The trees were tall and close-packed, roots curling through the ground like fingers clinging to the past. Al stepped over a moss-covered stone and onto a narrow clearing tucked between a bend in the river and a slope that opened to the east.

  This place was hard to find.

  He liked that.

  Birdsong filled the air, and a lazy wind stirred the canopy above. Beneath it all, the land felt untouched. Untamed.

  It was perfect.

  Al dropped his pack beside a fallen log and looked around the clearing. He’d scouted the area the day before, marking spots with string and notches in the trees. It wasn’t a battlefield in the official sense. But it would become one.

  Because he wasn’t just dropped in and passing through Johto anymore.

  He was going to own it.

  He unclipped three Poké Balls from his belt and released them with practiced fluidity.

  Swampert appeared in a low crouch, earth crunching beneath his weight.

  Manectric landed with a skidding hop, fur already crackling.

  Breloom burst out spinning on one foot, grinning with energy.

  They all looked at him.

  He folded his arms.

  “Time to earn the right to carry this team into a Gym,” Al said, voice calm but firm. “You’ve all seen what Salamence did. But I don’t want one ace.”

  His eyes moved across them, steady.

  “I want six.”

  (break)

  Al started Swampert’s session down by the river’s edge.

  The flow was stronger here, narrow and fast, threading around sharp rocks and sloped banks. Al waded in up to his calves, boots sinking slightly into the muddy floor.

  “Your strength’s never been the issue,” he said. “But you rely on footing too much. Today, we fix that.”

  He pointed to a cluster of large, partially submerged stones midstream.

  “Jump to the third rock. Hold your stance. Then Water Gun—low angle, just enough to push back the current.”

  Swampert grunted and leapt. The first rock held. The second wobbled. He overcorrected mid-air, landed too hard on the third, and slipped—catching himself just before toppling into the current.

  “Not bad,” Al called. “But you’re fighting the river instead of using it. Try again.”

  They repeated it. Again. Then again.

  The fourth time, Swampert angled his landing better, crouched into the rock’s slope, and fired the Water Gun not as a blast, but a stabilizer—shifting the current slightly to regain control.

  Al smiled.

  “Now circle around. You’re going to wade against it, not over it.”

  Swampert didn’t hesitate. He stepped back into the river, boots scraping bottom, and started trudging upstream. Al added calls:

  “Left—rock incoming!”

  “Defensive posture—simulate impact!”

  “Use Mud Shot for counter-balance!”

  By the end of the hour, Swampert was soaked, tired, but no longer lumbering.

  He was navigating.

  Using the water to aid his movements, not hinder them.

  (break)

  Al led Manectric into the trees—an uneven slope littered with old roots and thorn bushes, perfect for what he had in mind.

  “Speed’s your weapon,” he said, walking ahead and cutting down a low-hanging vine. “But raw speed’s useless if you can’t maneuver under pressure.”

  He grabbed a stick and began scraping a series of X’s into the dirt—one beside a half-buried root, one behind a leaning tree, one under a bramble arch.

  “You’re going to tag these. In order. No straight lines. Keep your pace.”

  Manectric pawed the ground, sparks flickering between his toes.

  “Ready?”

  He bolted.

  Al watched with arms crossed. Manectric skidded under the bramble arch, veered too close to the tree and had to leap to keep momentum. His stride was off—too heavy on the back foot, not enough torque for the second turn.

  “Again!”

  Manectric ran again. And again.

  Al began shouting changes mid-run.

  “Reverse direction!”

  “Skip the middle one!”

  “Jump over it!”

  Each time, Manectric’s body adapted quicker. His breath came faster, but his eyes sharpened. Sparks now leapt in a tighter rhythm, his paws kicking up less dirt with each pass.

  Then Al stepped forward.

  “Now we do it with Breloom chasing you.”

  (break)

  Breloom entered the training with a grin that bordered on smug.

  Al didn’t fault him for it—Breloom thrived on battle. But that was the problem. He always fought like he had to win in the first ten seconds. It made him vulnerable.

  So, Al gave him Manectric.

  “Try to tag him,” he said. “No real attacks. This is pressure. You’re the predator. He’s the runner.”

  Manectric snorted, gave a playful growl.

  Breloom just crouched low and darted forward.

  At first, he overshot every turn. Couldn’t keep traction in the leaf-scattered dirt. He used too much leg on the lunge and lost momentum.

  But by the third run, Breloom was ducking under branches with less wasted motion, using roots to spring, not trip.

  Al started shifting the terrain—throwing a stick to trip one, barking feint calls to test focus.

  The fourth chase ended with Breloom vaulting off a stump and landing just behind Manectric, paw grazing the yellow blur.

  Manectric panted, glancing back. He offered a growling smirk.

  Breloom exhaled.

  Didn’t grin.

  Just nodded.

  Al stepped forward and clapped once.

  “Switch it. Manectric’s the chaser now. Breloom, you’re the rabbit.”

  And so it went.

  (break)

  By afternoon, the team was bruised, scraped, and breathing hard.

  But none of them wanted to stop.

  They began sparring, two at a time.

  Swampert vs. Manectric—terrain vs. agility.

  Breloom vs. Swampert—precision strikes vs. wide control.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Manectric vs. Breloom—speed and dodge vs. close-quarters brutality.

  Al didn’t call out moves. He didn’t direct them. He just watched.

  He saw the difference.

  Swampert was reacting less and responding more—watching the angles, not just the attack.

  Breloom no longer rushed. He waited, baited, countered.

  Manectric didn’t run wild—he looped around enemies, used their focus against them.

  And when they stood panting at the end of the last match, dirt and sweat clinging to fur and hide, Al didn’t speak right away.

  He walked forward and crouched beside the makeshift fire pit, started building it stone by stone.

  The sound of kindling and breath was all that moved the clearing.

  Then finally, Al looked up and said quietly:

  “Rest now, you’ve earned it.”

  (break)

  The morning came wrapped in a hush. Mist hung low between the trees like breath held too long, and dew clung to the grass in glistening beads. Al stirred quietly from his bedroll, moving without waking the others. Swampert still slumbered near the stream, Breloom sprawled out in a sunbeam not yet warm, and Manectric’s ears flicked, but he remained curled, half-listening, half-asleep.

  Al didn’t speak.

  Instead, he moved to the edge of the clearing, letting the silence settle around him like a mantle. Gardevoir stood already, poised near the old tree roots on the eastern rise, her body still but eyes open—watching, not dreaming. Metagross hovered under the canopy's edge, silent as ever, limbs tucked close, its presence more felt than heard.

  Today was for them.

  Not to toughen their bodies like Swampert, not to harden strikes like Breloom, or hone reflex like Manectric.

  Today was about thought. Control. Coordination. Trust.

  Al stepped forward, and both Pokémon turned to meet his gaze.

  (break)

  The forest beyond the glade offered dense overgrowth, uneven terrain, and narrow, shifting corridors framed by roots and stone. Al had spent the day before preparing it—not by altering it, but by walking it, mapping it mentally, noting the hidden hollows, the natural pinch points, the way wind tugged through one hollow but not another. The terrain would be their teacher now.

  Gardevoir and Metagross took to the far edge and separated instinctively, settling into their distinct roles. Gardevoir drifted weightlessly between old roots, weaving her body with an unnatural grace, barely disturbing the leaves beneath her. Metagross didn’t move so much as flow, its mass deceptive, weight distributed with such balance that the forest floor didn’t even complain.

  Al remained in the center, arms crossed.

  “Work the terrain,” he called. “Predict each other. Learn not how to win—but how to respond. No attacks. Movement only.”

  They began to move.

  Gardevoir vanished—teleportation flickering her across a rise of stone, then to a low ridge of mossy bark. Metagross didn’t track her directly. Instead, it hovered upward, gaining perspective, using the light of morning to throw shadows and highlight the bends where Gardevoir might flicker next.

  She reappeared—and found herself already shadowed by the bulk of his frame.

  But she was faster.

  Another flicker. She moved again, this time to a high arching limb. Metagross shifted laterally, brushing aside a dead tree limb with a gentle hum of energy, recalibrating angle, distance, volume.

  Al observed in silence. They weren’t just practicing movement.

  They were learning each other.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. Al gave no more commands. He just watched the space between them grow narrower, then closer, until they began to circle each other not in pursuit, but in orbit.

  That’s what he needed.

  He gave a small nod.

  “Now we add pressure.”

  (break)

  Pressure came in the form of the natural world.

  Al walked into the thicket near the southern edge and began to toss in small disturbances. A falling branch. A tossed rock. Sudden noise. It wasn’t much—but it mimicked the unpredictability of a real battle.

  Gardevoir had to stay light on her feet. Not teleport mindlessly, but intuitively—judging sound from wind, not sight.

  Metagross learned to react not by calculation alone, but through anticipation of her movements. He watched where Gardevoir didn’t look, moved to places she hesitated to enter, calculated against her own instincts.

  Their dance evolved.

  She flicked into a tight nook behind a boulder—only to find Metagross already shifting weight above, pressing down, forcing her to phase again. But she didn’t go far. She reappeared behind him, not to attack, but to block his path forward.

  They weren’t sparring anymore.

  They were testing battlefield theory. Who controlled which space. Who could create motion—without moving at all.

  Al leaned back against the tree, watching them build a new language.

  This was what trust looked like when spoken between titans.

  (break)

  By midday, he called them back.

  “Break it up.”

  Neither looked winded. Gardevoir’s glow was slightly brighter now, her shoulders relaxed but still alert. Metagross's red eyes pulsed with a deeper hum, its rotation slower and more deliberate.

