Chapter 13: Jaxon vs Ignis Krowe—Part 1 The Merch Incident
Ignis Krowe did not believe in mornings. He believed in fire, in ash, in the rush of battle and the weight of victory—but mornings? Those were for weaklings and accountants. Which is why it was already noon when he finally dragged himself to the long obsidian dining table of the Krowe estate, still shirtless, scars on full display, hair a smoldering mess.
The smell of spiced curry drifted through the vaulted chamber, thick enough to burn the nose if you weren't used to it. His sisters had already started without him, their laughter bouncing off blackstone walls carved with flame motifs that had been in the family for six generations.
Ignis grabbed a plate. Loaded it with rice and curry that could strip paint. Sat down heavily in his usual chair, the one with the high back that made him look like some kind of warlord even when he was hungover.
And then he saw her.
Pheobe.
His younger sister. House Krowe's Fire Princess. The girl who was supposed to represent their family with dignity, grace, and the kind of untouchable nobility that made lesser houses bow their heads in respect.
She was wearing that.
Ignis's hand froze halfway to his mouth, curry dripping from his spoon back onto his plate in slow, thick drops.
A hoodie. Not just any hoodie.
Across the front, in bold neon letters that seemed to glow with their own offensive light, it screamed:
"TEAM MERCER – NO BRAKES, ONLY FLAMES!"
But that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was the image.
Printed across her chest—her chest, for fuck's sake—was Jaxon Ryder Mercer himself. Shirtless. Grinning like he owned the world. Winking at the viewer with a finger gun aimed directly at whoever was stupid enough to look. His abs were so detailed in the print they practically glistened, each muscle rendered with the kind of care usually reserved for religious iconography.
Ignis's eye twitched.
Pheobe didn't even look up. She sipped her soda through a ridiculous cherry-red straw, the carbonation fizzing like tiny flames in the silence. Her molten red-orange hair caught the sunlight streaming through the high windows, making her look like some kind of divine messenger sent specifically to ruin his day.
Finally, she tilted her head just enough to acknowledge his existence.
"Morning, brother," she said sweetly.
Ignis's spoon clattered to his plate.
"What," he said slowly, voice cold as ice over a roaring fire, "are you wearing?"
Pheobe glanced down at her hoodie like she'd forgotten what she had on. "Oh, this?" She tugged at the fabric, making Jaxon's printed abs ripple. "Merch."
"Whose merch?"
Her lips curved into the faintest, most infuriating smile. "Jaxon Ryder Mercer's."
The room froze.
Even the house staff—trained to show no reaction to anything short of an actual assassination attempt—hesitated mid-step, trays wobbling in their hands. One of his other sisters choked on her tea. Another set down her fork very, very carefully.
Ignis's scarred hand slammed down against the table with enough force to rattle the silverware and make bowls jump. His voice thundered like an erupting volcano.
"You mean to tell me... my opponent—who is thirty days late for his appointed duel, mind you—has already infected my own bloodline with this... carnival of mockery?!"
He could taste bile in his throat. Not just bile—humiliation.
It was bad enough that bastard had spent the last thirty days holed up in his gaudy hotel—a hotel that looked like it was dragged straight out of a foreign paradise and planted in their city, built in a week—indulging in carnal marathons with his two impossibly attractive girlfriends. The whole neighborhood had heard it. The noises that drifted across the night like obscene war chants, the music, the laughter, the rhythmic thumping that seemed to shake the very foundations of reality.
Everyone whispered about it. Some whispered in envy. Some whispered in awe. Some whispered that Jaxon Ryder Mercer was either the greatest lover in the region or a man with a death wish.
Ignis was fairly certain it was both.
Thirty days. Thirty. Nonstop. From sunset to sunrise, sunrise to sunset. If Ignis hadn't been seething with rage, he might have been impressed. The bastard's stamina bordered on divine. If the duel ever happened, he might die simply from exhaustion before a single strike was traded.
And Pheobe? She just shrugged like it was all perfectly normal.
"Don't be mad," she said, spearing a chunk of curried lamb with her fork. "He's... inspiring."
