The arena looked more like a forest grove than a battlefield.

  The floor was coated in mossy stone and low-rooted ferns. Spider silk laced the rafters above, forming natural threads of white shimmer that caught and bent the light. Hanging vines curled down from elevated platforms, and narrow trees split the battlefield into uneven lines of sight. Bugsy’s Gym was alive—tended, yes, but not sterile. Everything had been shaped to mimic the natural world, then twisted slightly toward something more predatory.

  This was not a place of honor duels or quick contests.

  This was a web.

  Al stepped onto his platform as the League signal tone echoed through the chamber. The crowd, mostly silent up to this point, leaned forward behind their barriers—Johto locals, some visiting trainers, a few familiar faces from Violet. The cameras above blinked red, broadcasting live.

  Bugsy walked into the far side of the arena, eyes alert but unreadable. He wore a sleeveless dark vest, legs tucked into field-ready boots, no ornamentation, no flash.

  "Star Badge challenge," he said quietly. "Six on six. No swaps. Full arena integrity. No mid-battle assists or restoration."

  Al nodded.

  Bugsy released his first Pokémon with a whisper.

  "Ariados."

  The ball opened. The spider didn’t land. It descended.

  A thick strand of web unwound from above, and Ariados dropped slowly into view, legs flexing and clinging to strands only it could see. It reached the moss without a sound, settling between stones with a perfect stillness. The colors along its legs shimmered subtly—venom sacs fully primed. Its eyes blinked twice, then locked on Al’s side of the field.

  Al looked at his belt. He already knew.

  He chose.

  The flash released with a low hum.

  Metagross hit the field like a falling god.

  There was no ceremony. No wind.

  Just a thud of mass meeting stone, followed by a slow lift as its magnetic field engaged. Four limbs unfolded, claws leveled out, and its core rotated half a turn. Red eyes opened. The weight of it—the psychic pressure of it—touched every corner of the arena.

  Bugsy’s eyes flicked once.

  He said nothing.

  The League official raised a hand. A pause.

  Then dropped it.

  "Begin!"

  (break)

  Ariados surged forward—not in a straight line, but diagonally, firing a stream of Sticky Web behind it in an arc to force positioning. Its goal wasn’t immediate attack—it was territory. It fired a second anchor shot behind Metagross, sticking silk to a low arch near the corner.

  Web strands grew like a net across the mid-field.

  Metagross hovered in place, tracking Ariados but not pursuing.

  Al tapped once on the railing.

  "Initiate pulse. Low sweep."

  Metagross hummed, then pivoted. One claw retracted slightly, gathering psychic tension before slamming down into the ground. The pressure rippled outward—a radial force, not intended to harm but to shake. The web lines across the field vibrated violently. One anchor line snapped.

  Ariados re-anchored quickly, leaping onto a side beam and crouching. It launched two quick Poison Stings, spinning as it did, turning them into seeking curves.

  Metagross hovered left. The first stinger grazed the edge of his plating—no penetration. The second missed entirely.

  "Harassment tactics," Al murmured.

  Bugsy gave a single command.

  "Pressure lines."

  Ariados spun to the ceiling, sending a web up to the highest rafter. It used the tension to swing down and forward, rebounding off a trunk into a skidding turn.

  "Trap him."

  A wide String Shot launched—coated in adhesive, not just slowing silk. It fired in a spread, not as a line.

  Al narrowed his eyes.

  "Vertical ascend. Disrupt field."

  Metagross rose.

  Not smoothly. Not gracefully.

  He lifted like an elevator, claws grinding through the web-silk stuck to the bark as his body spun, dragging a ring of pressure around him. He struck a crossbeam mid-ascent, breaking it, and the field filled with falling dust and snapping threads.

  Ariados recoiled, dropping lower, and was met mid-drop by a claw that lashed out with shocking speed.

  It clipped a leg.

  Not enough to drop it—but enough to send it skidding.

  Bugsy didn’t flinch.

  "Recover. Delay. Lead it right."

  Ariados jumped back. The web lines started tightening again.

  Al didn’t let him regain control.

  "Advance. Drive with left."

  Metagross lunged forward—not fast, but without hesitation. He rolled across the terrain in a counterclockwise spiral, keeping the edge of his mass just outside the stickier patches. His claws tore at any silk he crossed, clearing paths for future moves.

  Ariados shot a Leech Life burst forward—its fangs glowing green—but Metagross deflected it by rotating a claw inward and using his own body mass as shield.

  Bugsy’s face changed slightly.

  He knew.

  The spider couldn’t win in a war of attrition.

  So he changed tactics.

  "Aerial Web, now!"

  Ariados launched itself upward, spraying a complex cross-pattern of silk that struck the ceiling, then fell like a trap—multiple strands with weighted edges. A falling net, ready to restrain and pin Metagross long enough for a direct strike.

