We stepped into the Battle Center’s reception hall, and the atmosphere hit like a live wire—sharp, focused, alive with movement. Trainers and Pokémon weaved between check-in terminals, graduate assistants barked match assignments, and the buzz of competition filled the air like static before a storm.

  Above it all, suspended in glass like a command booth, sat the observation deck. Inside, Instructor Jordan stood with arms crossed, watching a mosaic of monitors that streamed battles from every field in the building. He didn’t just observe—he orchestrated, setting the pace for the Academy’s entire battle rhythm.

  “All that’s missing is a spotlight and theme music,” said Flavio.

  Teddy trotted beside me, nose twitching at the cocktail of smells. Next to us, Melody, her Vulpix trailing behind like a pale shadow.

  We slowed beneath the deck. Jordan scanned the floor, his gaze sharp—then it landed on me. He held my eyes for a second, gave a nod, and turned to one of the assistants beside him.

  Moments later, the booth door hissed open.

  Jerry.

  He stepped out of the booth with a calm ease, scanning the crowd below like he was looking for someone specific. His eyes found us near the terminal line, and with a subtle hand gesture—not a wave, just a quiet beckon—he nodded toward a nearby hallway.

  “Let’s move,” I said, already turning.

  Melody and Flavio fell in beside me without a word. This wasn’t some exclusive invitation—graduate students helping younger trainers was part of how the Academy ran. Still, it felt like getting pulled aside by someone who actually knew what they were doing. Not a lecture. A consultation.

  We met Jerry just past the central terminal zone, where a quieter corridor branched off toward smaller training offices.

  “Afternoon,” he said casually, like we’d just bumped into him on a lunch break. “You three need something?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I was hoping to borrow a Training Sphere.”

  Jerry raised an eyebrow, his expression more curious than surprised. “Not the kind of request I usually get from first-years. What’s the plan?”

  “Fling,” I said simply. “We’re missing long-distance coverage. Need to patch the gap until we have something better.”

  Jerry let out a thoughtful hum. “Well, if you’re leaning on Fling, you must be serious about finding a workaround.”

  He glanced at Teddy, who was now poking his head into the nearby equipment crate, as if trying to find the item himself.

  “Alright. Follow me.”

  Jerry led us a few doors down the corridor to a compact equipment room—tall shelves stacked with labeled crates. He moved with practiced ease, flipping open a container marked Training Gear – First Year.

  “These are the ones we use during move drills,” he said, pulling out a matte-grey sphere about the size of a shrunk Poké Ball, but slightly heavier. “Weighted to match League-average item mass—nothing fancy, no effects, just enough to trigger Fling properly.”

  He handed over the sphere—a matte-gray orb with a subtle magnetic base and a flattened side designed to clip neatly into standard training bands. Sleek, simple, and solid.

  I reached into my bag and pulled out Teddy’s wristband—a scaled-down version of the ones we trainers wore on our belts, custom-fitted for smaller limbs. I clicked the sphere into place with a satisfying snap. It locked snugly into the groove, a soft red ring pulsing once to confirm the attachment.

  “Alright, buddy,” I said, kneeling down. “Let’s get this fitted.”

  Teddy extended his paw without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for this moment. I slid the band over his wrist and tightened the strap until it sat flush against his fur.

  “There,” I said, leaning back to check the fit. “How’s that feel?”

  Teddy flexed his paw, turned it under the light, and gave it a slow, approving nod.

  Jerry tilted his head toward the hallway behind him. “Come on. Let’s see what he can actually do with it.”

  He led us down a few more turns, past a couple of unused sparring rooms, until we reached a compact practice field. The space was simple—white padded walls, wide enough for basic movement drills, with a few target dummies lined along one end. A control panel on the side wall lit up as Jerry tapped in a quick code.

  One of the targets slid forward on a low mechanical track, coming to a stop about ten feet away. A dull grey figure of a standard humanoid Pokémon, foam-padded and heavily reinforced. Not that we were planning to knock it down.

  “Alright,” Jerry said, stepping back. “Let’s see how he throws.”

  I turned to Teddy, who was already flexing his paw again, adjusting to the weight of the sphere. He stepped forward with surprising poise—head tilted, eyes narrowing as he locked onto the dummy like it owed him money.