"Inspiring?" Ignis barked. His voice shook the chandelier, rattling crystal against crystal. "The man is a clown in gravity weights! A bard who thinks he's a warlord! A—"
"—a genius," Pheobe cut in, lips tugging into a smirk.
She lifted her holo-bracelet, tapping it with a painted nail. A projection flickered to life above her wrist: Jaxon Ryder Mercer, mid-spar, shirtless, grinning like a devil at the camera while sweat dripped from his jawline in slow motion. The words LIVE STREAM REPLAY – VIP ACCESS glowed in the corner.
Ignis felt his scars burn anew. Not from memory. Not from battle.
From humiliation.
His enemy wasn't even in the room, and yet somehow he was winning. Winning without a blade drawn, without a strike traded. Worming his way into the Krowe household through sheer audacity, charisma, and shameless sex appeal.
And worst of all?
Pheobe was leaning into it.
"Why," Ignis said through gritted teeth, "do you even like this bast—"
But Pheobe tapped her bracelet again, cutting him off.
Music spilled into the dining hall.
A smooth, sugary voice. Catchy beat. Too polished, too clean. The kind of song that wrapped itself around your brain and refused to let go, the kind of earworm that would haunt you in the shower for weeks.
Pheobe swayed her shoulders lightly, her lips mouthing the words like she had sung them a thousand times in her bedroom mirror. Her eyes—half-lidded, dreamy—never left the projection of Jaxon.
Ignis's jaw went slack.
He couldn't even hear the lyrics clearly over the pounding of his own blood, but the melody was enough. Upbeat. Confident. Annoyingly infectious. He felt a vein in his forehead throb dangerously.
The staff froze again, horrified but wisely silent.
Ignis's hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The chandelier above groaned as the temperature in the hall began to rise, flames licking at the sconces on the wall, the air shimmering with heat.
Pheobe giggled. Actually giggled. Then, mercifully, she tapped the bracelet again and cut the music off mid-verse.
The silence that followed was deafening.
She licked a drop of soda from her straw, then finally met her brother's murderous glare head-on.
"What?" she said innocently. "He's catchy."
Ignis stared at her. At the hoodie. At the smirk. At the hologram still lingering faintly in the air, Jaxon's frozen grin mocking him from beyond the projection.
He knew in that moment:
It was no longer just about honor.
No longer about reputation.
When Jaxon Ryder Mercer finally stepped into the arena, Ignis would have to burn brighter, hotter, louder than ever before.
Not just for victory. Not just for vengeance.
But to incinerate that smug grin off his sister's hoodie forever.
The Stadium Effect
The Krowe Fire Gym was a fortress carved from volcanic stone, a monument to flame and fury that had stood for three generations. Magma vents lined the arena floor, hissing with superheated air. The stands rose in steep tiers, packed with spectators who had waited weeks for this moment.
Ignis stood at his platform, arms crossed, cybernetic gauntlet gleaming under the arena lights. His jaw was set. His eyes were cold.
And then the doors opened.
The noise hit like a physical force.
"GO JAXON!"
The female section of the crowd detonated.
"GO JAXON GO!!"
Marceline's voice cut through first, sharp and electric, her entire body leaning over the railing as she screamed without restraint. Her usual composure—the cold, calculating demeanor she wore like armor—was completely shattered in favor of raw, unfiltered hype.
Bonnie followed immediately, somehow louder, somehow more chaotic, practically bouncing in place as she waved both arms like she was trying to summon a storm. Her enthusiasm was infectious, spreading through the crowd like wildfire.
And then came the rest.
Dozens of female voices, then hundreds, rising into a deafening chorus that shook the gym harder than any Rock Slide ever could. Their cheers were filled with excitement, admiration, and something far more dangerous that made Ignis's jaw tighten.
He scanned the crowd, trying to assess the damage.
And then he saw her.
Pheobe.
Right there in the front row.
Dressed in a full cheer outfit that matched Marceline and Bonnie almost perfectly, colors screaming Team Mercer branding, her pom-poms raised high as she shouted Jaxon's name with zero hesitation and even less shame.
Something inside Ignis snapped.
A vein pulsed violently in his temple. His cybernetic gauntlet tightened with a low hiss as heat vents flared in response to his rising anger, steam curling from the joints.
