Day 46.
The jungle thinned into wire fencing and floodlights, and the Central Base rose out of the trees.
Enzo slowed a few steps before the main gate—not because he was tired, but because he could feel the crowd ahead. Anxiety had a scent. Sweat, metal, fear. The entire island was converging toward the same point.
Day 50 was close.
And when the Rocket recruits got nervous, they got stupid.
Enzo didn't like stupid.
He kept his face down and his thoughts sharper.
Gastly.
The word wasn't spoken. It slid through his telepathy like a blade slipping between ribs.
"Enter my shadow," Enzo thought. "If anyone tries anything, you protect me."
A soft laugh—cold, delighted—answered inside his skull.
Then Gastly sank.
Not into the ground. Into darkness itself.
Enzo's shadow deepened at his feet, turning a shade too black for the sunlight. The air around it cooled, just slightly. A recruit passing nearby shivered without knowing why.
Good.
Enzo crossed the checkpoint. The bored grunt barely looked up.
Inside, the base was a hive.
Not the normal chaos of Trial Island logistics—this was different. This was pressure. Hundreds of recruits moved like they'd been lit on fire from the inside.
Some polished Poké Balls like prayer beads, rubbing until their fingers went raw.
Some argued in tight circles over strategies they didn't understand.
Some stared at the concrete with hollow eyes, lips moving silently as if rehearsing their last chance.
The Exchange Center smelled the same as always.
Metal. Disinfectant. Old sweat soaked into the concrete.
The same grunt sat behind the reinforced counter with his toothpick and his terminal, wearing boredom like armor.
He looked up lazily—then saw Enzo.
His eyes sharpened.
His mouth curled.
"You again," he said, amused.
Enzo didn't answer. He glanced at the line behind him—recruits clutching points, trembling, trying to buy potions and other stuff.
Then he looked back at the grunt.
"I need the private room."
The grunt paused.
Then smiled wider.
That smile wasn't kindness. It was a profit.
"Of course you do," he said, standing up too quickly. "Right this way."
He led Enzo through a side door and down a corridor where the walls were thicker, and the lights didn't flicker. The sounds of the base dulled, swallowed by insulation.
They stopped at a reinforced door with a keypad.
The grunt keyed it in like he owned the place.
Inside, the room was absurd by Trial Island standards.
Metal walls, yes—thick and layered. But a real table sat in the center. Dark wood. Polished. A relic of comfort. And two chairs that didn't look like they'd snap under stress.
A VIP room.
The grunt gestured grandly. "Go ahead."
Enzo stepped inside without flinching.
He pulled his bag forward and opened it.
Then he poured.
Poké Balls rolled onto the wooden surface, clacking softly as they formed a neat line.
One.
Two.
Three.
Eighteen.
The grunt's grin faltered for half a heartbeat.
"Ok," he said, recovering quickly. "Let's see what you've got."
He took the Pokémon to a big machine in the corner of the room, a scanner.
A beep.
His expression stayed casual.
Another beep.
His eyebrow lifted slightly.
Then the scanner's small screen flashed a word the grunt didn't expect to see more than once a day.
[ GREEN ]
He swallowed and moved to the next ball.
Beep.
[ GREEN ]
Again.
Beep.
[ GREEN ]
The grunt's face drained slowly, like someone was turning down a light.
He checked the scanner again as if it was broken.
Beep.
[ GREEN ]
Again.
Again.
Again.
The table became a nightmare of excellent potential readings.
Eighteen.
Not one. Not two.
Eighteen.
The grunt's hand started to tremble just slightly, enough that he had to set the scanner down to hide it.
He looked up at Enzo like he was finally seeing him.
"This…" he whispered. "This is above my pay grade."
Enzo kept his face blank.
The grunt stood abruptly. "Wait here."
He left.
The door shut behind him with a heavy click.
Silence settled into the room like a loaded weapon.
Enzo didn't move.
His shadow was darker than it should have been.
And somewhere inside it, Gastly grinned.
The door opened again.
But it wasn't the grunt.
A man stepped in like he owned the air.
Uniform immaculate. Boots spotless. A black coat cut perfectly to his body, with a red "R" on his chest that looked less like a logo and more like a warning. A whip hung at his waist—not decoration. A tool.
His eyes were the worst part.
They didn't glare.
They measured.
Like Enzo was cattle, and he was deciding whether the meat was worth the blade.
Instructor Viper.
The man responsible for Trial Island.
The man who turned orphans into weapons.
The grunt hovered behind him, suddenly small.
Viper's gaze swept the table.
Eighteen Poké Balls lined up like offerings.
He didn't look impressed.
He looked interested.
He picked up one ball at random—rolled it once between his fingers.
Then Viper's eyes slid to Enzo.
"And who would have guessed," Viper said smoothly, "that a recruit who started with a defective Koffing could bring me this." He let the word hang. "This had never happened before."
Enzo lowered his head slightly, maintaining perfect posture. Not submissive—controlled. "I apologize if I'm inconveniencing you, Instructor Viper," Enzo said evenly. "Or wasting your time."
