliding her finger across the tablet. "You went 6-0. Misty went 6-0. We all wiped the floor with these amateurs."
Bea, arms crossed, finished her rival's thought, her eyes fixed on Enzo's retreating back on the screen. "But we rotated teams. I used Machamp, Grapploct, and Hawlucha to manage stamina. You used Drednaw and Arrokuda."
Bea pointed at the screen, at Houndoom's damage ratio. "He didn't switch. Eighteen consecutive KOs. A single Pokémon. That dog should be dead from exhaustion, but he wasn't even panting at the end. That's not just strength... that is monstrous conditioning."
Across the room, Steven Stone stood up abruptly.
The boredom was gone. Curiosity had turned into urgency. He realized, better than anyone there, the statistical impossibility of what Enzo had just done. Managing the energy and thermal fatigue of a Fire-type across Eighteen Battles was art.
"I need to talk to him," Steven said, buttoning his jacket and taking a step forward. He wanted to congratulate him. He wanted to ask how he trained that energy recovery.
But the moment he took the first step, the "Stone Wall" closed in. "Mr. Steven!" shouted a League representative. "A photo for Devon Corp, sir!" asked a photographer. "Steven, what did you think of the..."
Steven was swallowed by the crowd that adored him. He tried to peer over the heads, craning his neck, trying to spot the red cap amidst the chaos. But it was too late. He saw only the automatic locker room doors sliding shut. The opportunity was gone. Trapped by his own fame, the future Champion could only watch Enzo slip away.
Enzo pushed open the heavy exit doors of the stadium, expecting to find the cool night breeze and silence.
Instead, he found a tsunami.
FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!
It was like opening an oven door. A tide of journalists, paparazzi, and TV cameras crashed over him. The "Mystery Rookie" with a "villain" Pokémon was the story of the night.
But Enzo stopped at the top of the stairs. He adjusted his jacket, looked out at the sea of vultures before him, and for the first time that day, a real smile curved his lips.
He wasn't scared. He was in his element.
"Let the show begin," he thought.
And he walked down the stairs to meet the wolves.
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