Reiji woke on the folding cot, glanced at his watch, and realized it was already past seven—the sun was up and the clouds had cleared.

The tournament was one day away; it would start tomorrow. There wasn’t much to prep, so life went on as usual.

While he was making breakfast, Skinny got up too—he’d slept in the living room last night.

After they ate, everyone started morning training. One thing was different from usual, though: Chubbs never showed up; they didn’t see him the entire morning.

After lunch and a short break, Reiji and Skinny headed out to run today’s “fixed” matches—the last day they planned to do this.

Once today was done, Reiji wasn’t going to keep at it. With the tournament about to begin, these arrangements would be hard to juggle anyway. When the league kicked off it would draw big crowds, and most people would bet on the official contestants instead of some street-side scuffles. There’d even be a concurrent Fighting Tournament—who’d bother with random curb bouts then?

Before any of that, he stopped by Coconut Palm Beach to hand Kingler over to the lifeguard Muta, and left Pelipper to watch over it.

Only then did he and Skinny take a cab to the battle arena. This time he didn’t wait at the bar—someone brushed past him the moment he arrived and slipped a note into his pocket.

He found a quiet corner, unfolded the paper, and saw that today’s script was two wins up front. The plan was obvious: let him take two in a row to lull the bettors, then jack the odds and make them cough everything back up at the end.

He destroyed the note, patted Skinny’s shoulder, and gave him a look: showtime.

“Let’s go, Skinny. Three matches—this’ll be quick,” Reiji said, then stepped onto the field.

The moment he appeared, nearby trainers started buzzing and arguing over who’d challenge first. Fighting Reiji meant you got both the choice to go second and the opening move—huge advantages—but most challengers still ended up losing more than they won. Frustrating, to say the least.

A challenger stepped up and the match began. On Skinny’s side, the synchronized betting routine kicked in.

Three bouts later, it was done. Reiji made no mistakes: he won the ones he was supposed to win and lost the one he was supposed to lose. This was the final day anyway—these fixes were thankless work.

With the day’s script finished—four days total—he planned to wait with Skinny at the bar to collect the payment, then head back to train his team. It was barely past three; plenty of daylight left, and it’d be a shame not to use it.

Before long, the same masked courier slid onto a barstool and pushed an envelope over. Unlike the past few days, Reiji spoke up before the man could leave.

“The club tournament starts tomorrow. Our deal’s over,” he said, pocketed the envelope, and left with Skinny.

The masked man didn’t stop them. He leaned against the counter, watched them disappear around the corner, then went outside and motioned to a subordinate waiting by the door. When the man trotted over, the courier whispered a few words in his ear. The subordinate nodded, turned, and went back into the bar.

The courier himself walked off. Inside, his subordinate quickly picked out three drunk regulars. The three clearly knew him. He leaned in to the ringleader’s ear and murmured—passing along everything the courier had instructed.

“Bastard—you sure you’re not playing me?” the drunk snapped.

“Bo’er, we’ve known each other for years. Why would I lie to you?”

“Then why didn’t you warn me earlier if you knew it was a setup?” the drunk barked, anger flaring immediately at the nearest target.

The man gave a thin smile. “Didn’t I? Ever listen to me? How many times have you told me to mind my own business…?”

“Uh…” The drunk’s bluster faltered. He vaguely remembered being warned and ignoring it. His face reddened—part liquor, part shame.

The subordinate, seeing him go quiet, produced a photo: Reiji, face hidden, counting money after opening an envelope. Someone had snapped it days ago.

“That son of a dog—he conned us.” The drunk sobered halfway in an instant. The bottle slipped from his hand and thumped to the floor as he grabbed for the photo.

They were gamblers on tilt now—any spark would set them off. The other two drunks staggered to their feet. With the man fanning the flames, the trio worked themselves into a fury.

Liquid courage did the rest. They swore they’d find Reiji and make him pay for “rigging matches” and costing them a fortune.

The subordinate, seeing them good and riled, handed over a map marked with the villa Reiji rented. He’d been tailing Reiji for days; he already had the address. The drunk leader snatched it and stormed out with his buddies.

People watched the three weave to their car, wondering if Officer Jenny would snag them before they got anywhere.

Up in a second-floor private room, the old man at the Sailors’ Bar had seen everything. He scribbled a few words on a slip, tucked it into a Pelipper’s beak—his own Pokémon, used for errands—and told it to find Skinny along the road to the villa in the west district. With luck the warning would arrive before the drunks did.

He’d moved fast because he’d seen a bottle smash downstairs and thought trouble was about to spill over. Then his binoculars had caught the photo—he recognized the masked figure: Reiji.

Skinny was with Reiji right now. He had to warn them.

