The echoes from Durant’s fall still hadn’t faded by the time Bugsy reached for his fourth Poké Ball. His fingers lingered longer this time. His expression had shifted—not to fear, but to assessment. Cold, calculated assessment.

  He needed to stall.

  He needed to buy time, slow momentum, unravel this living wall before it broke his Gym apart.

  “Volbeat,” he said softly.

  The Poké Ball snapped open in a streak of light that curled high before flaring into motion. Volbeat didn’t land—it hovered. Light burst behind it like a gleam off a blade’s edge. The soft buzzing of its wings was constant, high-pitched, weaving between a whine and a whisper.

  Swampert turned toward it slowly.

  There was no roar. No breath of intimidation.

  He simply squared his stance. Thick arms hung low. One eye narrowed.

  Al didn’t even raise his hand.

  The signal tone rang.

  “Begin!”

  (break)

  Volbeat exploded into motion.

  Not forward—not yet. It launched upward in a tight arc and veered left, carving an S-curve in the air as its glowing tail shimmered like a comet. With a snap of its limbs, it released a pulse of Tail Glow, amplifying its inner energy. Sparks danced behind it like stardust.

  Then the second phase began.

  Double Team.

  Illusions split off like trailing echoes—two, four, six ghost-forms flickering behind the original. Each mimic buzzed in erratic, circling orbits. High, low, above, to the side.

  Swampert didn’t move.

  Wide Guard shimmered faintly around him, now active.

  Bugsy didn’t wait.

  “Confuse Ray! Signal Beam! Layer pressure!”

  Volbeat pulsed once—two rays of glowing distortion flashed from opposite flanks. One bounced off a stone shard. The other struck the edge of the Wide Guard and scattered in refracted beams. Swampert’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  Then the Signal Beam came—a sweeping spiral of energy, cast wide to overload the barrier’s edges.

  Al tapped the railing.

  “Brace. Right foot. Don’t counter.”

  Swampert dug his rear foot in. The energy smashed against the dome. The field pulsed hard—but held.

  The moment it ended, Al gave a sharp nod.

  “Stone Edge. Random pattern.”

  Swampert didn’t look up.

  He punched the ground.

  Not once. Twice. Three times.

  And each time, a jagged column of razor-sharp stone erupted from the field—not in a ring, not in a wall, but in chaotic, staggered spikes. Illusions vanished instantly. The real Volbeat juked sideways, clipped one shard, and nearly lost altitude.

  Swampert followed the trajectory with his eyes.

  Then moved.

  It wasn’t fast.

  It didn’t have to be.

  He stepped forward into the broken arena and raised both fists.

  “Power-Up Punch. Trail the movement.”

  Volbeat looped wide. Swampert didn't chase. He swung once—missed. Swung again—missed.

  But each punch was a drill, not a strike.

  Each swing coiled muscle tighter.

  Each motion increased pressure in his core, fed heat into his limbs.

  Bugsy caught it.

  “Moonlight, now!”

  Volbeat veered toward the open ceiling beam and lifted its arms. The light from above caught its wings—and the shimmer of Moonlight spread across its body. Small wounds began to close. The wing strain began to fade.

  Swampert’s eyes narrowed.

  “Roar.”

  He didn’t raise his arms. He just opened his chest and let it out.

  A wall of raw sound crashed into Volbeat, shredding its focus, slamming its body back down through its own illusions.

  The Moonlight ended.

  The healing stopped.

  And Volbeat hit the dirt.

  The entire Gym shook slightly. One webbing strand high above snapped and floated down in curls.

  Swampert marched forward, stepping over stone and ice shards.

  “Hydro Pump.”

  The beam of water he unleashed wasn’t clean—it was a blast. A blunt-force cannon that tore moss off the stone, cratered a section of earth, and forced Volbeat to shield itself in a desperate scramble for height.

  The blast clipped it.

  Not a clean hit.

  But enough.

  Bugsy barked, “Agility, Break Dance—vertical!”

  Volbeat veered up, spinning in a tight roll, and cast two Signal Beams behind it as it climbed. The first missed. The second hit Swampert in the shoulder and knocked him sideways a step.

  He kept walking.

  Didn’t flinch.

  Just raised his arm.

  “Hidden Power.”

  The rings of light formed around him again—this time in pale gold, circling twice before launching upward. The pressure broke one of Volbeat’s evasive loops and forced it to drop lower again.

  “Brick Break.”

  Swampert jumped.

  It wasn’t graceful.

  It was terrifying.

  He cleared three meters of vertical space and slammed his elbow into Volbeat’s midsection as it dropped into the range.

  Volbeat screamed. Lights flickered.

  It fell hard. Hit the stone. Tried to rise.

  Al didn’t speak.

  Swampert landed.

  “Surf.”

