“Miss Keiko, you must be starving. Eat with us. I’ve got lunch for Meowth too.”

Reiji had already portioned out lunch for his ten Pokémon—and for Keiko’s Meowth. Seeing the little plate set out made Keiko blush harder. Once Meowth started eating, she sat, gave Reiji a small smile, took up her chopsticks, and thanked him. “Mr. Reiji, you’re a very considerate trainer. Thank you for the meal. I’ll dig in.”

“Your massage fee as agreed.” Reiji slid her the payment. Keiko accepted the money and the three of them ate.

Skinny chatted her up about massaging his Poliwhirl as well, but Keiko had another appointment; she told him to book a different time. After lunch she resumed work. Reiji told her she could head out on her own after finishing.

By the time he and Skinny woke from a short nap, Keiko was gone and the team was dozing. Reiji recalled everyone except Spinarak—he planned a quick run to help Skinny capture a Wingull.

At the door, the kid rummaged in his bag and handed over a stack of bills. “Big Brother, your money—2.9 million—and two Heal Balls.”

“Keep the Heal Balls. I’ve got plenty.” Reiji took the 2.9 million and stowed it in his spatial pack.

“Okay.” Skinny gripped the two pink-topped balls, then tucked them back. He cared because they were from Reiji.

“Where’s the densest Wingull flock? We’ll bag one there.” Reiji locked the gate, and they headed for the shore on foot. With time to spare, he pulled a small notebook and did the math on cash at hand.

On hand now: Skinny’s 1,000,000 tuition, the bruiser brother’s 630,000, five Pokémon sold for 9,000,000, plus the other thug’s 120,000.

Total: 10,750,000.

Weird how spending makes it grow, he thought. If more people insisted on delivering their heads, should he… accept, or accept?

Recent outlays: barbecue 40,000; second meat run 30,000; 20,000 to the two boys; 19,000 for treatment; 1,000,000 to the orphanage last night; 12,000 for today’s massage.

Subtotal: 1,121,000.

So remaining cash: 9,629,000. Add the previous 449,000, that’s 10,078,000 on hand. Plus the 27 million in the bank—low to mid eight figures. Rich enough… to get cleaned out by a single “just okay” starter. High-grade Water Stones? Unobtainable and price-gouged. Which rich idiot was hoarding them all?

He stuffed the notebook away and followed Skinny to the south-side Beach, a tourist spot not far from the villa—palms, swimmers, and plenty of Wingull mooching bread from visitors. This was where Skinny had nabbed that dud this morning.

With this many birds, a 50-potential Wingull should be doable. “Here,” Skinny said, pointing at the feeding scrum.

“Bait them in and start throwing balls. I’ll watch for good development.” Reiji settled under a palm. Too hot. At least there were cold drinks—and enough scenery—to make the trip tolerable. The team needed rest; he could afford to breathe a little.

Skinny sprinted off for snacks and drinks, then scattered torn bread at his feet. Wingull swooped in squawking. He pitched balls as beaks hit the sand. Some clicked shut in one; others burst back out to keep eating. Some birds welcomed the “meal ticket” of capture. Some would rather die free. Bird, meet will.

He ferried each caught ball to Reiji. In the shade, Reiji sipped a cold drink and flipped panels.

Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-five. Twenty-eight. Thirty-one. Thirty-four. Thirty-seven…

The best of the first batch topped out at forty-one. No fifties.

Two hours and nearly a hundred Wingull later, the highest he saw was forty-six. Their mass catching drew stares, then grumbling, then a call to law enforcement. Officer Jenny strode up.

“IDs, please—and explain why you’re capturing so many Wingull.”

“We’re not capturing, Officer; we’re catching,” Reiji said, handing over their cards. “I’m a breeder. I’m checking which birds are healthiest, best developed, to pick one for my little brother. He wants a Wingull.”

“We haven’t released the extras yet because we don’t want to mix them up,” he added.

Skinny played along instantly. “Yes, Officer—my big brother is helping me choose. Once we decide on one, we’ll release the rest.”

Jenny checked with the desk—no flags on either name. Choosing a wild partner was every trainer’s right; Wingull were wild; nothing illegal here.

“I understand. Pick your Wingull, then release the others. Don’t harm them.” She returned their IDs, then turned to the gawkers and explained these two weren’t poachers. The crowd thinned.

On the spot, Reiji had the kid release more than a hundred Wingull. They kept the lone forty-six.

When the beach cleared, Skinny finally exhaled. “So… this is the one?”

“Not yet.” Reiji shook his head. “We kept it because it’s the best among ordinary Wingull. But among good Wingull, it’s the bottom.”

He’d said he’d help the kid; that meant finding fifty-plus if possible.

“Still not good enough, huh.” Skinny tugged at his sweat-soaked collar. Catching a partner was harder than it looked. With eyes on them, they couldn’t go back to scooping up flocks; four or five at a time was the limit now, and once released they blended with the crowd again.

“Don’t get discouraged. Buy a lot more Poké Balls and come back tonight. Catching a partner is serious—it decides a trainer’s whole career. Even daycares grade their Pokémon into tiers. Wild ones are no different.”

“I know.” His grandfather had drilled the point in with an example: why he’d insisted on buying the old director’s Shroomish—that Breloom line’s baby—because of talent. The old man had said that baby was a ‘store treasure’—7–8 million on the open market. Grandpa paid five, partly to support the orphanage. Both his Breloom and Poliwhirl were of that class. He suspected Reiji was aiming for a ‘store-treasure’ Wingull too.

Because talent set the ceiling. With poor talent, a trainer had no future; with top-tier, there was a path.

“Let’s head back,” Reiji said, brushing sand from his pants and pocketing the forty-six for now. They’d stirred up enough attention for the day. If they couldn’t find better later, he’d let Skinny decide whether to settle for this one—after hearing the tradeoffs.

Back at the villa, it was past four. Dinner prep, then dinner. Afterward, Skinny needed to buy balls; Reiji needed to update the address on his ID. They split a cab east to the big department store—Skinny insisted on paying.

At the entrance they synced up plans: meet at the doors afterward, then hit the precinct to change addresses. Skinny said he’d switch to his grandfather’s tavern at the port.

Reiji ducked into the outdoor-gear shop. The counterfeit peddler spotted him and rubbed his hands together. “What can I get you today, kid? I’ve got everything.”

“Two daggers. Let me see.” Reiji’s old blade—taken from the poachers—was buried with a corpse.

“Gotcha.” The man produced two black knives, cord-wrapped handles for grip. “Tungsten steel, top grade—”

“I know what you’re doing,” Reiji said, winking. The little hustle couldn’t be more obvious. He didn’t buy. Let the man stew.

[End of Chapter]

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep