Viridian City – Midnight

  The night above Viridian split open.

  Dozens of powerful flying-types streaked through the darkness—Pidgeot, Charizard, Fearow, even the occasional Dragonite—circling low over the city like vultures before a feast. At their head, riding his own Dragonite, was Champion Samuel Oak, silent as judgment.

  They were heading for one place.

  The Razzo Clan’s ancestral home, a sprawling manor of ancient stone and pride, nestled in the heart of Viridian City. Below, the clan's last defenders were already assembled—ground-types by the dozens: Rhydon, Sandslash, Dugtrio, Steelix, Golem. Trainers flanked their Pokémon, ready to die.

  At the front of their ranks stood Cesare Razzo, the clan’s current head.

  Oak descended in silence, his feet landing on the cracked courtyard where so much blood would soon be spilled. Behind him, Blaine, Pryce, and Agatha followed—quiet as shadows. Next to them, Oak’s Nidoking let out a roar that shook the foundation of the city itself.

  “Cesare Razzo,” Oak said, voice carrying like thunder. “Your father died for his. The clans you led slaughtered my son. My disciple. Our future.”

  Cesare did not flinch.

  “We bled for this land while you courted Johto,” Cesare snapped. “We preserved the balance. We built Kanto. We will not watch you dismantle it for your ‘reforms’ and call it progress.”

  Oak looked at the man—his pride, his denial—and pitied him.

  “You chose your side when you killed Phoenix Ketchum. And with the power vested in me as Champion of Indigo, I hereby sentence the elders of the Razzo clan to death. All Razzo under twenty will be exiled—Orre, Alola, Unova. Choose exile, or die.”

  He turned to his Nidoking.

  “Begin.”

  The ground split open as Nidoking roared again—this time, it was answered by dozens of cries. From alleyways, rooftops, riversides, and skies, Oak’s summoned Pokémon descended upon the estate.

  The Razzo warriors stood no chance.

  The battle had begun.

  *

  Inside the manor, beneath carved pillars and hanging banners that bore centuries of Razzo history, Francesca Razzo—known in the underworld as Madame Boss—stood in front of a terminal.

  On the screen was a man in black, sharp-eyed, younger than the others—yet colder.

  “Giovanni,” she said. “The clan is finished.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  On the screen, Giovanni did not blink.

  “Understood.”

  Francesca continued, her voice cool and efficient.

  “You are to take the name Giovanni Sakaki. Your old identity is gone from the records. No one knows the third son. That was the plan.”

  She tapped a sequence on the console. A digital map of hidden Rocket resources lit up.

  “The family’s assets have been moved to your name. You’ll find them under the guise of a tech conglomerate. You’ll go to Celadon, to the foundation beneath the Game Corner. There, you’ll become something more.”

  Giovanni nodded once.

  “And Team Rocket?”

  “Yours, from now on,” she said. “My most loyal executives have already been notified. You’ll rebuild from the ashes. Quietly. Carefully.”

  There was a pause. Something in her tone softened.

  “I’m sorry we kept you in the shadows all these years. But we always knew… we might need a survivor.”

  Giovanni didn’t respond.

  “Listen to me,” Francesca said, her voice low. “Don’t challenge Oak. Not yet. Work your way into the League. Build your image. A philanthropist. A man of vision. Let the mask do the work. Let Rocket handle the darkness while you wear the light.”

  Still, Giovanni said nothing.

  “And speak with Dr. Fuji,” she added. “His project must continue. If you finish what we started… no Champion will be able to stand against you.”

  A distant rumble shook the building. Francesca turned toward the window—flames were rising on the horizon.

  “Go,” she said. “Do what we couldn’t. Survive.”

  Giovanni finally spoke.

  “I will.”

  The screen went dark.

  Francesca stepped away from the console. Her cloak billowed as she activated the fail-safe—a blinking red light above the screen began to count down.

  Five minutes.

  She walked into the grand hall and drew her Pokéballs.

  *

  By the time Francesca emerged, the courtyard was a graveyard.

  Razzo’s elders lay scattered among the broken bodies of their Pokémon. Cesare was on one knee, bloodied, breathing through clenched teeth.

  Oak turned toward her.

  She was already releasing her team: Nidoqueen, Rhydon, Sandslash, Marowak, Donphan, and—last—a Krookodile, jaws dripping and eyes burning with malice.

  Blaine raised an eyebrow.

  “Even you turned to outsiders?”

  “Don’t lecture me about purity,” Francesca snapped. “You all preach progress, yet fear the very change you claim to embrace.”

  Oak said nothing at first. Then:

  “You’re right.”

  Everyone turned.

  “There are still politicians who fear open borders. And even some Elite Four members who fear foreign influence,” he glanced towards both Blaine and Pryce, “But tonight, those old chains are broken.”

  He stepped forward.

  “It’s a shame you won’t be able to see the new Indigo.”

  Francesca didn’t flinch.

  “I don’t plan to live through this.”

  She turned to Cesare. He stood, bloody and silent, and gave one final nod. They spoke no words—but everything between them was understood.

  Together, they gave the order.

  “Fight to the last.”

  Oak and the Elite Four moved as one.

  Flames, storms, psychic blasts, and crushing waves of earth and steel collided in the center of Viridian. Francesca fought with fury. Her team gave everything. But they were outnumbered. Outclassed.

  When the smoke cleared, the last of the Razzo line lay dead.

  A low rumble sounded behind the Champion. The Razzo manor collapsed in on itself, devoured by flame and explosions.

  Oak stood among the ruins.

  *

  Far outside the city, on the route to Viridian Forest, Giovanni stood alone.

  He watched as firelight rose into the sky—flames consuming the Razzo estate. He did not flinch. Did not blink.

  Just watched.

  He had changed clothes—dark boots, gray jacket, gloves tight across his knuckles. At his hip, a single Pokéball. His Beedrill. No insignia. No crest.

  His past had burned with the rest.

  For a long time, he stood in silence, listening to the wind in the trees, to the sound of the forest—wild, ancient, indifferent.

  Then he turned.

  “It’s done,” he said softly to no one. “Now we begin.”

  He walked into the forest, where no one would follow, and from which no one would see him rise.