  The next attack wasn’t aimed at Volbeat.

  It was aimed at the terrain.

  Swampert smashed his fists into the stone floor and pulled water from the cracked edges of the earth, surging up like a geyser. He channeled it up, around, through his arms—

  And drove it down.

  The wave crushed Volbeat into the floor again, holding it there, flooding the gouged terrain and soaking the arena.

  Then he stepped back.

  Let it end.

  Volbeat twitched.

  Tried to lift a hand.

  And fell still.

  Bugsy didn’t raise a hand this time.

  He simply closed his eyes, nodded once.

  “Volbeat is unable to battle. Winner: Swampert.”

  The crowd erupted—less with applause, more with awe.

  Swampert turned in the silence.

  One hand rested on his own knee.

  He took a breath.

  Stood tall.

  And waited.

  Bugsy exhaled slowly.

  “Okay,” he muttered.

  And reached for his next ball.

  (break)

  The Gym had grown quiet again.

  Not the hush of anticipation—it was something heavier now. Tension. The kind that didn’t sit in the lungs but pulled low in the gut, deep and growing. Four of Bugsy’s team had already fallen. Swampert stood at the center of the shattered field, battered but unbowed, a titan of sweat, soil, and slow-burning calm.

  He wasn't fresh anymore.

  He wasn't clean.

  But he was still there.

  Bugsy took his next Poké Ball. Smaller, lighter. His fingers flexed once before he cast it forward.

  "Illumise."

  The light from the ball curved wide, flaring outward rather than collapsing into the stone. When it faded, Illumise floated mid-air, dainty, lithe, her glow cool and measured.

  She blinked.

  Once at Bugsy.

  Then at Swampert.

  The buzz of her wings was soft. Not faint, just tightly controlled—an instrument held in restraint.

  Swampert stared back.

  His chest rose slow. One cut along his left arm still trickled dark.

  The match resumed.

  (break)

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Illumise darted left. Then right. A blur. Her outline shimmered and warped as she moved through the shadows above the moss-slick terrain.

  “Agility,” Bugsy called. “Tail Glow.”

  The command layered instantly.

  Illumise’s body lit in pulses, her core building with bioluminescent charge. Her speed tripled. She moved more like smoke than air, zipping between the snapped branches and loose rocks Metagross and Swampert had left behind.

  Al tapped the rail.

  “Wide Guard.”

  Swampert lifted his hands—not high, just enough. The shimmering dome erupted around him again. His breathing slowed, heart resetting. A fortress in stillness.

  Illumise launched the first Confuse Ray, then a Signal Beam, both at opposite angles.

  The Wide Guard shuddered but held.

  Al waited.

  Bugsy’s second order came sharp.

  “Double Team. Dazzle loop.”

  Illumise spun high and dropped again—this time leaving four, six, eight identical images, all weaving in and out of low sun shafts. Her light moved like a strobe, refracting off the stone shards across the arena. The illusions weren’t solid—but they were enough to mask her position.

  Swampert tracked nothing.

  Only the sound.

  “Brace.”

  Swampert dropped low. His tail coiled slightly. His knuckles scraped the ground as he crouched.

  Illumise dove.

  The first strike was a feint—low, right—an illusion. The second was real, a Bug Buzz fired from directly above. Swampert absorbed it to the shoulder, muscles tightening as the vibration ran through his arm like a shockwave.

  He grunted. Not in pain.

  But in acknowledgment.

  Al called it.

  “Flip Turn. Sweep wide.”

  Swampert twisted, coated in a thin spiral of water. He spun once, a slow arc, shattering half the illusions. The real Illumise banked away—fast.

  Too fast.

  “Encore,” Bugsy said calmly.

  Illumise flicked once midair, wings releasing a psychic pulse. Swampert jerked—instinct taking over. He began turning again, forced to repeat the last move.

  But Al was ready.

  “Rest. Now.”

  Mid-movement, Swampert dropped to his knees, arms folding inward, eyes shutting tight. A glow surrounded him—pale blue, like morning fog rising from riverbanks. His muscles began to repair. His breath deepened.

  Illumise struck.

  A Thunderbolt from behind—crackling, aimed straight for the spine.

  Swampert shuddered.

  But didn’t wake.

  Another beam—Signal, this time. Then a Confuse Ray to layer the trap.

  He shook, twitched. His mouth opened once.

  But the Rest held.

  (break)

  Bugsy narrowed his eyes.

  “Moonlight. Reset.”

  Illumise spun higher, opened her arms, and channeled the golden sunlight peeking through the Gym’s cracked upper rafters. Her wounds began to fade. Her energy normalized.

  Al nodded once.

  “Roar.”

  Swampert’s head snapped up.

  His eyes opened.