  “Fling,” I said softly.

  Teddy braced, focused—and hurled the sphere. It didn’t fly so much as snap forward, like a fastball with a short fuse. Just before it left his paw, a faint shimmer of dark energy pulsed through the orb—subtle, but visible. The sphere struck the target center-mass with a dull thunk, bounced off, and clattered to the floor.

  Jerry let out a low whistle. “Good form. Not much power, but clean delivery. That’s half the battle right there.”

  He stepped a little closer, nodding toward the next dummy on the track. “But remember—Fling’s all about timing. You don’t aim at your opponent—you aim where they’re going. Think of it like passing a ball into someone’s path. Wait until just before they reposition. Anticipate their rhythm.”

  Teddy scampered forward, scooped up the sphere, and trotted back proudly, holding it up like he expected applause. I gave him a nod, already reaching to reset the training band.

  We went again. And again. Each throw landed with the same crisp trajectory—more precise than powerful, but enough to interrupt an opponent mid-dodge, which was the point.

  By the fourth throw, Teddy’s rhythm hadn’t changed—but Jerry’s expression had.

  He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, watching the way Teddy braced, wound up, and hurled the sphere. Same smooth arc. Same clean release. But Jerry wasn’t watching the throw.

  He was watching the energy.

  “Hold up,” he murmured, stepping a little closer. “That’s not just good form…”

  Teddy was already jogging back to us, the training sphere clutched in his paw like a trophy. Jerry didn’t take his eyes off him.

  “His dark-type energy,” he muttered, half to himself. “He’s channeling it with consistency. That’s way more than Fling needs.”

  He pulled out his Pokédex, thumbing through a few quick screens until Teddiursa’s data lit up. For a moment he just scrolled in silence, reading deeper—past the move list, past the stat sheet.

  “There it is,” he said, tapping a section I hadn’t seen before. “Your Teddiursa’s generating enough dark-type output to qualify for a higher-tier move.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  He scrolled down once more. A shortlist of move pathways appeared.

  “Yeah. Just as I thought. He’s ready to learn Payback.”

  “So he could learn it already?” I asked.

  “With the right guidance, yeah.” Jerry’s smirk returned, and he reached for one of his Poké Balls. “Let’s give him a mentor.”

  With a flash of light, a Nuzleaf materialized in the corner of the room. Short, lean, and composed. Its arms were crossed like it had been born to lecture other Pokémon.

  “Nero,” Jerry said, “show him how it’s done.”

  Nuzleaf nodded and turned toward one of the practice dummies. He took a step forward, then paused. His eyes closed, and the air around him shifted.

  Nuzleaf stood still at first, eyes half-lidded, arms loose at his sides. A faint shimmer of dark energy began to build around him—thin tendrils of black-purple light coiling across his limbs, like ink spreading in water.

  Then he moved—not like a regular attack, but as if responding to something that had already hit him. His body snapped forward with a sudden twist, the aura compressing around his fist as he struck. The moment the blow landed, the energy burst outward in a wave, surging through the dummy with a sharp impact that made the padding shudder.

  It didn’t just hit. It answered.

  Payback.

  Teddy’s eyes widened.

  Jerry stood beside me. “Payback’s not about brute force. It’s about timing. You take the hit. You wait. And then you strike with purpose. Not rage—focus. It’s the dark-type version of Counter, really, just… meaner.”

  I nodded. “And slower?”

  “Yeah. It’s not a parry—it’s a response. Calculated. Vengeful. If Teddy’s already using Counter, he’s more than halfway there.”

  Nero moved again—this time slower, deliberate. The dark aura built up more visibly around his form, a haze of black-purple light trailing off his limbs like vapor clinging to a fire. He didn’t strike immediately. He waited. Held the energy like a breath.

  Then—snap. He lunged forward with a sharp twist, driving his fist into the dummy’s side. The aura flared outward like a whipcrack, dispersing on impact. It wasn’t flashy. It was precise. Controlled.

  Teddy took a step forward.

  He didn't look at me. Didn't wait for instruction. Just mimicked Nero’s stance—slightly hunched, paws loose, weight on his back legs.

  He closed his eyes.