  Al tapped twice.

  "Ignore debris. Clear zone with radial burst."

  Metagross stopped moving entirely.

  Then pulsed.

  Not a sound.

  Not a psychic scream.

  A pressure wave.

  Every piece of webbing within a three-meter radius was thrown outward. The falling trap unraveled midair. Ariados landed wrong, legs tangled briefly in its own failed net.

  Al’s voice stayed calm.

  "Strike."

  Metagross charged.

  Not hovering.

  Not dragging.

  Charging.

  He crashed into Ariados mid-recovery. A claw hammered down—not to crush, but to pin. Ariados fought—venom spraying, legs thrashing—but it couldn’t get leverage.

  Bugsy didn’t call for retreat.

  He watched.

  Then raised a hand.

  "Withdraw."

  Ariados vanished.

  The crowd exhaled.

  Metagross stood at center, unmoving.

  Al didn’t give a command.

  He didn’t need to.

  (break)

  One down.

  Five to go.

  Bugsy considered his belt.

  Then picked the second ball.

  "Scizor."

  The light flared—and red steel landed in a crouch, claws gleaming.

  Bugsy raised his voice, for the first time.

  "Let’s see if you’re still sharp after that."

  Metagross turned slowly to face his next opponent.

  And the real fight began.

  (break)

  The temperature in the Gym shifted the moment Scizor hit the field.

  It wasn’t the kind of heat that came from the sun or fire. It was the crackling kind—static in the air, the ripple that comes before a storm strikes. The crowd, already hushed from the brutal precision of the Ariados match, leaned forward again. They didn’t cheer. They didn’t speak.

  They knew what came next.

  Scizor crouched in the moss, wings twitching, arms loose at its sides. The glow of its body wasn’t bright, but it radiated force. Each step it took forward left shallow indents in the soft stone.

  It didn’t posture.

  It didn’t wait.

  Bugsy gave no command.

  Stolen story; please report.

  And it moved.

  A blur of red steel surged across the field—so fast it looked like it teleported. Its first attack was silent—an X-Scissor, blades glowing as it slashed in a cross-arc toward Metagross’s core.

  Al didn’t flinch.

  "Bullet Punch. Rotate."

  Metagross’s claws snapped forward in a microsecond—one claw intercepting the incoming blades while his body spun clockwise, turning the clash into a redirection rather than a block.

  The two metal titans disengaged in the same instant, and the arena floor bore the marks—gouges in the moss, steam from friction, dirt blown aside by the shock of impact.

  Scizor landed clean, rebounded off a wall, and rushed again.

  It came from the side this time—no sound.

  Metagross shifted his claws just an inch.

  Scizor was already feinting away, using Agility to break into a flicker-step that left afterimages. It reappeared on Metagross’s blind side with an Iron Head, crashing into his frame with a sound like breaking shields.

  Metagross slid two feet back.

  Al didn’t speak yet.

  His eyes followed the timing of Scizor’s wings.

  Pattern, not randomness.

  Again.

  Scizor struck low with a U-turn, trying to fake a retreat and shift into another close-range jab.

  "Anchor. Earthquake."

  Metagross locked all four limbs down. The moment Scizor’s feet touched down for the strike, Metagross channeled all his magnetic force down and slammed the arena floor with his weight.

  The impact was seismic.

  A pulse radiated outward, cracking several moss-covered stones and shattering the nearest web struts. Scizor stumbled—its speed turned against it as the shockwave hit just as it touched ground.

  Al called it.

  "Follow. Meteor Mash."

  Metagross pushed forward, claws glowing white-hot. The weight behind the strike bent air.

  Scizor ducked left, took the first blow across the shoulder, and countered with Dual Wingbeat—a rapid, slicing double-blade motion that struck along Metagross’s flank.

  Metal scraped metal.

  For the first time, Metagross grunted—just a low vibration, but enough to register.

  Bugsy snapped his fingers.

  "Stick and step. Don’t let it set."

  Scizor fired a narrow Vacuum Wave, a pressure blast to keep Metagross from repositioning, then rushed in with another X-Scissor.

  Al tapped the rail.

  "Iron Defense. Counter-angle."

  Metagross’s body glowed faintly silver, and the next impact skidded off its reinforced frame—but it didn’t hold position. He pivoted around the point of impact, using Scizor’s momentum to swing into a partial Hammer Arm with the rear claw.

  Scizor took the hit to the leg and recoiled hard, stumbling back across the moss.

  Both Pokémon stood again.

  Both were marked.

  Scizor’s body showed a dent near the hip. Metagross’s plating was cracked along his right shoulder joint, one claw rotating slightly slower.

  Bugsy didn’t look concerned.

  But he wasn’t comfortable, either.

  He raised a hand.

  "Fury Zone."

  Scizor’s wings flared open. Not to fly.

  To vent.

  Its body blurred again, moving at near-invisible speeds as it attacked from three angles, feinting and striking in overlapping patterns—Iron Head, X-Scissor, a Feint, another U-turn to bounce to the ceiling before diving again.

  It was faster now.

  Sharper.

  Every blow chipped at Metagross’s frame.

  One hit struck home on the side of his faceplate, causing sparks to burst and his body to dip low. The crowd gasped.

  Al exhaled through his nose.

  "Thunder Punch. Blind side. Don’t aim—calculate."

  Metagross didn’t raise a claw.

  He waited.

  Tracked.

  Then fired his arm backward at a seventy-degree angle, just as Scizor blurred in for another step. The punch didn’t land clean—but it grazed the wing, and the electricity lit the entire arena for a moment.

  Scizor screamed.

  Bugsy didn’t retreat.

  "Last arc. X-Scissor. Full commit."

  Scizor came again—no pretense. It threw itself forward in a whirling double-blade slash that would land center-mass.

  Al raised a hand.

  "Zen Headbutt. Center. Break it."

  Metagross’s core glowed blue.

  He didn’t step aside.

  He stepped into the attack.

  The claws raked across his plating.

  But the psychic impact slammed into Scizor’s chest, a pure force-burst that folded its wings and launched it across the battlefield.

  Scizor hit the wall.

  Slumped.

  Didn’t rise.

  Bugsy lifted a hand.

  "Withdraw."

  Scizor vanished in a pulse of red.

  Metagross stood in the center, one leg dragging slightly, his right claw still twitching. Cracks ran up his chassis. One red eye flickered.

  He wasn’t unhurt.

  But he wasn’t down.

  The crowd broke into the first real noise of the match—shocked applause, scattered cheers, murmurs of disbelief.

  Two down.

  But Metagross was weakening.

  Al didn’t recall him.

  He couldn’t.

  No swaps.

  He just rested one hand on the rail.

  And watched Bugsy select his next Pokémon.

  (break)

  The crowd was still murmuring as Bugsy raised his third Poké Ball.

  The arena hadn’t settled. Not really. Metagross stood in the center like a monument cracked by time—worn, listing slightly, one claw half-raised but twitching. The left side of his plating bore scorch marks. The right claw rotated unevenly, sparks dripping from a damaged joint. Yet his eyes still glowed, red and cold, and his presence still bent the air.

  Al said nothing.

  He didn’t need to.

  Bugsy stepped forward and whispered, “Durant.”

  The ball snapped open.

  The flash hit the moss.

  And Durant came out already moving.

  It was smaller than the others—sleek, low to the ground, with armor that glinted like silver in the Gym’s natural light. Its mandibles clacked once, then twice, then locked open in a clicking rhythm that echoed through the vines above.

  Where Scizor had been speed and pressure, Durant was speed and precision.

  Bugsy didn’t give it a command.

  Durant didn’t need one.

  It knew. This is what they trained for.

  It surged forward—not in a charge, but in a darting pattern across the battlefield, weaving under roots and over stones, anchoring with each claw and launching forward with its momentum.

  Metagross didn’t react.

  Al’s fingers curled slightly on the rail.

  "Brace. Right-side feint."

  Durant struck from the left.

  Metagross turned just late enough for the hit to land—a First Impression-style rush that slammed into his front claw and forced him backward. Metal groaned. He caught himself, rebalancing, claws digging shallow trenches as he locked back into position.

  Al’s voice was low. “Anchor. Thunder Punch.”

  Metagross lashed out. The punch didn’t land, but it forced Durant to split momentum and veer to the side.

  Bugsy called now, calm and sharp.

  "Dig and climb."

  Durant darted forward again—then dove low. Not underground. Just enough to duck beneath the next sweep, then scale Metagross’s side like a living blade. Its legs clacked as it ran up his limb, mandibles already glowing with energy.

  A Bug Bite—charged and targeted at the exposed joint where Scizor’s earlier strike had left a crack.

  The sound that followed was a hollow metallic echo—then the hiss of failing servos.

  Metagross staggered.

  The red in his eyes flickered.

  Al’s face didn’t move. But his hand dropped to the platform edge.

  “Center core. Earthquake.”

  It wasn’t meant to win.

  It was meant to hit something.

  Metagross slammed all four limbs down, forcing the last of his weight into the ground. The arena shook—not like before, not clean—but enough.

  Durant, mid-climb, was thrown.

  It hit a vine post, bounced, landed on its side.

  Al’s next command came soft.

  "Zen Headbutt."

  Metagross lunged.

  Slow. Dragging.

  But direct.

  He struck Durant just as it righted itself—an angled blow that cracked part of the field stone and sent the ant staggering.

  Not a knockout.

  But enough.

  Durant skidded to a halt. The scratch along its left side hissed. It reoriented instantly.

  Bugsy’s tone shifted, subtle but certain.

  "Finish it."

  Durant charged again.

  Faster.

  Claws glowing. Mandibles open.

  This time, Metagross didn’t move.

  Al watched as the steel ant drove forward, slicing under the defensive frame and landing a clean, two-part Iron Head directly beneath Metagross’s central plating.

  The titan fell.

  Not in a crash.

  Not in a collapse.

  Just down.

  A single, final exhale of magnetic field—then stillness.

  The crowd was silent again.

  The League rep raised a hand.

  “Metagross is unable to battle. Winner: Durant.”

  Al took one breath.

  Then lifted the Poké Ball.

  The recall light shimmered—and Metagross vanished.

  He didn’t speak as he clipped the ball back to his belt.

  He reached for the next.

  And Bugsy’s face changed.

  No fear.

  But respect.

  Real.

  Earned.

  Al tapped the ball once.

  The field waited.

  And then Swampert hit the ground like a mountain sliding into place.

  (break)

  The floor still trembled faintly where Metagross had fallen.

  And into that cratered silence stepped Swampert.

  He didn’t leap, didn’t roar, didn’t sprint. He walked—heavy, deliberate, and grounded. Every step was a low thud of muscle and mass. Moss gave beneath his weight. Roots bent. The center of the battlefield felt smaller with him in it.

  Durant, still gleaming from its last engagement, didn’t retreat. It crouched low, mandibles clacking, claws dug into the stone.

  Bugsy’s face had changed.

  He knew what he was looking at now.

  Not a bruiser.

  Not a brute.

  A wall.

  Al didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

  “Stealth Rock.”

  Swampert planted both hands into the earth and growled. The ground around him rippled, and with a heavy grind of stone against stone, spiked shards of rock erupted in a loose ring across the edges of the battlefield—angular, sharp, and waiting.

  Bugsy clicked his tongue.

  "Durant, Dig—move now!"

  Durant dove forward and vanished beneath the surface in an instant, kicking up moss and soil as it burrowed deep.

  Al didn’t flinch.

  “Brace.”

  Swampert dropped his stance and closed his eyes. His arms flexed. His legs locked. He didn’t move. Not even when the ground beneath him began to tremble.

  Durant re-emerged behind him, launching up with gleaming fangs in a Lunge aimed at the rear thigh.

  Swampert didn’t dodge.

  He just pivoted—enough to meet the attack head-on with his side.

  The hit landed. A clean strike.

  And Durant bounced off.

  Like biting into a mountain.

  Al tapped once.

  “Power-Up Punch.”

  Swampert stepped forward and drove his right fist into Durant’s side, the air cracking with impact. Sparks flew. Durant was thrown back three meters and tumbled over a ridge of mossy stone.

  He didn’t pursue.

  He stood where he was.

  Bugsy’s voice was sharper now.

  "Agility! Cut angles, go again!"

  Durant shimmered, its outline blurring slightly. It sprinted in a curve around the edge of the arena, too fast for most to track.

  Swampert watched. Eyes slow. Reading.

  Al tapped twice.

  “Stone Edge.”

  Swampert reached down and slammed his fists into the dirt. In front of him, a jagged spear of stone erupted from the ground—then another, and another. Durant’s arc carried it into the third spike before it could adjust.

  The impact shattered stone and armor alike. Durant screamed—more vibration than sound—and skidded across the floor, stunned.

  Al lifted a hand.

  “Surf.”

  Swampert moved like a truck accelerating—slow, then unstoppable. As he charged, water began to surge around him—not from the arena, but conjured from the air and forced into momentum. His form blurred as the torrent formed ahead of him.

  Durant barely managed to crawl to its feet before Swampert was there.

  He didn’t just hit.

  He engulfed.

  The Surf crashed over Durant like a flash flood. It flipped, flailed, and slammed back down in the mud.

  Still conscious.

  Bugsy raised his voice—quick, sharp.

  "Counter with Iron Head! Go under!"

  Durant surged forward one last time, crawling low, jaws glowing bright silver.

  Al didn’t speak.

  Swampert waited.

  Then—just as Durant passed under his arms—he pivoted, raised one foot, and stomped.

  The ground gave.

  A pulse of tremor surged out—a short Earthquake, controlled, measured.

  Durant's momentum crumpled. Its legs buckled.

  It fell.

  Didn’t rise.

  The League rep nodded.

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

  Bugsy withdrew the ant in silence.

  Swampert turned back toward Al. Said nothing. Just snorted once, ready.

  But the tone had changed.

  Swampert wasn’t just here to win.

  He was here to end it.