  And the sound that followed wasn’t a voice—it was a wave. A wall of pressure. Roar hit Illumise mid-cast, interrupting the Moonlight and flinging her across the arena like a leaf in a landslide.

  She hit the moss hard.

  The crowd flinched.

  The wall behind her cracked.

  Al lifted his hand.

  “Focus Punch.”

  Bugsy responded faster.

  “Confuse Ray. Thunderbolt. Stagger it.”

  Illumise twisted midair and fired. The Confuse Ray hit first, blurring Swampert’s vision. His punch charge slowed, his hand trembling.

  Then the Thunderbolt struck.

  Electricity surged through his chest, skipping across damp skin, forcing his stance to stagger.

  But he didn’t fall.

  Didn’t flinch.

  His fist still glowed.

  He launched forward.

  The Focus Punch missed the clean line—but clipped Illumise in the wing, and the force alone sent her into the ceiling rafters before she dropped again, tumbling like a broken star.

  She hit the ground.

  Swampert dropped to one knee, panting.

  His chest smoked lightly.

  (break)

  Al tapped the rail.

  “Hydro Pump. Upward. Control angle.”

  Swampert aimed low and angled high—firing a pressurized jet of water that hit beneath Illumise’s prone form, launching her back upward again.

  She caught herself midair, barely.

  “Signal Beam. Dodge left.”

  She spun. Fired.

  The beam hit Swampert’s shoulder—another burn, another stagger.

  He raised his hand again.

  “Hidden Power.”

  The pale-gold rings exploded from his palm, scattered in wide arcs. Three missed. Two hit. One caught her wing again, and she dipped.

  Al didn’t hesitate.

  “Stone Edge.”

  Swampert drove his palm into the moss—and a massive column of stone erupted beneath her. She twisted away too late.

  It hit.

  She dropped.

  She didn’t rise.

  The league official waited three seconds.

  Then five.

  Then lifted a hand.

  “Illumise is unable to battle. Winner: Swampert.”

  The arena was dead silent.

  Then the crowd erupted.

  But Al wasn’t watching them.

  He was watching Swampert.

  The titan was still on one knee.

  Breathing harder now.

  Cracks ran up his left arm.

  Burn marks scorched his side.

  His chest rose. Fell. Slowly.

  But he looked up.

  And nodded.

  One left.

  (break)

  The Gym floor groaned beneath Swampert’s weight as he stepped forward once more, dragging his heel through moss-turned-mud. The silence between League official and crowd stretched long. Cracked stone, faint steam, and the rising scent of blood clung to the ruined battlefield like morning mist over a battlefield.

  Five Pokémon down.

  One left.

  Bugsy didn’t smile. He didn’t blink.

  His eyes were sharp now—cut glass calm.

  He reached for the last ball at his belt.

  “This is my strongest,” he said.

  The crowd leaned in.

  The cameras twitched on their mounts, quiet whirring lost in the ambient tension.

  Bugsy pressed the release button.

  A flash of white light burst forward—narrow, focused.

  And Heracross hit the arena like a hammer.

  Its feet cracked the stone where it landed.

  Dust curled upward.

  Its horn angled low, then rose like a war-banner. Muscles bunched and flexed beneath its carapace—deep-blue and raw with motion. The moment it landed, it didn’t roar.

  It didn’t pose.

  It bowed its head toward Swampert.

  A warrior’s greeting.

  Al didn’t speak.

  Swampert returned the nod, chest rising slow.

  His left arm hung a little lower now. His back leg bent ever so slightly off-angle.

  But he stepped forward. One pace.

  Then another.

  The League official raised a hand.

  “Final round. Begin!”

  Heracross exploded off the ground without a command.

  Bugsy knew. It didn’t need one.

  “Megahorn!”

  Heracross’s horn glowed with green-white energy as it launched itself forward in a spiraling charge, twisting its body midair. Swampert didn’t dodge.

  He stepped in.

  “Wide Guard,” Al said.

  The shimmer of protection flared, just in time.

  Megahorn smashed into it.

  The air rippled outward, and the sound—the shatter of force on shield—reverberated through every corner of the Gym.

  The barrier cracked.

  Swampert dropped to one knee. The strain across his body was visible—tightened cords, straining joints.

  But the shield held.

  Al didn’t wait.

  “Ice Punch.”

  Swampert lunged—short, tight.

  His fist crackled with frost, catching Heracross in the abdomen as it rebounded. The blow connected solidly, chilling the air and leaving a layer of frost blooming across Heracross’s plates.

  It landed three meters away, feet skidding.

  But it didn’t fall.

  Bugsy nodded.

  “Close Combat.”

  The retaliation came instantly.

  Heracross darted forward again—not like the Megahorn’s straight-line burst, but zigzagging, feinting left, then slamming its knee into Swampert’s hip and following with a spinning elbow into his ribs.