  Dark energy flickered along his arm—unsteady, like a match refusing to stay lit. He stayed that way for a moment, brow furrowed in concentration. Then he shifted—too early. The energy sputtered as he lunged, momentum clumsy. His paw skimmed the target’s side with a dull thud and no real follow-through.

  I flinched. Jerry didn’t say a word. Just watched.

  Teddy stepped back, shook out his arms, then tried again. No prompting this time. He was working it out himself.

  “Again,” Jerry said quietly, almost like an echo.

  Teddy went for it once more. This time, the aura clung to him longer. Not as strong as Nero’s—but present. It pulsed once as he threw his weight into the motion. Still off-balance. Still rough. But there was intent behind it.

  Over the next few minutes, we ran the drill again and again.

  Teddy took hits from the dummy’s low-speed arm. Waited. Responded. Each time, the energy curled tighter around his body. Each time, he moved just a little more cleanly. A little more like Nero.

  He wasn't trying to look good. He was trying to understand.

  By the sixth or seventh attempt, there was finally weight behind the motion. His strike landed with a soft thump, the kind that made the dummy rock just slightly on its base. His paws glowed faintly with residual energy, the color deeper than before.

  Then—ping.

  My Pokédex vibrated in my hand.

  New Move Detected: Payback – Initial Mastery

  I looked up.

  Teddy stood still, panting lightly, his eyes locked on the dummy. No grin. No tail-wag. Just a faint shimmer of dark aura still flickering along his claws.

  He didn’t look happy.

  He looked focused.

  Serious.

  I crouched beside him, resting a hand on his head. “Good job, partner.”

  His breath hitched once, and he leaned into the touch—not for comfort, but acknowledgment. He knew what he’d done. What it meant.

  “You’re growing fast… I’m proud of you.”

  From across the room, Flavio called out, “Hey, Jerry—mind giving Koa some pointers while you’re in teacher mode?”

  Jerry stood, dusting his hands off as he turned. “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

  Flavio stepped forward, Koa striding beside him like a showman entering the ring—chest puffed, wings tucked, every step full of flair. The bird practically radiated main-character energy.

  “I’m working with Tackle, Wing Attack, and Hone Claws,” Flavio said. “Decent coverage, but I’m starting to feel like I’m playing the same riff over and over. What am I missing?”

  Jerry eyed Koa with a professional squint, arms folded. “You’ve got a strong physical baseline. Flying-Fighting gives you room to bully slower Pokémon—but if you're only throwing out damage, you're gonna stall out fast.”

  He pointed at Koa’s chest. “Tackle might seem boring, but don’t sleep on the Normal typing. That kind of energy opens doors—not just power moves like Body Slam, but trickier stuff too. Encore. Feint. Moves that throw your opponent off rhythm, not just off their feet.”

  Flavio blinked. “I thought Normal-types were just filler moves unless you were a Snorlax.”

  Jerry smirked. “Normal’s what you make of it. Flexible, fast, and hard to predict. Think of it like jazz—improv potential’s high if you know how to play around with tempo.”

  Koa gave a low chirp, tilting his head in thought, which I assumed meant something like, Okay, I’ll give jazz a try.

  “Now,” Jerry continued, “if you want new moves, you’re gonna have to earn them the old-fashioned way. No TMs until second year. But if Koa spends time around other skilled battlers—sparring, observing—he might pick things up. Some Pokémon learn best by imitation. Copy the right moves enough times, the muscle memory starts to form.”

  Flavio leaned back. “So surround him with better players, and hope he picks up the rhythm?”

  Jerry nodded. “Exactly. Doesn’t matter if you’re the weakest guy in the band—as long as you’re listening, you’ll catch the tune eventually.”

  Flavio grinned. “Guess we’re crashing band practice.”

  Jerry gave a faint nod. “And since I’m feeling generous, here’s a heads-up your instructors will cover Monday: the Academy’s got clubs. Not the party kind. Type-based meetups—Flying-types, Fighting-types, Dark, Fairy, you name it. They’re run by third-years, not formal classes, but your Pokémon get to spend time around others of their type. Spar, watch, learn. It adds up.”

  He leaned slightly toward Flavio. “You want Koa to learn something new? Put him around other Fighting-types. Get him used to the rhythm. The attitude. You might walk in with three moves and leave with five by the end of the semester.”

