This time when Reiji and Skinny arrived at the battle grounds, they didn’t draw much attention. Only people who’d seen Reiji battle before snuck a couple of glances.

Mostly it was because Reiji’s performance yesterday had been such a letdown that many lost interest in the “mysterious trainer.”

Reiji was happy to let that happen. He watched a few matches in peace and didn’t rush to start his own three for the day.

While he watched, he realized someone was missing. “Right—Skinny, where’s Chubbs?”

“I had to talk to Grandpa, so I sent him home. Not sure if he’s around,” Skinny said. He and Chubbs had come to the Sailor’s Bar together, then Skinny went to find Grandpa and told Chubbs to wait outside and go play somewhere. When he came back out, Chubbs was gone.

“Forget it. Don’t tell him. We’re about to start the plan—don’t get nervous. Just act like usual.”

“I understand, big bro.”

Reiji didn’t care that Chubbs had left. After the two of them watched a few more matches and more onlookers recognized them, challengers started lining up.

He didn’t turn the strangers down—better to use the chance to finish today’s three. He stepped onto the field and sent out Butterfree.

This would be Butterfree’s first match. He’d already told it they’d be “acting” today—throw the match; no need to fight hard.

“It’s that mystery trainer again—sent out Butterfree this time…”

“Didn’t think he’d show up. Guess there’s money to be made again…”

“Wonder if he’ll bring Poliwhirl out…”

“Who knows? That Rhyhorn of his doesn’t listen, and who knows about this Butterfree. We can start by betting the other side…”

The crowd thickened fast. Against Reiji, challengers got both counterpick and first move, so plenty of trainers wanted a shot at the confident mystery man—and some quick cash.

Seeing he’d sent a Bug-type, lots of them felt like the money was waving hello already.

To battle-happy trainers, Butterfree practically screams “weak.” They hadn’t expected him to use it.

One of the would-be challengers, seeing Butterfree, sent out a Flying-type—Pidgeotto.

“Fifty thousand a bout. Pay first, you move first,” Reiji said when he saw the Pidgeotto. As expected, the guy countered Bug with its natural enemy.

No one questioned the rule; everyone knew how Reiji operated—if you get last switch and first move, you pay up front. Some did wonder about the stake being lower, though: only fifty thousand when yesterday had been a hundred.

The challenger didn’t overthink it, tossed fifty thousand into the arena, and Butterfree dutifully fluttered over, picked it up, placed it in Reiji’s hand, then returned to its mark.

The moment Butterfree got back, the challenger ordered Pidgeotto to attack.

He let Butterfree free-play—he’d already reminded it that the result had to be a loss, so the process didn’t matter. For appearances, he tossed out a couple of token commands.

He had a more important job—getting the “loss” signal out so Grandpa would know.

Outside the arenas, the book was run out of a kiosk like a corner shop, six TVs carrying six live fields, and the gamblers started piling in to bet.

Skinny’s arrival silenced the lot. Everyone knew Skinny knew the mystery trainer—so whoever Skinny bet on would probably win. Human nature: your own guy, you only ever bet to win.

The book’s floor manager wanted to block Skinny from betting—who knew if he’d seen the slip with the prearranged results? Worst case, you just don’t let him play.

But Skinny was faster. He slapped down ten thousand on Reiji’s side—plain as day, backing his big bro.

Seeing Skinny’s pick, the manager waved off his staff. According to the slip, Reiji’s first match was a loss, so Skinny had “bet wrong.”

Skinny didn’t see it that way. Right and wrong didn’t matter—who he bet on did.

With everyone staring at him, he figured he should say something before someone swung on him. “I just want to support my big bro…”

He mumbled it and walked out of the kiosk to watch the live feed from a distance.

The gamblers didn’t buy it and, muttering, loaded up on Reiji’s side while turning back to the screens.

On TV, Butterfree versus Pidgeotto ended quickly; Pidgeotto’s Gust did the job.

Well—”did the job.” Butterfree’s acting was excellent; it timed a perfect faint.

Reiji recalled it, murmured consolation. Inside the ball, Butterfree puckered like, “How was my performance?”

He praised it softly—no one else could hear—and then tossed a hundred thousand into the arena.

Once the Pidgeotto trainer picked up the cash, Reiji sent out his next Pokémon: a Slowpoke.

It had the same note: find a chance to flop.

The winner wanted to keep milking it, but there was no way the crowd would leave an “easy money” slot to one person—trainers jostled to be next.

Match two started fast. The opponent sent out a Grass-type, Weepinbell.

With the second match about to start, those who won on Pidgeotto piled onto Weepinbell; those who’d bet Reiji stared daggers at Skinny.

Skinny wasn’t going to coddle them. He shrugged at the angry looks—he’d been clear enough. If they didn’t believe him, whose fault was that?

As the match began, Skinny pulled out another ten thousand and, without hesitation, bet Reiji again. No more explanations.