  Swampert grunted—first from pain, then from effort.

  Al barked, “Power-Up Punch!”

  Swampert snapped his arm up through the combo, catching Heracross under the jaw and launching it backward with a crack of muscle and grit.

  Heracross rolled. Landed in a crouch.

  Bugsy’s voice cut sharper.

  “Swords Dance!”

  Heracross’s body glowed with crimson light as it crossed its arms, horn lowering. The air shimmered with the aura of rising violence. Power coiled in every limb, waiting to be unleashed.

  Swampert stood panting, blood trickling down the side of his jaw. He didn’t waver.

  Al’s voice was low.

  “Rest.”

  Swampert collapsed to one knee.

  Folded his arms.

  And let go.

  A soft blue glow wrapped his frame—bones resetting, bruises fading, breath stabilizing. He didn’t move.

  Heracross didn’t wait.

  “Rock Slide!”

  Bugsy pointed.

  Heracross drove its horn into the ground—and the stone shattered. Boulders rose and flung themselves forward, crashing in from three angles, all converging on Swampert’s healing form.

  “Wide Guard.”

  Even asleep, Swampert moved.

  The shield flared once more.

  Three impacts.

  Three tremors.

  But the dome held.

  And when the dust cleared, Swampert still knelt.

  Still glowing.

  Still recovering.

  The dust hadn’t yet cleared before Heracross charged again.

  Swampert was still kneeling.

  Still glowing.

  Still asleep.

  Bugsy didn’t hesitate.

  “Knock Off!”

  Heracross spun low, sweeping its arm wide. The limb glowed a vicious black-red as it carved through the air toward Swampert’s exposed side.

  The hit connected.

  The glow around Swampert flickered.

  Al’s hand tightened on the rail.

  Swampert’s body shifted from the force—but didn’t fall.

  And then his fingers twitched.

  His eyes opened.

  No dramatic sound.

  No sudden roar.

  Just a slow, brutal exhale.

  He stood.

  Fully.

  Every inch of his frame vibrated with tension—but it was stable now. Controlled.

  “Focus Punch,” Al said quietly.

  Bugsy’s eyes widened.

  “Endure!”

  Heracross dropped low, locking its body into a stance built not for defense, but for survival. Swampert’s right arm glowed white-hot.

  He took a step.

  Then another.

  Then he was upon Heracross.

  The punch landed like a meteor.

  The sound cracked the ceiling.

  Heracross’s legs buckled. The floor beneath them crumpled. For a moment, it looked like Heracross would go down—

  But it didn’t.

  It stood.

  Shaking.

  Breathing hard.

  But it stood.

  Bugsy’s voice cracked sharp.

  “REVERSAL!”

  Heracross exploded upward, fist drawn back and glowing with blood-red light. The counterstrike struck Swampert clean in the center of the chest.

  It wasn’t graceful.

  It wasn’t clean.

  It was desperation made real.

  Swampert flew backward, smashed through a stone spire, hit the moss, and bounced.

  The crowd gasped.

  For a moment—

  Silence.

  Swampert didn’t rise.

  Al didn’t speak.

  Then—

  A grunt.

  Low.

  Ragged.

  But real.

  Swampert pressed one palm into the ground.

  Then the other.

  He pushed himself upright.

  His chest smoked. His left arm hung limp.

  But he stood.

  Again.

  Bugsy’s voice trembled, not with fear—but awe.

  Al finally gave a real command.

  “Flip Turn.”

  Swampert growled—and lunged.

  Water coiled around him like armor. He spun once midair, struck Heracross like a crashing wave, and rebounded into a crouch on the other side of the arena.

  Heracross twisted.

  Staggered.

  And dropped to one knee.

  Al didn’t stop.

  “Earthquake.”

  Swampert roared.

  His fists struck the ground.

  And the arena broke.

  Not cracked.

  Broke.

  Chunks of stone lifted, flipped. Webbing collapsed. Spectator shields flickered as seismic energy flared outward.

  Heracross tried to hold.

  It screamed.

  And collapsed.

  The dust rose one last time.

  The League official lifted a hand through the haze.

  “Heracross is unable to battle. The winner is Swampert.”

  The Gym was silent for five full seconds.

  Then the sound hit.

  The crowd erupted.

  But Al didn’t hear it.

  He was already beside Swampert, crouching low.

  “Breathe,” he said.

  Swampert growled softly.

  Then exhaled.

  Bugsy walked across the broken field, feet crunching against splintered stone.

  He held out the Hive Badge.

  “Hell of a fight,” he said.

  Al nodded, taking the badge.

  But his eyes were still on his Pokémon.

  Swampert was barely standing.

  But he was smiling.

  In his way.

  And Al smiled back.