After the exhibition matches were over, David and his Salamence were both feeling the weight of the day.
From the outside, it might have looked like a one-sided sweep — and in many ways, it was. But Salamence had not yet reached the professional level, and back-to-back battles were no small thing. More than twenty consecutive matches, even when most of them ended in just a few moves, still added up. The three serious fights in particular had taken real effort out of Salamence. And then there was that unexpected Metal Burst. If Salamence hadn't known Roost, that final match against the Gallade could have turned into something far more difficult. It probably wouldn't have ended in a loss, but it certainly wouldn't have been the clean, confident win it looked like from the stands.
That was one of the big differences between battling in the real world and how things worked in Pokémon games. In a game, a Pokémon's health was shown on a bar — a simple number that ticked back up with a Potion or a recovery move. Stamina and injury were treated as the same thing. In the real world, that wasn't how it worked at all.
When Salamence used Roost mid-battle, it healed its wounds. The gashes and bruises from the fight faded. But its stamina? That didn't come back. If anything, using Roost drained it a little further. That was why David felt the win wasn't quite as easy as it looked.
It made sense when he thought about it. If a recovery move could heal injuries and restore stamina at the same time, any Pokémon that learned one would become practically unstoppable. There were no PP limits in real-world battling. If Roost also refilled energy, a Pokémon could just keep using it forever, never tiring, never wearing down. The real world simply didn't work that way.
So even after a seemingly dominant exhibition run, Salamence was tired. Its injuries had mostly healed, but its body still needed rest.
Dominic, watching all of this, didn't miss a beat. He was understanding about the whole thing and immediately told David he could take the rest of the day off. He even added that if David needed to, he could take tomorrow off too and come back the day after.
In the second half of the semester, Imperial Capital High School was quite relaxed with time off for students in the Trainer program. A lot of them, especially those who came from Trainer families with long legacies in battling, used this period for extra training outside school. As long as a student had a reasonable excuse, getting a day off was never difficult.
David's situation was even simpler than most. He didn't hesitate at all. The moment he had permission, he grabbed his things and walked out. He already had a plan in mind — he was going to take his Pokémon out for a proper meal. A real celebration. Today's battle had been a big win, and Salamence deserved something good after carrying things the way it had.
The only catch was that feeding a Salamence until it was actually full was going to take some doing.
"Maybe an outdoor barbecue would be easier," David muttered, already thinking through the logistics.
While David was enjoying his day off and sharing a well-earned meal with his team, something very different was happening across the city.
Inside a five-star hotel in Imperial Capital, a conference room had been quietly sealed off. The hotel staff had no idea what was going on inside. Professionals had swept the room and set up anti-eavesdropping measures before anyone sat down. Now, a group of people with tight, unhappy expressions sat in near-total silence, none of them quite willing to look at anyone else.
A closer look at their faces would have been familiar to anyone who had watched the exhibition matches earlier that day. This was the Sakura delegation — the very group that had just been completely dismantled in front of a crowd.
The conference room was dim. No extra lights had been turned on, and the silence inside was heavy enough that even a small sound felt out of place. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved much. They all just sat there, stiff and still, waiting for what was coming.
Then a faint crackle of static broke the quiet, and a light screen expanded in the middle of the room.
"Bang!"
The screen had barely finished unfolding when a loud crash came through it — something had been smashed on the other side. Everyone in the room flinched at the sound. Most of them went pale. The three leaders in the front managed to hold their expressions steady, but even they looked uncomfortable. Everyone else was clearly fighting the urge to shrink into their seats.
This was, after all, their very first day in the Cloudspire Alliance. They had arrived as a respected exchange delegation, and within hours they had turned it into a disaster. Someone was going to take the blame. The three leaders were from the Six Great Families of Kyoto — they had backing, connections, and protection that most people in this room did not. But the others? That was less certain.
And it wasn't only about punishment. Even the three leaders, powerful as they were, understood the longer damage. Among the noble families of the Sakura Alliance, there was always competition — always someone watching, always someone ready to use a stumble against you. Losing face like this on the very first day, in front of the Eastern Alliance no less, would leave a mark. No matter how well-protected they were, this was going to follow them. It would slow things down. It would give others ammunition.
After the crash came the voice.
"Is this what you call an exchange? The name of the Sakura Alliance is going to mean nothing by the time you lot are done with it."
"Thirty against one. Thirty. And you couldn't win? What is wrong with all of you?!"
The scolding came fast and hard, with no pauses and no sympathy. Everyone in the conference room kept their heads down. Not one of them dared to meet the screen. They all had thoughts they were keeping very tightly to themselves — quiet complaints, private frustrations, the kind of things that would never be said out loud until they had their own authority someday. For now, they sat still and said nothing.
The tirade went on for over ten minutes before someone else stepped in.
"Lord Yashin, that will do for now."
The second voice belonged to another figure who had appeared beside the first. Once the initial outburst had been settled, this person addressed the room with a flat, even tone that somehow felt more serious than the shouting.
"We want a full account. What exactly happened out there? All of you are supposed to represent the next generation of the Sakura Alliance. So tell us — how did it come to this?"
No one answered right away. The members of the delegation glanced sideways at each other, but nobody volunteered to speak first.
The figure on the screen didn't have patience for that.
"Hmph."
A short, sharp sound. Then a finger pointed directly through the screen.
"Kuki Genichi. You. Give us the full story."
Kuki Genichi felt a jolt go through him when his name was called. Several choice words crossed his mind in quick succession, none of them appropriate for the current situation.
Why not ask your own daughter to explain it to you?
He kept that thought firmly behind his teeth.
"Yes, Lord Amatsuki."
He stood up, pulled his expression into something neutral, and began to speak. He had already decided, in the moment he rose from his seat, that he was going to set the tone clearly from the start.
"The opponent was simply on a different level."
He laid it out plainly, taking just over ten minutes to walk through everything — the structure of the matches, the way the battles unfolded, the Pokémon David had used, and the moments where things had gone decisively wrong. He kept it factual and gave weight where it was due.
When he finished, the figures behind the light screen were quiet for a moment. Then they began talking among themselves, as though the people in the room had temporarily ceased to exist.
Eventually, the conversation on the other side settled.
"A Totem Salamence, in the hands of someone who has only had a Pokémon for less than half a year — that is unusual."
"This Salamence doesn't look like an ordinary one either. These youngsters didn't lose for no reason."
"Isn't that obvious? There's no such thing as a simple Totem Pokémon."
Another long pause. Then the instructions came.
"This opponent was beyond what you could reasonably handle. We understand that. But there are many kinds of losses, and I do not want to hear of one like this again."
"Otherwise—"
"Understood."
Nobody waited for the sentence to finish. Every voice in the room answered at once, clear and firm.
And then, with a quiet crackle of static, the light screen folded away. The old figures were gone.
The relief that followed was immediate. The whole room seemed to exhale at once. Shoulders dropped. Postures loosened. Even the air felt easier to breathe.
But at the front of the room, the three leaders didn't share in that relief. They stayed as they were, looking at one another with careful, measured expressions. Something passed between them — not spoken, not gestured, just understood. A silent agreement of some kind, shaped in the space between their eyes.
Whatever it was, none of them said it out loud.