He wasn’t worried they couldn’t handle three drunks—far from it—but a heads-up beats being caught flat-footed. He kept tabs on his patrons; knowing who’s who is how you stay the local boss. These three weren’t anyone special—just small-time rich punks who harassed his waitresses. With Reiji there, and Skinny not exactly green to real fights, he figured the two could mop them up.

What he couldn’t figure was why the book’s man wanted to provoke Reiji. If it was just about Reiji ending the arrangement, this was overkill—picking a fight with a strong trainer you might need later wasn’t smart.

The truth was simpler: the courier wanted revenge over fifty grand, and planned to use someone else’s fists to do it.

The old man didn’t know that, so he guessed it was a personal move. He recognized the lackey stirring up the drunks—one of the courier’s runners—but not the masked payer himself. He’d dig into that and hand the name to Reiji later; let Reiji decide how to handle it.

He gave a few orders to his own people; he’d operated here long enough to have capable hands.

Downstairs, the runner waited until the three drunks had left in their car, then picked the photo up off the floor. He glanced around—no one was paying attention; everyone was drinking—and slipped out.

He never noticed the sly eyes upstairs watching his every move from start to finish.

…

Reiji and Skinny didn’t cab straight back to the villa. The fridge was almost empty that morning; they’d planned to hit a supermarket first, then grab a ride home.

Pelipper found them first.

“Pelii!” Pelipper dropped into a glide and landed in front of Skinny, spitting out the slip from its beak.

“What’s this?” Reiji eyed the bird’s blue neck scarf—a trainer’s Pokémon, clearly—but why block the way?

“Don’t worry, big bro Reiji—that’s my grandpa’s Pelipper,” Skinny said; the old man’s bird always wore a blue scarf.

Skinny picked the note off its tongue, patted Pelipper, and the bird took off again. He unfolded the paper: someone at the book was “killing with a borrowed knife,” had riled up three drunks to come after them—probably over the fixed matches. Be careful.

“Look,” Skinny said. His face tightened as he handed it over, a shadow in his eyes. Had the fixing been exposed?

Reiji scanned the slip. It even listed the three drunks’ identities, strength, and their Pokémon.

They all ran Grass- or Bug-types. Reiji tore the paper and dropped it in a trash can.

He wasn’t rattled the way Skinny was. If the old man had already dug up their details, they were small fry—nothing to worry about. The grocery run would have to wait; better to clear this up first.

More importantly, the courier broke his word.. If that’s how he wanted to play, Reiji would settle it properly.

We could’ve split clean and made money peacefully, he thought. You just had to get clever—borrow someone else’s knife. Fine. I’ll show you how sharp mine is.

“Easy. With me,” Reiji said, steadying Skinny—his first time in this kind of mess—and headed toward the villa.

The note said the drunks had their address. They’d be lying in wait. No need to rush; walking would do.

They’d barely gone two blocks when a black sedan started tailing them, so obvious even Skinny noticed.

When Reiji and Skinny stopped, the car doors opened. All three men got out, swaggering and angry, and strode over.

Skinny tensed—three-on-two, and the vibes were bad. He glanced up, asking Reiji what to do.

Reiji didn’t even look back. He flagged a cab, shoved Skinny inside, got in after him, and told the driver: “Port.”

He’d changed his mind the moment he saw them. The villa wasn’t the place. The port was.

Skinny started to ask something; Reiji only lifted a finger to his lips. Wait till they got there.

Seeing their prey “run,” the drunks raged harder and piled into their car to give chase. They weren’t thinking clearly; the booze still muddied their heads.

At the port, Reiji and Skinny hopped out and slipped into a dim alley. Only then did the trio realize something was wrong. Why had they followed them here?

Too late. The alley had two mouths—one blocked by Reiji, the other by Skinny. No way out.

It was still late afternoon, but the port’s alleys were deep and narrow; sunlight didn’t reach here. Reiji had chosen one shaded by tall buildings. If these three walked out of this alive, that would be because he’d gone easy. Would he?

“S-sorry! Big misunderstanding—just a misunderstanding,” the drunks babbled, suddenly sober now that they felt the noose tighten.

They remembered Reiji’s matches. He wasn’t someone the three of them could afford to cross. Forget Poliwhirl—either Kingler or Rhyhorn could fold them.

Cold sweat slicked their backs.

Reiji didn’t bother arguing “misunderstanding.” He flicked two fingers. Poliwhirl sprang forward.

“Damn it—go all in!” the leader barked, finally realizing he’d been used as someone else’s knife.

Regret was useless now. All three tossed their Poké Balls. The leader had three: Beedrill, Weepinbell, and a Pinsir.

As he released them, he shouted to his two lackeys, “You stall him! I’ll take the weak one—break a path and we run for it—”

[100 Power Stones = Extra Chapter]

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