Viper's mouth twitched.
Then he laughed—quiet and sharp.
"I like your posture, boy," he said. "It's rare."
He leaned forward slightly, finally revealing the edge.
"Most recruits beg. Or lie. Or tremble, or revolt because I give them defects." His eyes flicked over Enzo again. "You don't."
Enzo didn't answer.
Viper didn't need one.
He set the Poké Ball down and tapped a code into the scanner terminal built into the wall. The screen lit up with calculations faster than the grunt could ever process.
Viper spoke like he was reading grocery prices.
"Let's be fair."
He keyed in the first batch.
"Zubat—Green—six units."
Then another.
"Geodude—Green—six units."
Then.
"Slugma—Green—one unit."
"Raticate—Green—two units."
"Ekans—Green—three units."
He paused and looked at Enzo once more. "Well, done," Viper said.
Enzo's eyes stayed neutral.
Viper continued, voice calm.
"You want a list? Fine."
He hit a button.
A receipt printer hummed, and a paper strip slid out like a tongue.
Viper tore it off and tossed it onto the table between them.
The numbers were obscene.
— SALES RECEIPT —
Zubat (Green) x6 → 6 × 9,500 RP = 57,000 RP
Geodude (Green) x6 → 6 × 8,500 RP = 51,000 RP
Slugma (Green) x1 → 18,000 RP
Raticate (Green) x2 → 2 × 5,000 RP = 10,000 RP
Ekans (Green) x3 → 3 × 11,000 RP = 33,000 RP
TOTAL: 169,000 ROCKET POINTS
The number sat on the table like a brick of gold.
A recruit shouldn't have that.
Enzo didn't let his face change.
Viper watched him for a reaction.
He didn't get one.
Viper smiled a little more.
"Smart," he said. "Very smart."
He slid a token across the table—credit confirmation—and turned to leave.
Then he stopped at the door and glanced back, as if remembering something mildly interesting.
"Don't spend it all on sweets," Viper said, tone casual.
Enzo's eyes narrowed slightly.
Viper continued, voice lowering just enough to feel like a warning.
"This exam will be watched by… many VIPs."
"Koga's daughter. Janine is here."
"Sabrina's fanatics. One of her disciples is here."
"And Archer's protégé is here too, and much more..."
He paused. The smile thinned.
"And there are eyes even above that trying to choose good recruits."
Enzo felt it—politics sliding into the room like poison gas.
Viper's gaze sharpened.
"Choose your friends carefully," he said. "And your enemies even more carefully."
Then he left.
The door shut.
The grunt stared at Enzo like he was seeing a ghost.
Enzo stood, pocketed the token, and walked out without a word.
His shadow followed.
Two days later, Enzo stood in a room that didn't feel real.
A real bed.
A hot shower that didn't sputter rust.
A private training space with soundproof walls.
He paid for it without blinking.
Because comfort wasn't luxury.
Comfort was recovery.
And recovery was tactical.
Under the hot water, Enzo closed his eyes and replayed Viper's list.
Janine. Ninja blood. Poison instincts. Fast.
Sabrina's disciple—Henry, from the rumors. Psychic. Arrogant.
Archer's protégé—Laurence. Calm. Balanced. The dangerous kind.
Enzo dried off slowly, mind already moving beyond Day 50.
Then a name surfaced from the past like a knife rising through water.
Proton.
In his old life, Proton had been nothing. A nobody. A face in the crowd.
Later?
Later, he became one of the most efficient executors Team Rocket ever produced.
Enzo's jaw tightened.
I need him early.
He dressed, pulled his hood up, and made sure his Poké Balls sat where he could reach them.
He didn't need to look powerful.
He needed to look invisible—until the moment he chose not to be.
Day 50 arrived like a guillotine.
At dawn, every speaker on the base—and hidden speakers across the island—crackled to life.
Viper's voice rolled out, amplified and merciless.
"RECRUITS. REPORT TO THE PLAZA. NOW."
The plaza was concrete and full.
Hundreds of recruits stood aligned in rows, uniforms stiff, eyes frantic. The air tasted like metal and dread.
Enzo moved through the crowd with his hood up, head lowered, shadow too dark at his feet.
In the center of the plaza stood Viper.
Beside him loomed a machine the size of a small truck—steel frame, cables, a reinforced target plate in the center.
A force meter.
A scoreboard towered above it, currently blank.
At the top of the command building, a window of smoked glass reflected the morning sun. You couldn't see through it.
But Enzo could feel the weight of eyes behind it.
VIPs.
Admins.
People who didn't need to introduce themselves.
Viper raised one hand.
Silence spread like a shockwave.
"This is simple," Viper said. "Brute force."
He gestured toward the machine.
"One attack. Physical or special."
"The machine will measure impact in points."
He let that settle.
Then he smiled.
"A score below the cutline…" his voice sharpened, "…and a ranking below the top hundred—"
He paused.
"—and you will be eliminated."
Not dead.
Worse.
"Demoted to Material Grunt."
The crowd shivered.
Viper's eyes scanned them like prey.
"Begin."
