All across India—and far beyond it—the world had stopped, if only for a moment.
Screens were lit in living rooms, college hostels, cafés, and community halls. Some people had gathered with friends, snacks spread across tables like it was a festival. Others watched quietly with their families, conversations hushed, eyes fixed on the broadcast. Parents, more than anyone else, sat stiffly on the edges of sofas and chairs, leaning forward whenever the feed shifted, searching desperately for a glimpse of a familiar face, a familiar Pokémon, any sign that their child was still safe.
This wasn't just an exam.
It had become an event.
At the center of it all was Ritu.
She moved the broadcast with practiced ease, her voice steady and clear, guiding viewers through the chaos without ever diminishing its gravity. The screen shifted smoothly from island to island, from forest to shoreline, from one contestant's struggle to another's triumph. Graphics highlighted points earned and lost, scarf colors flashed briefly on screen, and contextual notes appeared just long enough for viewers to understand what they were seeing before the feed moved on.
What they saw was everything the world had been arguing about—compressed into raw, undeniable reality.
There were fierce battles where teenagers stood their ground against Pokémon far stronger than anything they had faced before, strategies unfolding in real time as commands were shouted, dodges mistimed, and instincts tested. Some victories were clean and decisive, others messy and exhausting, ending with both trainer and Pokémon barely standing but still refusing to fall.
Then there were the quieter moments.
A contestant kneeling beside a defeated Pokémon, offering water or berries before moving on. Another carefully cleaning a wound with shaking hands while whispering apologies, even though the rules didn't require it. Pokémon responding in kind—relaxing, accepting help, or simply watching their former opponent leave with something resembling respect.
Those moments didn't come with dramatic music or flashing graphics, but they lingered far longer in the minds of the audience.
Not everyone adapted.
The broadcast didn't shy away from that either.
Some students froze the moment they realized there was no referee stepping in, no arena walls, no predictable pacing. Fear overwhelmed preparation, and within hours they were escorted out, elimination notices appearing quietly beside their feeds before the camera moved on.
Others failed in a different way.
They won battles—sometimes brutally—but treated wild Pokémon as nothing more than walking numbers. After securing points, they turned and left without a backward glance, stepping over exhausted bodies and broken ground as if none of it mattered beyond what their watches recorded.
The chat reacted sharply when that happened.
Anger. Disappointment. Debate.
But the broadcast didn't linger long enough for outrage to turn into spectacle.
Because just as reliably, another feed would cut in.
Medical teams.
Trained staff moved through the forests and clearings after contestants passed, kneeling beside injured Pokémon, scanning them, administering treatment with practiced efficiency. Pokémon that had been left behind were stabilized, healed, and guided away from danger zones. The message was subtle but unmistakable: neglect was noticed, recorded, and corrected—even if the entrant had already moved on.
Ritu addressed it calmly when questions flooded in.
"Remember," she reminded viewers, "this exam isn't only about who wins battles. It's about what kind of trainers these students are becoming. Every action is being evaluated, even the ones that happen after the fight ends."
As the hours passed, something shifted in the audience.
At first, people had tuned in for excitement, for spectacle, for answers.
Now they watched with a different expression.
More thoughtful.
More invested.
More unsettled.
This wasn't a game show.
It wasn't a tournament.
It was a window into the future.
And as screens across the world continued to glow late into the night, one truth became impossible to ignore:
Whatever came after this exam—whatever systems, alliances, or conflicts followed—the people watching would never again be able to pretend they hadn't seen how it all truly began.
But until that point, something had been noticeably absent.
For all the battles shown—Blue and Green scarves flashing across screens, points ticking up and down, victories and eliminations piling up—not a single Orange-scarfed battle had been broadcast in full.
And Red?
No one had even caught a glimpse.
Speculation had been building quietly in the background. Commentators danced around it. Viewers asked in chat, were half-answered, then redirected. Some wondered if the higher-ranked Pokémon were being kept deliberately away from contestants. Others suspected that the examiners were waiting for a moment dramatic enough to justify revealing them.
Then, as the sun dipped lower and the sky over the islands bled into deep orange and crimson, the broadcast changed.
The screen cut.
Not to a crowd.
Not to a montage.
But to stillness.
A forest clearing filled the frame, shadows stretching long between broken trees. The camera angle was slightly elevated, steady but tense, as if the drone itself had realized it needed to keep its distance.
And there—center frame—stood Rakesh Malhotra.
Across from him loomed a Salamence.
Massive.
Broad-winged.
Muscles coiled beneath thick blue scales, every breath expanding its chest like a bellows. A red scarf was tied securely at its neck, the fabric fluttering faintly in the evening air like a warning flag.
Above them, just at the edge of the frame, another Salamence circled slowly, wings cutting wide arcs through the sky, never diving, never leaving—just watching.
Closer to Rakesh, heavy and compact, was a Shelgon.
Its shell caught the fading sunlight in an unnatural way, glossy and smooth in places, like armor that hadn't yet lost its newborn sheen. A green scarf was tied around one of the ridges of its shell, marking it clearly.
The chat exploded.
[WAIT—RED SCARF??]
[IS THAT A SALAMENCE??]
[NO WAY THIS IS REAL]
[WHY IS HE STILL STANDING THERE]
Ritu's voice cut in immediately, calm but unmistakably serious.
"What you're seeing right now," she said, "is a Dragon-type encounter."
The screen zoomed slightly, highlighting the scarves.
"Dragon-types are among the rarest and strongest Pokémon known," she continued. "They are highly territorial, highly intelligent, and notoriously difficult to handle—even for experienced trainers."
The camera focused briefly on the Shelgon.
"This is a Shelgon," Ritu explained. "Normally, a Green-scarfed opponent would be considered manageable for skilled entrants. However—"
She paused, just long enough to let the tension breathe.
"This Shelgon has recently evolved. Because of its current condition and combat potential, its rank has been reassessed."
A graphic flashed on screen.
Green → Orange.
"The entrant will be notified momentarily."
The chat barely had time to process that before it happened.
Rakesh's wrist buzzed.
Audibly.
The microphone picked it up—a sharp, mechanical vibration that sounded far too loud in the quiet clearing. Rakesh glanced down at his watch, eyes scanning the update as the color indicator shifted.
Orange.
The effect was immediate.
His posture changed—not collapsing, not retreating—but tightening. Shoulders squared. Jaw clenched. The casual alertness he'd carried earlier hardened into something sharper, more deliberate.
Fear flickered across his face.
Just for a second.
Then it vanished.
Meowth stepped forward, claws sliding out, tail flicking once as he positioned himself slightly to Rakesh's left. Charmander moved as well, tail flame flaring brighter, heat rippling the air around him as he took point on the right.
They didn't need to be told.
They could feel it.
Rakesh raised one hand slowly, palm open, steadying them without breaking eye contact with the Shelgon.
"Stay sharp," he said quietly.
The Salamence lowered its head slightly, eyes narrowing—not hostile yet, but fully engaged.
The Shelgon shifted its weight, shell scraping against stone as it leaned forward, breath heavy and deliberate.
Across the world, conversations stopped mid-sentence.
Parents leaned closer to screens.
Friends fell silent.
Chats slowed, messages stacking unread.
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