  Flavio’s eyebrows rose. “Wait, these clubs actually teach moves?”

  “Not directly,” Jerry said. “But they create the right conditions. Peer influence, friendly sparring, passive exposure to specialized techniques. It adds up. Some Pokémon don’t just learn moves—they inherit them through habit.”

  Koa tilted his head at that, one wing slowly twitching like he was already picturing himself surrounded by an elite squad of martial artists.

  “So how do I join?” Flavio asked.

  “Simple,” Jerry said. “After Battling class on Monday, club registration unlocks on your Pokédex. Scroll through the list, pick a type, hit confirm. No applications. No speeches. Just show up.”

  He glanced at Koa. “Flying-types meet Thursdays. The third-years running it? Tough crowd, but fair.”

  He paused, letting his gaze linger for a moment like he was looking backward through time.

  “I was in the Dark-type club when I was a first-year,” he added. “Didn’t say much at first—just watched. Took a while before anyone noticed me. But by midterm, I was getting one-on-one sparring drills with an Absol. It helped. Not just with moves—but with mindset.”

  A shrug. “Point is, clubs aren’t about showing off. They’re about showing up. Consistency. Effort.”

  “Even better,” he said, “some third-years offer mentoring if they like your work ethic. Just don’t try to dazzle them. Most of them can smell ego from three fields away.”

  Flavio placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I am deeply wounded by that assumption.”

  Koa struck a pose behind him—wings flared, chest puffed, like he was basking in an invisible spotlight.

  Jerry didn’t even blink. “Yeah, you’ll fit right in.”

  Koa deflated slightly at that, ruffling his feathers as if someone had just canceled his entrance music.

  Jerry turned his attention to Melody, who was already stepping forward with Meli nestled in her arms like a curled-up snowflake.

  “I’ve got decent range,” she said. “Disable, Moonblast, Ice Shard, Baby-Doll Eyes. I’m not sure how it all fits together yet.”

  Jerry nodded slowly. “Your toolkit’s good. But Disable’s your tempo anchor—that’s where the mind games start. If you want to lean into it, pair it with something that reinforces control. Confuse Ray would be ideal eventually.”

  “I can’t get it yet,” Melody said.

  “Not now, no. But you don’t need it yet. Try chaining Disable with Baby-Doll Eyes. Block their move, then soften their response while they’re still figuring out what just happened. Disrupt, delay, disarm. Let Meli be the one dictating the tempo.”

  Melody tilted her head, thinking it through. “That could work.”

  “She’s an Ice-type,” Jerry added, nodding toward the sleepy Vulpix. “She’s not built for brute force. She’s built for elegance. Use that.”

  Melody gave him a faint smile. “Appreciate it.”

  He looked at all three of us. “You’re doing well for first-years. But don’t let that be an excuse to slow down.”

  Then he turned to me specifically.

  “You’ve got momentum, Santos. Teddy’s sharp. Your points put you ahead. I saw the match against Jeremy, by the way.” His voice shifted slightly—less impressed, more measured. “You got lucky. That kid’s Bagon has potential, but Jeremy doesn’t have the control or the temperament yet. Young dragon trainers think they’re born champions. Most of them learn the hard way.”

  He folded his arms. “But you? You made it worse—betting twenty-five points in a single match. That’s not normal for first-years. It could’ve blown up in your face.”

  I didn’t flinch, but I felt it land.

  A beat passed. Then Jerry gave a faint smirk. “Still. You backed it up. That kind of risk draws attention. Tomorrow, when the rankings go live, you’re going to be a name people notice—upperclassmen, instructors, rivals looking for someone to chase.”

  He tilted his head slightly.

  “If you want to stay out front, you don’t get to coast.”

  “I’m not planning to,” I said.

  Jerry’s smirk deepened. “Good. Then train like it.”

  We nodded, murmured our thanks, and turned to head back down the corridor. The noise from the main floor hit us as we emerged.

  I glanced down.

  Teddy padded beside me, the training sphere clipped to his wristband, his claws still faintly tinged with dark energy. A quiet flicker. Controlled now.

  He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t sleepy.

  He was ready.

  Last match of the day.

  Yash. Rookidee.