The battlefield was chaos—scorched earth, broken stone, and the smell of ozone and burning fur. But for a moment, with the arrival of Delia’s Pokémon, it became survivable.

  Charizard, her pride, battled Draco’s own in a swirling aerial duel of flame and fury. Below, Arcanine, Rapidash, and Flareon held the line with everything they had, bolstered by Slowbro’s strategic coordination—barriers, pulses of psychic energy, healing waves.

  Phoenix’s Snorlax barreled through enemy lines like a living fortress, shrugging off attacks as he smashed through smaller opponents. Slow but relentless. Towering. Unbreakable.

  And then, there was Raichu.

  His cheeks sparked. His breath steamed from his nostrils. The electric mouse moved like a phantom—blurring between enemies, striking with ruthless precision, one after another falling to his thunderous wrath.

  Phoenix stood amidst it all, helpless.

  He wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. But all he could do was watch.

  His teammates—his family—were dying around him, and there was no time to mourn.

  Not yet.

  Above, Dragonite let out a roar and slammed Aerodactyl from the air with a final, devastating Outrage, sending the fossil dragon crashing to the ground in a heap of dust and blood.

  Draco’s eyes narrowed.

  He clenched the last Pokéball on his belt.

  The battlefield paused—for just a breath.

  If I throw this, there’s no going back, Draco thought.

  The Charizards, locked in a brutal melee, bit and clawed at each other in a spiral of falling flame. They hit the ground with a crash—motionless. Whether either survived was unclear.

  Raichu finished the last of the enemy wave near him. But it wasn’t over.

  A second wave approached—fresh Psychic-types, summoned by the remaining trainers. Their strategy was clear: overwhelm Raichu before he could recover.

  Across the battlefield, flying-types swarmed Snorlax, who had grown slower, bloodier, weaker. They coordinated now—airborne and vicious.

  Snorlax looked back at Phoenix, then at the crumbling line.

  And he made his choice.

  Light surged from his body—Last Resort.

  “Snorlax—no!”

  But it was already done. His form glowed gold as he charged headlong into the enemy ranks, a living comet.

  The explosion took half the battlefield with him.

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  On the other side, Delia’s Pokémon faltered. Too many enemies. Too few allies. Only Slowbro’s psychic control kept them alive—shielding, supporting, suppressing threats.

  But the enemy adapted.

  They split their forces, sending flanking Pokémon toward Phoenix to force Slowbro’s attention away.

  Arcanine, Rapidash, and Flareon exchanged one last glance—then turned toward the swarm.

  They ignited.

  All three unleashed their flames in unison—Fire Blast, Inferno, Flare Blitz—spiraling together into a burning vortex. It became a Fire Tornado, a final, suicidal move.

  “No—stop!”

  The tornado consumed them and their enemies, blazing through the battlefield like the wrath of gods.

  When the smoke cleared, all three were gone.

  Phoenix fell to his knees, hands trembling. His voice was hoarse, broken.

  “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

  But he couldn’t break. Not yet.

  Draco’s Dragonite, wings tattered and scorched, collapsed onto the battlefield. With a flash of light, she was returned to her Pokéball.

  And then came the outsider.

  Draco hurled his final Pokéball into the air.

  From the light emerged a massive, foreign dragon. Gleaming scales. Crimson wings. Salamence.

  “No…” Phoenix whispered. “You… traitor.”

  Around them, even Draco’s own allies recoiled. Gasps and disbelief echoed across the battlefield.

  “Draco!” Phoenix screamed. “You’re collaborating with outsiders?! From Hoenn?! Has the Blackthorn clan no pride left?!”

  “Don’t involve my clan,” Draco growled. “This was my decision.”

  The Salamence roared, and within seconds, tore through Phoenix’s Dragonite, who had barely recovered from his last fight.

  He tried to rise—but the onslaught was too much.

  Dragonite fell. Hard.

  Dead.

  The battlefield was a graveyard now.

  Only Slowbro and Raichu remained.

  Slowbro stood like a wall between Salamence and Phoenix, breathing heavy, tail twitching, wounds glowing red with fresh blood.

  You’ve done enough, Phoenix thought. Please…

  Salamence charged.

  Slowbro caught the attack. But he was too tired. Too hurt. And after one final effort to push the dragon back, he fell.

  Phoenix stood alone.

  Salamence turned toward him.

  He didn’t run.

  He didn’t beg.

  “Raichu,” he whispered. “One last time. Let’s show them what we are.”

  Raichu’s ears perked.

  His body trembled.

  Then—he shined.

  Electricity surged from his core, arcing like a storm given form. His fur stood on end. His body elongated, charged, strengthened—not evolving, but ascending.

  “Just us. You and me,” Phoenix said.

  Raichu screeched and released the storm.

  A Discharge like none ever seen. The blast rippled across the battlefield, vaporizing trainers and Pokémon alike. It spared no one—only Phoenix, standing behind him, protected by their bond.

  And then—Volt Tackle.

  Raichu became a lightning spear, hurling himself into Salamence mid-flight.

  Salamence roared and countered with a Hyper Beam.

  The two forces collided in mid-air.

  The sky went white.

  When the light faded, Salamence crashed into the earth—dead.

  Raichu stood, barely, panting, sparks flickering off his skin.

  Then he collapsed.

  Phoenix ran to him.

  “You did it,” he whispered. “You did it…”

  And for a moment, there was silence.

  Phoenix turned his head.

  Saw nothing.

  Felt the claw.

  It burst through his chest.

  He gasped—choked—fell.

  Behind him stood a hulking Feraligatr, blood dripping from its claws.

  Its trainer stepped forward.

  Military uniform. Cold eyes.

  “Santos…” Phoenix rasped. “You…”

  The man said nothing.

  He kicked Phoenix’s dying body, sending him sprawling next to his unconscious Raichu.

  The Aftermath

  Smoke still hung in the air.

  The battlefield was littered with corpses—heroes and traitors alike.

  Only two men remained.

  Major Pedro Santos stood, his Feraligatr beside him.

  Draco, perched on his Dragonair, bloodstained and silent.

  Santos spat on the ground.

  “You traitor,” he growled. “Allying with Hoenn scum. I should kill you where you float.”

  Draco met his eyes. He said nothing. Just turned his Dragonair skyward and fled—a coward carried by a dying legacy.

  Santos watched him go, jaw tight.

  Then turned, stepping over Phoenix’s body without a second glance.

  “Fucking waste,” he muttered.

  And left the man who could have been Champion lying in the dirt beside his thunder-scorched partner.