“Listen up, children!” Instructor Smith’s voice boomed across the gym like a thunderclap. “Split into groups of twenty. Follow the assistant assigned to your group and head to your first test. No standing around!”
We barely had time to exchange glances before an assistant—tall, tired-looking, clearly regretting his life choices—waved at us to follow.
Flavio, Melody, and I stuck together as we made our way across the massive gymnasium toward the running track. I felt my nerves buzz just a little—not because I was afraid of exercise, but because I had no idea how I’d compare to the rest of the class.
Still, I had some confidence. Mom made me run errands all over our village growing up. Up and down hills, across fields, chasing Tauros, fetching herbs, delivering letters. It had to count for something, right?
At the far end of the track, Riolu stood waiting like a tiny blue drill sergeant. When everyone arrived, the assistant spoke up—just barely.
“First test: endurance. Follow Riolu’s pace. We’ll increase it every round. Drop out when you can’t keep up.”
Short and sweet.
Riolu took off at a light jog. We followed.
The first few laps were easy. Too easy, honestly. But that didn’t last. With every round, Riolu sped up. Bit by bit, our pack thinned.
I kept my breath steady, falling into rhythm. One foot in front of the other. Again and again. But sweat already clung to my back, and my legs weren’t exactly thrilled about this wake-up call.
After ten rounds—or maybe fifteen, I lost count—there were only six of us left. Flavio had already tapped out and was now sitting near the sidelines, sipping water and watching the survivors with a grin.
Melody was still going strong. Of course.
Then Riolu picked up the pace again.
Two more students dropped. Now it was just me, Melody, and some guy I didn’t recognize. Tall, broad-shouldered, with arms like he’d been lifting Miltank since birth. He didn’t look winded—but he didn’t look happy, either.
I could feel my limit closing in. My breath came faster, sharper. My legs screamed with every step.
And then—yeah, I was done.
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I slowed to a stop and staggered over to where Flavio was sitting.
“Still alive?” he asked, tossing me a water bottle.
“Barely,” I muttered, gulping it down.
We watched as Melody and the mystery guy kept running, Riolu still leading like a machine. The guy pushed himself hard—gritted teeth, clenched fists—but Melody stayed focused, steady. Effortless.
Eventually, he missed a step, stumbled, and came to a dead stop.
Melody kept going.
When she finished the lap alone, she finally slowed and jogged back, barely winded.
“That,” Flavio said, pointing, “was terrifyingly hot.”
I gave him a look.
“What?” he shrugged. “You don’t find athletic competence attractive?”
I glanced at him. His tone was different—more genuine admiration than his usual flirting.
Melody reached us with a grin. Flavio met her halfway, hand already raised for a high-five.
“You’re a machine,” he said, eyes bright. “Are you secretly part Lucario?”
She laughed, breathless.
They both laughed, falling into an easy rhythm I hadn’t noticed before.
But then, as she turned toward me, her expression shifted—just a flicker of realization. Her smile faded, replaced by a blink of surprise. Her cheeks flushed slightly.
And she looked away.
No words. Just a quick step to the side, like she needed space.
Flavio watched her go, then shot me a look. “Was it something I said?”
Before I could dwell on it, I noticed the guy Melody had outlasted. He was still standing at the far end of the track, hands on his hips, glaring at her like she’d stolen something from him.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Max Anderson,” Flavio said with a sigh. “Fighting-type specialist. His family runs a dojo in Unova. Big on tradition, strength, proving yourself, that kind of thing.”
Max was clearly fuming.
“I think he expected to be the last one standing,” Flavio added. “Getting outpaced by someone not from a martial background? Yeah. That probably hurts.”
I watched as Max stormed off without a word. Noted.
*
Our next stop was the weight training area.
Machoke stood beside Instructor Smith like her assistant-slash-personal spotter. They both looked like they could bench-press the gym.
Smith explained the next test: strength. We’d each try to lift a set of progressively heavier weights to determine our baseline.
Machoke demonstrated proper form, and Instructor Smith made us copy it before we were even allowed to touch the weights.
I wasn’t feeling too bad about this one—until I got under the barbell.
“Okay,” I muttered to myself. “You’ve carried baskets of produce up hills. This is just… vertical produce.”
The first set wasn’t terrible.
The second was worse.
By the third, I was shaking like a newborn Mareep. My arms locked up halfway through the lift and I had to bail.
“Next!” the assistant called.
Flavio did okay. Melody crushed it. Again.
No surprise there.
*
From there, it was a blur of push-ups, sit-ups, planks, lunges, and flexibility tests. One station bled into the next. My limbs ached. My shirt stuck to my back. At one point, I was 90% sure my soul tried to exit my body during the plank hold.
The final station was a quick biometric scan—height, weight, BMI, heart rate, and a few other things I didn’t understand. The assistant jotted notes silently while I tried not to collapse.
*
By the time we were released, I was drenched in sweat and running on fumes.
The class filed out like a Slakoth horde, dragging our tired bodies toward the cafeteria. Even Melody looked spent now, her earlier glow dulled by the grind.
But she was smiling.
Me? I was just trying not to die.
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