  Al crouched near the fire and picked up a stick, sketching simple shapes in the dirt—lines intersecting, curving away, doubling back.

  He pointed.

  “You’re here,” he said to Gardevoir, tapping one line. “He’s here.”

  Then he drew a third mark—a circle enclosing both. “Enemy’s focus will shift between you. I want you to train for that moment.”

  He looked up.

  “You’re not individuals anymore. You’re a pair. A mirrored threat.”

  Gardevoir looked to Metagross.

  And—for the first time all day—Metagross looked back.

  (break)

  They began again, now with deliberate pacing.

  Gardevoir created pressure—low telekinetic bursts that caused leaves to rustle or small stones to hover, feints meant to force responses.

  Metagross mirrored the openings. A delayed movement. A shifted limb. A non-attack that drew attention the way thunder might draw eyes skyward before the storm breaks ground.

  Al began calling out changes now.

  “Left flank! Change roles!”

  Instantly, Gardevoir moved into a more central posture, letting Metagross circle. Her psychic field thickened—not as a barrier, but as presence, weight that could be felt.

  Metagross moved quieter, flowing around her like an eclipse in motion.

  “Three target points!” Al called. “Imagine one fast, one armored, one erratic!”

  They didn’t need illusions.

  They imagined.

  Gardevoir pulsed rhythmically, her ‘strike’ marked by sudden vertical shifts in her energy—a flare, then silence.

  Metagross timed each one by waiting for the absence of movement, rather than the presence.

  They were fighting the empty spaces.

  (break)

  Later, they broke for food. Gardevoir didn’t eat, but she stayed beside Al, seated on a log. Metagross hovered close, silent and unreadable as ever.

  Al watched the trees sway.

  “You two will make this team dangerous,” he said aloud. “Not because you hit harder. Not because you’re faster. Because you think.”

  Gardevoir turned slightly toward him.

  He didn’t look back.

  “Salamence overwhelms. Swampert endures. Breloom surprises. Manectric disrupts. But you…”

  His voice dropped slightly.

  “You control the battlefield.”

  She blinked once.

  Metagross hummed softly, just once, a low acknowledgement.

  Al tossed the last of the berry cores into the fire.

  Then stood.

  “Get ready. Now we simulate rescue conditions.”

  (break)

  The final phase of training brought in the rest of the team.

  Swampert and Manectric stood in one corner of the training field, waiting with light tension in their stance. Breloom crouched in the brush, bouncing lightly, eager.

  Al pointed across the space.

  “Gardevoir, Metagross—you’re in defensive position. The others simulate a rogue ambush. Your job is not to win. It’s to protect a target and hold the field.”

  He gestured to a marked stump with a folded scarf on it.

  “That’s your objective. Treat it like it’s a trainer down.”

  Gardevoir moved beside the stump immediately, radiating calm focus. Metagross hovered forward slightly, taking the front.

  Al gave a low whistle.

  Breloom moved first—blitzing from the side, angled for Metagross, but pulling back last second to bait a counter.

  Metagross didn't bite.

  He held position, eyes flicking to Gardevoir—who caught the feint and erected a side barrier just as Manectric struck from the opposite direction, electricity skimming off the psychic field like lightning on glass.

  Swampert approached last, slow and measured, and lobbed a chunk of earth—testing reaction, not trying to strike.

  Gardevoir phased, Teleporting three feet upward to signal a handoff.

  Metagross dropped suddenly, tanking the strike on its underside.

  The coordination was flawless.

  They were holding without striking back. Without panic. Each move informed by the other's.

  “Fifteen seconds,” Al said.

  “Thirty.”

  “Forty-five.”

  Breloom looped back, attempted a dive strike—and finally Gardevoir moved.

  She redirected him with a swirl of gravity, nudging his lunge harmlessly aside. Not harm. Control.

  “Sixty,” Al finished.

  He stepped forward and raised a hand.

  “All stop.”

  Swampert exhaled hard.

  Breloom cracked his knuckles, disappointed but impressed.

  Manectric sat down with a huff, sparks dimming.

  Gardevoir floated back to the center, and Metagross joined her.

  Neither spoke.

  Neither had to.

  (break)

  That night, the fire burned longer.

  Swampert dozed as usual, closer now to Metagross than before.

  Manectric and Breloom curled up together in a patch of soft dirt, both twitching occasionally in post-battle dreams.

  Gardevoir sat near the flames, hands in her lap.

  Al sat beside her.

  He didn’t speak. Not right away.

  Then:

  “You’re more than I deserve.”

  She looked up slowly.

  “I didn’t train you all in the traditional sense of this world.” Al said.

  She tilted her head.

  He met her gaze.

  “You scare me sometimes.”

  A pause.

  Then, very faintly—he smiled.

  “In a good way.”

  Metagross drifted closer, hovering behind them in quiet symmetry.

  The fire crackled.

  And Al watched the flames rise.