Within the Team Rockets, the rise of the codename "Ruth" was like a silent storm, quickly sweeping through the grassroots level.
Rumors about him had long since moved beyond the scope of mission reports, embellished into various versions.
"Have you heard? The one who led the attack on the Weather Institute last time was Ruth."
A team member who had just finished duty lowered his voice and spoke mysteriously to his companion.
"Of course I heard! My third uncle's neighbor's son's comrade-in-arms was in that squad! Word is that Lord Ruth didn't even use his pokémon; he just stood on high ground and threw down a rock."
"A rock? Are you kidding me?"
"That rock triggered a landslide that blocked the Weather Institute's escape route and crushed half of their fortifications along the way! That's called tactics!"
The man spoke with spit flying everywhere, as if he had seen it with his own eyes.
Another rumor was even more cold-blooded.
It was said that while fighting the Magma Team, in order to break through their defense line, he directly ordered recruits to trigger traps with their bodies, using their lives to clear the path for the following troops.
If a member hesitated even for a moment, he would cripple that member's pokémon on the spot, then sweep his cold gaze across everyone and ask word by word:
"Who's next?"
Of course, the most outrageous rumor was that he could punch right through a Machamp's chest.
It was hard to tell truth from fiction, but through word of mouth, these stories had shaped the name "Ruth" into an image of coldness, decisiveness, and extraordinary resourcefulness.
He became a spiritual anchor for some grassroots members in their despair, a symbol that brought victory.
He became an idol in the shadows, an existence looked up to by many members struggling at the bottom...
Mauville City Rocket Hideout, Office.
The air was filled with the bitterness of coffee and the burnt smell of printer toner.
Metal filing cabinets stood coldly against the walls, covered in various urgent labels, and the entire space was partitioned into oppressive cubicles.
Yuki, a girl with heavy dark circles under her eyes, was slumped listlessly at her workstation.
The mountains of documents on her desk were like a precarious tomb, threatening to bury her completely.
Just now, she had been mercilessly reprimanded by her department supervisor in front of everyone because of a data entry error in a report.
The supervisor's greasy face and harsh words were still swirling in her mind.
"You can't even do something this small? Are you a pig?"
"Team Rockets doesn't keep idle people. If you can't do it, get out!"
Grievance and exhaustion welled up in her heart.
She had joined the Team Rockets with a heart full of passion, thinking it was a world for the strong, filled with excitement and adventure.
But the reality was that she spent every day dealing with endless reports and data—dull, tedious, and subject to her boss's scolding.
"Sigh..."
She let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of her aching nose.
No, I can't just keep being this dejected.
Yuki slapped her cheeks hard, trying to wake herself up.
"Yuki! Come on! Perk up!"
She cheered herself on in a low voice.
In her mind, that legendary figure involuntarily surfaced.
"If it were Lord Ruth... how would he handle this?"
Perhaps he would shut that noisy supervisor up with just a single look.
Or perhaps he wouldn't even deign to waste time with such a person, turning around to silence all doubters with impeccable performance.
Thinking of this, Yuki seemed to draw a sliver of strength.
She sat up straight and picked up the erroneous report again, her gaze becoming focused.
Just then, a figure appeared outside her cubicle, casting a shadow.
"Hello."
A male voice spoke.
Yuki looked up and saw a masked man.
The mask covered most of his face, leaving only a pair of bottomless eyes that were as calm as a pool of cold water.
He wore a simple black combat suit without any extra decorations, yet he naturally exuded an aura that was completely out of place in this office.
It was a kind of... sharpness that could only be tempered by spending years wandering on the edge of life and death.
Yuki's heart skipped a beat, and she quickly stood up.
"Hello, how can I help you?"
Ariel's gaze swept over the cluttered documents on her desk without lingering. His voice was straightforward, without any emotional fluctuations:
"Where is the assessment for Intermediate Cadres?"
"Pfft—cough, cough, cough!"
The mouthful of coffee Yuki had just taken was sprayed out without suspense, splashing all over the desk.
Fortunately, she reacted quickly and turned her head in time, sparing the gentleman in front of her.
She hurriedly pulled out tissues to wipe it up while coughing earth-shatteringly.
This cup of espresso meant to refresh her was clearly no longer needed.
Just a single sentence from him made her instantly alert, even a bit lightheaded from lack of oxygen.
An Intermediate Cadre?!
Yuki finally managed to stop coughing, lifted her flushed face, and confirmed again:
"You... you mean the Intermediate Cadre assessment?"
You must be joking!
Although the person in front of her was wearing a mask, judging by his build and voice, he was definitely not old—perhaps even around her age.
To take the Intermediate Cadre assessment at this age? That was a threshold that countless grassroots personnel couldn't even touch after a lifetime of effort!
You should know that her supervisor, that middle-aged man with a receding hairline, had struggled for over a decade and was still only a junior cadre!
Ariel seemed accustomed to her reaction and only gave a slight nod.
"Can I not take the assessment now?"
His tone was still flat, with no hint of impatience, yet it made Yuki feel an invisible pressure.
"No, no, no! Of course you can!"
Yuki waved her hands hurriedly, afraid of making a fool of herself again.
"It's just... according to the regulations, I need to verify your information and permissions first."
Ariel didn't speak; he simply extended his right hand and placed it on the fingerprint scanner on the desk.
It was a hand with distinct joints and long fingers, but the web of the thumb and the knuckles were covered in thin calluses—clearly marks left by years of using weapons or high-intensity training.
On the cold glass panel, a green light beam slowly swept over his fingerprints.
"Beep—"
With a soft chime, the text on the scanner's screen changed.
[Identity: ****** (Insufficient permissions to display)]
[Codename: ****** (Insufficient permissions to display)]
[Permission Level: ****** (Insufficient permissions to display)]
[Status: Verification passed, eligible for Intermediate Cadre assessment]