Big bro had told him: they were helping gamblers quit. He felt zero guilt.

This time, some gamblers hesitated. A minority stuck with Weepinbell; a big chunk followed Skinny one more time and bet Slowpoke.

With the book cranking Reiji’s odds higher, plenty decided to be bold.

The result came fast: Weepinbell won. Those who bet Reiji got wiped and glared even harder.

Skinny wasn’t one to be bullied. He released Poliwhirl for moral support and snapped, “What are you staring at? I lost money too, didn’t you see?”

He cussed under his breath to stiffen his nerve, then pulled another ten thousand and kept betting Reiji to win.

Spectators finally figured it out: Skinny had no inside line—he was just blindly backing his big bro, win or lose.

Reiji sent out Rhyhorn for the third. The book juiced his odds yet again, but not many were willing to bet on him now.

They all went in on the other side—a Breloom.

The stream started. Everyone watched without blinking. Rhyhorn lowered its head and rammed Breloom, blasting it into the wire—match over. Rhyhorn won, and the gamblers lost it.

They’d all loaded up on Breloom; some had dropped three in a row and were ready to scream.

Because Skinny had bet Rhyhorn, he ended up the biggest winner. With the odds up to three-to-one, he not only recouped but made an extra ten thousand. He pocketed the cash and left the kiosk grinning.

Naturally, Grandpa—who’d been spreading bets across multiple books—was also laughing his head off. It wasn’t just one stall; the entire perimeter around the grounds was ringed with them.

Even the book’s managers were giddy: first run with Reiji and three boards cleared a few million. A few more days of this and it was a license to print money.

Everyone was thrilled—except the gamblers, who felt played and dumped their anger on Skinny with a stream of abuse.

They didn’t dare lay hands on him here, though.

Skinny left the kiosk and met Reiji outside the grounds. Reiji had finished his three and was ready to go.

“Big bro, I made ten thousand off you—last match was three-to-one!” Skinny said, buzzing—his first time actually winning.

“You won—I’m down fifty,” Reiji said with a wry smile. He’d paid out fifty thousand today to sell the fix. If the cut wasn’t good enough, he’d refuse the next round. Non-negotiable.

He didn’t do losing business. He did the other kind.

They headed to the Sailor’s Bar to wait for the courier.

Inside, Skinny went to the bathroom and didn’t come back—likely slipped off to see Grandpa.

Reiji didn’t look for him. He sat at the bar, bored, waiting for the greasy suit’s “runner.”

He didn’t wait long. The courier sat right beside him; Reiji hadn’t even noticed when a yellow envelope slid in front of him without a sound.

He glanced at the masked young man with an untouched glass of water—same as Reiji’s—and picked up the envelope. Too thin. He thumb-counted the bills—maybe twenty to thirty notes.

Two to three hundred thousand? Pocket change?

“That’s all?” he asked quietly.

“Not satisfied?” The courier’s voice had a trace of contempt.

“Doesn’t matter. We’re done,” Reiji said, and stood up to leave.

The courier panicked. He’d expected anger, an argument, and then the usual blackmail—threaten to expose the fix and force compliance.

Instead: no anger, no scene, just “we’re done” and gone.

He hurried after Reiji, blocked him outside, grabbed his shoulder, and hissed, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll expose the fix?”

“Are you deaf?” Reiji shrugged him off and vanished down the street.

The courier froze. He’d never met a partner this cocky—someone utterly unfazed by threats, even exposure.

But he cared. The floor boss had told him to keep the guy sweet—if they could keep him, money wasn’t a problem.

And now the guy wouldn’t even talk.

If he hadn’t skimmed a bit and made the payout so light, the guy might not have walked.

If the deal fell apart, he couldn’t face the boss. If someone checked the numbers and found he’d clipped the payout, he’d be in serious trouble.

Face dark, he sprinted after Reiji. He had to keep this moneymaker.

After several blocks, he cut through an alley and intercepted Reiji, hand up, gasping. Seeing Poliwhirl already out, he realized he’d been misunderstood and blurted, “Don’t be rash—we can talk. If you’re unhappy with the fee, we can negotiate.”

“Not interested,” Reiji said, walking past with Poliwhirl.

“How much do you want?” the courier said, knowing the guy was dead set on walking—and that put him in the weak seat.

“One million.” If he’d chased this far, keeping Reiji mattered. Reiji named the price accordingly.

“That’s too much—” the courier began, then shut his mouth when Reiji kept walking. He had no leverage.

“…Fine.”

“Cash,” Reiji said, turning back. The courier must have been in a corner.

“We keep working together,” the courier growled.

“Sure,” Reiji nodded. At a million a run, he could live with it.

“And for the record—you get five hundred thousand. The other five hundred is mine,” the courier said flatly. If every “million” came out of his pocket, he’d rather run. This way, he could still report a “proper” number.