Janine went early, like she was claiming the air. She didn't swagger, didn't look around for reactions—she walked as if the plaza was already hers, as if the command tower up above was where she truly belonged, and this was just a formality. When she stopped at the line, she released her Pokémon with a clean flick of the wrist.
Venonat materialized in a flash of light—Level 20, compound eyes catching the sun like glass. It didn't fidget. It didn't hesitate. It simply faced the machine's reinforced plate as if it had done this a hundred times.
"Psybeam," Janine said, calm enough to be insulting.
The beam snapped out in a spiraling streak, bright and precise. It hit the target with a high, screeching hum—metal singing under the impact—then the machine shuddered as it absorbed the force. A heartbeat later, the scoreboard lit up.
332.
The number hung there like a verdict.
For a second, nobody spoke. Then the entire plaza exhaled at once—half awe, half despair. That wasn't a score. That was a wall. A ceiling most of them would never even touch.
Henry pushed forward immediately, like he couldn't stand the idea of being second to anyone. His Drowzee stepped out beside him, shoulders hunched, eyes dull, but trained enough to obey. Henry's jaw was clenched so hard it looked painful.
"Headbutt."
Drowzee lunged and slammed into the plate. The impact rang out—solid, heavy—enough to make some recruits flinch. The machine rattled, calculated, and then the scoreboard updated.
284.
Henry stared at it as if the number had insulted him.
For a moment, he didn't move. Then his face twisted—not disappointment, not frustration—pure humiliation. He turned and kicked the Drowzee in front of everyone.
The Pokémon stumbled sideways, confused, trying to steady itself while the crowd watched. The humiliation was almost louder than the impact had been.
Enzo's expression didn't change, but his mind filed it away with cold precision.
Arrogant. Violent. Weak control.
Useful information.
Laurence went after, and the contrast was almost unsettling. No rush. No anger. Just quiet efficiency. He released a Houndour that looked lean and sharp, eyes focused on the plate like it was prey.
"Bite."
Houndour hit the target with a clean, brutal snap. No wasted movement. No theatrics. The machine trembled, and the scoreboard flashed.
302.
A strong number. Second place.
Laurence didn't react. Didn't glare at Janine. Didn't blame the Pokémon. He recalled Houndour and walked back into the crowd like nothing had happened, as if being second was just another step in a plan nobody else could see.
Enzo watched him disappear into the line of recruits and made a second note.
The calm ones are always worse.
Then the plaza turned into reality again—cannon fodder and panic. Recruits stepped up with shaking hands, tossing out low-level Pokémon, and praying their best move would be enough. Scores flashed: 50. 80. 100. Numbers that didn't earn respect, only relief or dread. Some cried when they passed a threshold they didn't understand. Some begged Viper for another try. Some stared at the machine like it was a coffin with a scoreboard attached.
Viper watched it all with a bored expression, as if he'd seen this exact fear a thousand times and it never got any more interesting.
Then Proton stepped up.
A boy with an average face and an oversized uniform. Nothing special to look at.
He released a Zubat.
Wing Attack.
The Zubat struck the plate with perfect angle and timing.
Score:
150
Mediocre.
Not top ten.
Not even close.
The crowd forgot him instantly.
Proton walked off the stage like a ghost.
Enzo moved.
He intercepted Proton near the edge of the plaza, where shadows from the buildings cut through the light.
Enzo's voice was calm.
"The angle was perfect," he said.
Proton stopped and turned slowly, suspicious.
"What do you want?"
Enzo kept his posture relaxed.
"Nothing," he said. "Just saying your Zubat is well-trained. Congrats."
Proton's eyes narrowed more.
"…Why are you being nice?"
Enzo tilted his head slightly.
"I noticed you don't belong to a team," he said. "Neither do I."
He let that hang.
"Getting 150 without resources means your technique is good. What you lack is mass and support."
Proton stared at him like he expected a punchline.
Enzo extended a hand slightly—not a handshake. Just a gesture.
"My name's Enzo."
Proton hesitated, then answered.
"…Proton."
Enzo nodded once, as if confirming something.
"We could form a team," Enzo said. "You join me, and I guarantee customized Pokéblocks for your Pokémon."
Proton blinked.
Then scoffed lightly, half-defensive.
"I'll think about it."
But his eyes didn't dismiss it completely.
He walked away more slowly than before.
Enzo watched him go.
Seed planted.
Viper stood in the center again, watching the scoreboard update.
His eyes narrowed.
Something bothered him.
He scanned the crowd—hundreds of faces—and his brow furrowed.
As if he was missing one.
Where is that kid?
Enzo felt the question without hearing it.
He stayed still for a heartbeat longer.
Then he stepped away from the wall.
The hood still covered his face.
He walked toward the stage.
The crowd parted instinctively.
Some recognized the shadow. The stillness. The way people moved away from him without knowing why.
Enzo climbed the steps.
He felt eyes on him.
Janine's.
Proton's.
And the eyes behind the smoked glass above.
Enzo reached the center.
He stopped.
And he drew a Poké Ball from his belt.
He didn't release it.