Jaxon Ryder Mercer walked onto the field like he owned it.
No hesitation. No nervousness. Just easy confidence, the kind that came from someone who had already won in his head before the first Poké Ball was thrown.
He wore a sleeveless combat fit—dark, fitted, just loose enough to move, just tight enough to show muscle. Weighted gear hung openly on his wrists and ankles, unashamed, like it was part of his skin rather than a handicap. His locs were styled in a clean comb-over that somehow looked both tactical and effortlessly cool.
Ignis hated it.
Hated how functional it was. How good it looked. How the crowd ate it up.
Jaxon grinned when he heard the cheers, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a casual spar rather than a Gym battle that could define his entire journey.
"Guess I made it in time," he said lightly, his voice carrying across the arena with surprising ease. "Sorry about the delay."
Ignis exhaled through his nose, heat bleeding from the vents along his gauntlet.
Thirty days late.
Already worshipped.
Already entrenched.
Already turning his arena into a stage.
"Battle rules are simple," Ignis said, voice now steady, controlled, deadly. "Three Pokémon versus six. No substitutions. You win, you get your badge."
A pause.
"And if you lose..." His lips curled slightly. "...you leave with a lesson."
Jaxon's grin widened.
"Sounds fair."
The referee stepped forward, flag raised high.
"Battle—START!"
The Battle: Seraphine vs Charmander
Ignis moved first.
His hand snapped to his belt, fingers closing around a Poké Ball with practiced precision. The throw was sharp, aggressive, the ball spinning through superheated air before bursting open in a flash of crimson light.
"Charmander! Burn it down!"
The Fire-type landed with surprising weight, claws digging into heated basalt as flames flickered along its tail—not small, not weak, but dense and aggressive. This wasn't some entry-level starter. This was a high-level Charmander, trained to the peak of its evolutionary stage, muscles coiled with power, eyes sharp with battle experience.
The crowd roared.
Jaxon didn't react immediately. He just stood there, hand resting casually on his belt, watching Charmander settle into its stance.
Then he smiled.
"Seraphine," he said quietly. "You're up."
The Poké Ball opened mid-throw, light cascading outward in a brilliant flash—
And the arena changed.
Seraphine materialized in midair, her crystalline body catching the glow of magma vents and scattering it into a thousand dancing fragments of light. She was a shiny Carbink, but not like any Carbink Ignis had ever seen. Her facets were deeper, sharper, polished to an impossible gleam. She hovered with perfect stillness, her presence shifting the battlefield's atmosphere from oppressive heat to something strangely calm, almost regal.
The crowd gasped.
Even Ignis felt it—the wrongness. The weight of her.
Carbink were defensive tanks, sure, but they were slow. Predictable. Easy to overwhelm with sustained aggression.
This one felt different.
"Tch." Ignis clicked his tongue. "Starting with the rock."
He didn't waste time.
"Charmander—Flamethrower!"
The Fire-type inhaled sharply, chest expanding as flames gathered in its throat, then erupted forward in a roaring column of fire that turned the air itself into a shimmering haze. The heat was immediate, oppressive, the kind of attack that could melt steel if given enough time.
Seraphine didn't move.
Not until Marceline's voice cut from the stands—
"Show him."
Jaxon's voice followed, calm and clear.
"Light Screen."
The battlefield shimmered.
A translucent blue barrier snapped into place around Seraphine, light bending across its surface like heat haze. The Flamethrower crashed against it in a violent explosion of sparks and flame, fire spreading outward in a wave that washed over the barrier but couldn't penetrate.
The flames dispersed.
Seraphine hovered in place, completely unbothered.
Ignis narrowed his eyes. "Again! Don't let up!"
Charmander lunged forward, claws glowing with sharpened steel energy as it closed the distance, aiming to break through the defensive setup with raw aggression. Metal Claw gleamed under the arena lights, each strike capable of tearing through rock with ease.
"Reflect," Jaxon said.
Another barrier materialized, this one shimmering pink, layering over the Light Screen in a double-wall defense that turned Seraphine into a floating fortress.
Charmander's Metal Claw struck the barrier.
Clang.
The sound rang out like a bell, the impact reverberating through the arena. Charmander's claws skidded off the surface, unable to find purchase, unable to break through.