“What do you mean?” Reiji frowned. He’d thought the man had skimmed seven hundred; turned out it was two.

Was he lying? Hard to say. Their relationship was already frosty; he probably wasn’t. When he said “five hundred,” his shoulders loosened—confidence returning, like he could still face his bosses even if Reiji said no.

“Interesting,” Reiji thought. The book and this crew were partners, not enforcers. They wouldn’t leap straight to violence. But this guy and his bosses? That was a hierarchy—mess up and get skinned.

With that in mind, he felt even calmer. The real money was Grandpa’s side anyway. The only thing he wouldn’t accept was a lousy “talent fee.”

If he swallowed humiliation and didn’t bark, that would be suspicious. You had to roar like a lion to fit the role.

“No more discussion. Going forward, it’s five hundred thousand. Agree and we continue. Don’t agree—take your two hundred and walk,” the courier said, spine stiffening now that he’d “fixed” the shortfall.

Complain after you get paid? Please. That’s not how the game is played. If this kid made trouble, there were quiet ways to handle it.

“Seven hundred. Hand it over,” Reiji said with a smile, gloved palm outstretched.

What schemes the courier ran, how much he skimmed—none of that mattered.

Reiji and Skinny had their own plan. Each got what they wanted. No point beefing with money.

“Seven hundred. Harmony brings wealth,” the courier said, wincing only a little. Skimming two hundred a pop over time had added up nicely.

“Pleasure doing business,” Reiji said, pocketing the cash and waving off the alley.

If the courier hadn’t shorted him first, there’d have been no conflict. Some people just can’t keep their hands to themselves.

Watching Reiji go, the courier burned the silhouette into his brain and swore to earn it back. If he got a chance, he’d take it back with interest.

He wasn’t the type to take a loss. Funny—neither was Reiji.

Poliwhirl was the headache. He’d need to plan. If he couldn’t claw it back, fine—steady work for the house mattered more.

—

Down south, Reiji picked up the custom bracers—Poliwhirl were blue; Kingler’s were white—matched to their skin colors.

He paid the balance and headed to bring Kingler home.

Back at the beach, two Kingler were resting under the stand; one was his.

“Mr. Muta, I’m here for Kingler,” Reiji called up.

“Oh, you. Your Kingler’s learned Iron Defense. Two moves left. Bring it tomorrow and I’ll teach the rest,” Muta said.

Hearing that, Reiji popped open the proficiency panel—Iron Defense was on the list. He closed it, recalled Kingler, said his goodbyes, and left the palm beach.

Muta watched him go, thinking the guy was odd—but whatever. He’d paid. Do the job that’s yours and don’t stick your nose in.

Once Reiji was gone, Pelipper dropped from the sky and shook its head: nothing unusual—Kingler had trained all afternoon.

Good. Maybe that middle-aged man wasn’t as shady as he’d imagined.

Reiji mounted Pelipper—Poliwhirl had already been recalled—and flew back to the villa.

Skinny wasn’t back yet, but Reiji didn’t wait. He cooked for the Pokémon.

Right on cue, Skinny arrived as dinner hit the table and ate with him.

“I went to pick up the bracers—the craftsman said you grabbed them,” Skinny said over dinner.

“Yeah. These blue ones are for Poliwhirl,” Reiji said, tossing him the case. “Put them on later.”

“The balance—”

“I paid it. Eight thousand, no big deal. Wash the dishes after,” Reiji waved, stood, and headed out to lie in the courtyard and look at the moon.

Skinny finished up, wiped his hands, and strapped the bracers onto Poliwhirl.

Reiji fitted Kingler’s too—inside was that mystic water droplet from the hunter, a solid Elite-tier item, plenty for Kingler right now.

After a short rest, evening training began.

No outside drills tonight. Rhyhorn’s hide was thick and it hadn’t been hurt; the full-body itch got handled by Skinny with a brush—never waste a free helper.

Poliwhirl and Kingler kept working on Protect, taking turns firing Water Gun to practice timing.

Butterfree and Slowpoke had both “acted” today, and Reiji was treating their scrapes. They’d gone down fast; a quick spray was enough.

“All set, Butterfree. We’ve got more acting tomorrow—faint quicker, take fewer hits,” Reiji said, rubbing its head.

“Bii-ee,” Butterfree nodded, snuggled into his arms, sipping sweet honey through a straw. Bliss. Warm. Safe.

While tending Slowpoke, Reiji couldn’t resist a few strokes through its soft plush fur. Not much of a fighter—an excellent pillow. Felt amazing.

With the others splashing around in the pool, Reiji lay back on a folding cot and stared at the moon. He didn’t ask how much Grandpa had made—wasn’t payday yet.

As for whether the old man and the kid would skim him? He wasn’t worried.

Skinny was already his. What did money matter? He cared about the kid’s future.

[100 Power Stones = Extra Chapter]

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep