"Oh? Switched to a Sneasel?"
Seeing this, the opponent breathed a sigh of relief.
"It's fast, but its defenses are too frail. It can't withstand a single Thunderbolt from my Manectric! Manectric, use Quick Attack!"
Manectric transformed into a flash of yellow lightning, instantly charging towards Sneasel.
"Too slow."
Ariel softly uttered three words.
Before the words had even faded, Sneasel's figure suddenly vanished from its spot.
In the next second, it had already appeared behind Manectric, its sharp claws gleaming with a cold metallic sheen.
Metal Claw!
"Swish! Swish! Swish!"
Only a few silver afterimages remained in the air, moving so fast they were nearly impossible for the naked eye to follow.
When Sneasel reappeared, it was already back at Ariel's feet, elegantly licking its claws.
As for that Manectric, it remained frozen in its forward-charging posture. A few seconds later, several wounds simultaneously burst open on its body. With a mournful cry, it crashed heavily to the ground.
Another one-hit knockout!
But this time, the shock it delivered to the audience was completely different from Krokorok's brutal suppression.
It was the visual impact brought by extreme speed and technique!
If Krokorok was a heavy tank that smashed through everything, then Sneasel was a top-tier assassin taking enemy heads from the shadows.
The entire battle tent fell silent.
Everyone was utterly stunned by that fleeting, breathtaking attack.
Ariel recalled Sneasel and did not continue the challenge.
Going too far is as bad as not going far enough.
His performance today was already enough to attract the attention of certain people.
A newcomer possessing two Pokémon that epitomize power-type and speed-type extremes held far greater value than a single strong individual.
He turned around, preparing to leave.
Just then, a man in a black suit blocked his path.
It was the same man who had been in the corner of the second floor earlier.
"Sir, please wait."
The man wore a formulaic smile on his face, but his eyes kept appraising Ariel.
"Our boss greatly admires your strength and would like to invite you over for a chat."
Ariel glanced at him and said nothing.
The man seemed accustomed to such cold treatment and continued with a smile:
"Our boss knows that a strong individual like you probably doesn't care much for the rewards from a small place like this battle tent."
He paused, lowered his voice, his tone carrying a hint of temptation.
"If you're seeking more thrilling battles and more substantial rewards, why not come with us? That place is the true stage for the strong."
Ariel's gaze fell on an inconspicuous badge pinned to the man's chest.
It was an abstract pattern composed of flames and ore.
The fish had taken the bait.
"Lead the way."
Ariel uttered two words, his voice betraying no emotion.
The smile on the man's face widened. He made a "please" gesture and led the way ahead.
He didn't lead Ariel out the main entrance, but instead passed through a corridor marked "Staff Only" and arrived in front of a completely unremarkable freight elevator.
The elevator slowly descended, the surrounding light growing dimmer.
Ariel could clearly feel himself moving away from the noisy yet peaceful world above ground, entering a completely different realm.
The freight elevator's metal doors closed behind him with a dull thud, completely sealing off the final vestiges of noise from above.
The elevator didn't descend smoothly; accompanied by the grating sound of old machinery, it lurched downward towards the earth's core.
The surrounding air quickly grew stale. The smell of rust mixed with a faint, earthy odor drifted into Ariel's nostrils.
The guide seemed long accustomed to this. He leaned against a corner of the elevator, humming a tuneless melody out of boredom, his eyes occasionally flicking towards Ariel with an evaluative gleam.
Ariel's face was expressionless, but his mind was racing.
Fallarbor Town, this seemingly tranquil remote town, had a far more complex underground network than its surface suggested.
Massive amounts of hot money, with nowhere else to go, converged here, breeding crime.
The League's oversight was virtually nonexistent here. Team Rocket's intel was indeed correct.
Ding—
The elevator jolted violently and stopped.
The metal doors slowly slid open to the sides, and a wave of hot, sweat-laden air rushed out.
Immediately following was an ear-splitting roar and howl, as if a giant imprisoned beast was venting endless madness.
The scene before him suddenly opened up.
This was a vast space transformed from a natural cavern. Harsh lighting fixtures were embedded in the rocky ceiling above, casting a stark white light on everything below. A layer of faint blue smoke hung in the air, irritating the throat.
In the center was a huge arena enclosed by rough wire mesh, dust flying. Surrounding the arena were tiered, densely packed spectator stands.
Countless people wearing various masks crowded together, waving their arms, necks flushed, shouting and cursing in the coarsest language, turning the league coins in their hands into chips on gambling tables.
Here, there were no rules, only the most primal victories and defeats and the most naked desires.
"Registration's over there."
The guide jerked his chin towards a corner, then squeezed into the crowd on his own and disappeared.
Ariel's gaze swept across the entire area, taking in the chaotic scene.
He walked to the registration point the man had indicated—a shabby wooden table behind which a drowsy, overweight man sat.
"Name. Deposit."
The man didn't even look up, his voice slurred.
Ariel fished out a small stack of league coins from his pocket and pushed them over.
"Name?"
The man asked again.
Ariel's gaze fell on a few masks casually discarded beside the corner of the table. One was styled like a Shiftry, with a long nose and a strange, curling smirk on its mouth.
He picked up the mask and put it on. The cool touch made him feel even more alert.
"Cold Blade."
The man scrawled two characters in the register and tossed over a number tag:
"Number thirty-seven. Wait for your call."
Ariel took the number tag and turned, merging into the shadows.
He didn't go to the spectator stands. Instead, he found an inconspicuous corner, leaned against the cold rock wall, and quietly observed the battles in the arena.
The fights here were brutal, direct, even bloody. Pokémon moves were no longer for flashy performance, but to incapacitate the opponent as quickly as possible.
The Trainers' commands were also full of malice; many Pokémon bore old injuries.
In one match, under its Trainer's command, a Machoke actually hurled a rock directly at the opposing Trainer.
That person barely dodged, but their arm was still lacerated and bleeding from the flying debris.
The referee turned a blind eye to this, and the surrounding gamblers instead erupted into even more excited howls.
Attacking Trainers was tacitly permitted here.
Ariel understood.
This was precisely the stage he needed—a place where he could display his "strength" without restraint and attract the truly big fish.
"Next match! Number thirty-seven, Cold Blade, versus number forty-two, Butcher!"
A hoarse voice echoed through the arena via a poor-quality loudspeaker.
Ariel straightened up, walked through the crowd, and entered the wire-mesh-enclosed battlefield.
The sandy soil underfoot was soft, still bearing scorch marks and damp patches left from the previous fight.
Opposite him, a burly man with a fierce, scowling face also walked in.
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