The Fire-type snarled, frustration bleeding into its movements.
Ignis's gauntlet hissed, vents flaring. "Back off! Create distance!"
But Jaxon was already moving.
"Stealth Rock."
Seraphine's body pulsed with energy, a deep thrumming that resonated through the battlefield. The ground responded.
Jagged shards of glowing stone erupted from the basalt in a wide, calculated spread—not small pebbles, not minor obstacles, but massive crystalline spikes the size of teenagers, each one hovering midair before locking into invisible positions across the arena.
They didn't just sit there.
They orbited.
Slowly at first, then faster, creating a deadly network of floating mines that reshaped the entire battlefield. Each shard glowed with internal light, pulsing in rhythm with Seraphine's core, connected by threads of energy invisible to the naked eye but undeniably present.
The crowd went silent.
Even the referee blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer scale of the move.
Ignis stared.
"What the fuck..." he muttered under his breath.
This wasn't normal. Stealth Rock was a hazard move, sure, but this level of control—this precision—was far beyond what a Carbink should be capable of at this stage. Each shard was positioned with tactical intent, creating chokepoints, blocking sightlines, forcing movement into predictable patterns.
It was a trap network.
And Charmander was standing right in the middle of it.
"Move!" Ignis barked. "Get out of there!"
Charmander darted left—
—and one of the shards shifted, clipping its flank.
The Fire-type hissed in pain, stumbling slightly as the impact threw off its momentum. It pivoted right, trying to find an opening—
—another shard struck, this one catching its shoulder.
Then another.
Then another.
Each hit was small, precise, chipping away at Charmander's stamina and forcing it into a defensive crouch. The Fire-type's tail flame flickered, its breathing growing heavier.
In the stands, Bonnie screamed.
"OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT?!"
Marceline leaned forward, eyes sharp, predatory. "That's my rock," she purred. "Break him."
Ignis's jaw clenched.
He wasn't losing. Not like this. Not to a fucking Carbink.
His hand moved to his gauntlet, fingers dancing across the interface. The device hummed to life, channeling a pulse of aura directly into Charmander's frame.
The Fire-type's body glowed.
Its muscles swelled. Its flames burned hotter. Its eyes sharpened with renewed focus.
Attack +1.
Normally, that level of interference was restricted to higher-tier challengers. But Ignis had already decided this wasn't a normal match—and if he let that Carbink continue setting the field, this would spiral out of control fast.
"Charmander—full aggression! Metal Claw, don't stop!"
The Fire-type exploded forward, claws glowing white-hot as it tore through the Stealth Rock network with reckless abandon. Shards struck its body, but it didn't care. It pushed through the pain, through the impacts, closing the distance to Seraphine with single-minded fury.
Jaxon watched calmly.
"Gyro Ball."
Seraphine spun.
Not slowly. Not cautiously.
She rotated fast, her crystalline body humming as she kicked up a spiraling storm of sand, glittering dust, and fractured stone that twisted around her like a living cyclone.
Charmander lunged—
—and collided head-on with the spinning mass.
The impact cracked like thunder.
Metal Claw met rotational force, steel against stone, momentum against mass. For a split second the two forces held, locked in place, energy crackling between them—
—before the imbalance became obvious.
Charmander wasn't just hitting a Carbink.
It was trying to claw through a mountain.
The Gyro Ball didn't just deflect the attack. It crushed it, the sheer rotational energy overwhelming Charmander's boosted strength and sending the Fire-type flying backward across the arena.
Charmander hit the ground hard, claws carving sparks into the basalt as it skidded to a stop. Its breathing was ragged now, its stance less confident, its tail flame flickering dangerously low.
The crowd erupted.
Pheobe was on her feet, screaming Jaxon's name. Marceline's grin was sharp enough to cut glass. Bonnie looked like she might pass out from sheer excitement.
Ignis exhaled slowly, heat rolling off his body in waves.
He stared at Seraphine, still hovering calmly in the center of the arena, surrounded by her network of Stealth Rocks, completely untouched.
And for the first time since the battle started, Ignis felt something he hadn't felt in years.
Uncertainty.
This wasn't a rookie challenger.
This was something else entirely.