The tournament field was quieter now.

  The crowds had thinned — both in number and noise.

  No more shouting. No more easy victories.

  Every match from here was a real clash —

  where a single mistake meant your dreams cracking apart underfoot.

  Ren sat quietly at the edge of the stadium, Charmander curled beside him.

  The last few matches had blurred together: fast, clinical wins against weaker opponents.

  Necessary — but not worth remembering.

  He wasn't here to savor easy prey.

  He was here for the real fights.

  And they were finally approaching.

  Above the field, the monitors flared again — quarterfinal brackets taking shape.

  Eight names.

  Eight survivors.

  And among them, burning brightly:

  Ren Oak.

  But before that — one more obstacle.

  One last match before he reached the real battlefield.

  His opponent’s name appeared alongside his.

  A trainer from Kanto — a wiry boy with sharp eyes and a reputation for defensive battles.

  Beside him hovered a small, sleek shape:

  a Squirtle — its blue shell gleaming under the sun.

  Ren rose slowly.

  Charmander stood beside him, tail flaring brighter.

  Fire against water.

  Not ideal.

  Not hopeless.

  Just another problem to solve.

  The referee called them to the field.

  Both trainers moved with steady steps — no theatrics, no grandstanding.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Only focus.

  "Battle."

  The Water type moved first — fast, shell tucked tight, sliding low across the dirt like a living missile.

  "Water Gun — low sweep!"

  A sharp blast of water tore toward Charmander's legs — not aiming to blast him off the field,

  but to trip him, break his footing.

  Smart.

  Ren didn’t flinch.

  "Charmander — leap!"

  Charmander obeyed instantly, springing upward in a tight arc.

  The Water Gun sheared harmlessly underneath.

  "Spin — Ember!"

  Midair, Charmander twisted, exhaling a fan of flame downward.

  It wasn't enough to damage Squirtle seriously — the shell took most of it —

  but it forced the water Pokémon to halt its charge.

  Tempo broken.

  The opposing trainer snapped another command:

  "Withdraw — Shell Charge!"

  Squirtle snapped into its shell and rolled forward at speed — a compact blue cannonball.

  Charmander landed — tensed.

  Rolling shell tactics were dangerous: hard to stop, hard to counter.

  But not impossible.

  "Charmander — dig shallow! Pit trap!"

  Charmander hissed once in acknowledgment.

  Claws flashed —

  a fast, desperate scramble.

  He ripped a shallow ditch into the dirt ahead of Squirtle’s path.

  Not deep enough to trap permanently.

  But enough to disrupt.

  Squirtle barreled forward blindly —

  and with a sharp lurch, its shell caught the uneven ground.

  Momentum cracked.

  Balance broken.

  The shell rolled awkwardly — losing all speed.

  Ren didn't wait.

  "Scratch — exposed legs!"

  Charmander lunged — claws raking at the Squirtle’s hind legs,

  forcing it to pop back out of its shell defensively.

  The opponent gritted his teeth.

  "Bubble — suppress!"

  A swarm of pressurized bubbles blasted out —

  not powerful individually,

  but overwhelming by sheer volume.

  Charmander staggered under the barrage, small burns and bruises starting to show.

  Ren measured the distance.

  No more flashy moves.

  No more direct clashes.

  Just finish it.

  "Charmander — Ember, high arc!"

  Charmander’s flame burst upward — a rising shot, not aimed straight.

  The fire arced —

  then fell like rain onto Squirtle from above.

  A classic suppression technique — burning from overhead where shell defense was weakest.

  Squirtle flinched —

  small singes starting to appear on exposed limbs and tail.

  A Opportunity.

  "Rush!"

  Charmander charged — weaving through the last of the bubbles —

  and slammed a heavy Scratch across The turtle’s snout.

  The Water-Type reeled back, dazed.

  Charmander landed neatly, panting hard, but still burning.

  The referee’s voice rang out:

  "Squirtle is unable to continue!

  Victory — Ren Oak!"

  Scattered claps.

  Muted cheers.

  Nothing wild.

  The Academy wasn't a place for celebrating too early.

  Everyone knew the real tests still loomed.

  Ren crouched beside Charmander, running a hand gently over the small bruises along his partner’s side.

  Charmander leaned into the touch — tired but proud.

  "Well done," Ren murmured.

  Charmander rumbled quietly — tail flame still flickering stubbornly against the breeze.

  At the far edge of the field, instructors conferred briefly.

  Kael spoke first, voice low.

  "Under pressure, still thinks clearly.

  Overrelies on narrow move pool — will become a problem later."

  Vale nodded.

  "Stamina issues too. Predictable, but salvageable."

  No praise.

  No harsh condemnation.

  Only professional evaluation.

  The way the League trained its future.

  Above them, the monitors flickered again.

  This time, only eight names remained.

  Quarterfinalists.

  Elite among elites.

  And Ren’s name burned quietly among them.

  Across the waiting area,

  Lance leaned back against the wall —

  arms crossed, smirking faintly.

  Steven adjusted the cuffs of his jacket —

  eyes narrowed, analytical.

  Cynthia stood still, her Gible growling low and protective at her side.

  Recognition.

  Interest.

  Challenge.

  No words spoken yet.

  Not yet.

  But the storm was coming.

  And Ren would be ready.