Salamence had rarely seen its master lose his composure like this.
Drake paid it no mind; he simply stared fixedly at that empty stretch of ocean, his teeth grinding audibly.
This unit of Team Rockets was completely different from the ragtag groups he had wiped out in the past.
Sophisticated equipment, meticulous planning, decisive execution, and... precise calculation of the human heart.
They had correctly predicted he would come, predicted he would focus his attention on the island, and likely even calculated their escape route in advance!
Drake slowly exhaled a breath of turbid air, the white mist dissipating quickly in the cold wind.
He pulled a military-grade communicator from his breast pocket and pressed the button for an encrypted call.
The moment the signal connected, he didn't offer a single word of greeting.
"They got away."
His voice was terrifyingly calm, without a hint of emotion, but the person on the other end of the communicator could imagine the monstrous rage brewing beneath that calm surface.
"The coordinates you provided were late by a full ten minutes."
Ten minutes.
In a confrontation at the Elite Four Level, ten minutes was enough to change everything. Enough for the enemy to complete their deployment and evacuate leisurely.
"If the maggots inside the League aren't cleaned out,"
Drake paused, saying each word deliberately,
"This old man will eventually tear that office apart with his own hands."
Having said that, he didn't wait for a reply before cutting the communication.
"Let's go."
Drake patted Salamence's neck, his voice returning to its usual steadiness.
Salamence let out a resonant dragon roar and flapped its wings, kicking up a gale as its massive body rose from the ground, flying into the depths of the night sky.
Only the frozen surface of the sea remained, reflecting the cold light under the moon.
...
Meanwhile.
At a hidden reef dozens of kilometers away, the black volcanic rock had been washed smooth and sharp by the waves.
Splash!
The water's surface broke, and a figure stumbled ashore—it was Ariel.
Icy seawater dripped from his damaged combat suit, leaving a trail of dark wet spots on the black rocks.
He took off his hood, shook his soaked hair, and breathed deeply of the salty, fishy air.
Immediately after, Yuki and the remaining nine combat members also emerged from the water one after another; though they looked disheveled, their gazes remained calm.
The phantom combat suits they wore had saved everyone's lives at the critical moment, but now they had become incredibly heavy due to the water and impact.
No one spoke, there were only the sounds of staggered breathing and suppressed coughing.
Ariel didn't bother with them.
He knew these people didn't need comfort.
He just lowered his head, looking at the Poké Ball in his hand that was still shaking violently.
The red light of the Poké Ball flickered on and off, pulsing like an angry heart.
He could even feel the violent power from within the sphere's surface, attempting to break free of its constraints.
Gyarados.
Elite potential.
Ariel could clearly sense its impotent fury and its monstrous hatred toward him from within the ball.
He knew that underwater just now, if he had released it, this fellow would have 100% turned on him on the spot, tearing him to shreds, or even swimming back to Drake to "surrender."
"Heh."
A very light sneer escaped Ariel's lips.
He looked up toward the direction where Drake had disappeared; that part of the sky was now empty.
"Drake, you won this time."
He whispered to himself, his voice easily swallowed by the sound of the waves.
Yes, you won.
From a surface perspective, I lost disastrously.
Yet, there wasn't a hint of a loser's dejection on Ariel's face.
His eyes were startlingly bright; deep within those pitch-black pupils burned a flame called "ambition."
He hadn't come away from this clash empty-handed.
He had personally felt the pressure of an Elite Four Level Trainer, tested the performance limits of the phantom combat suit in extreme conditions, and more importantly...
He glanced at the team members behind him who, though disheveled, had their core combat strength intact.
He had preserved his most precious foundation.
He spun the Poké Ball of the Gyarados Leader around his fingertip once, then gripped it tightly.
"But the next time we meet..."
His voice was very low.
"It might not go the same way."
As he spoke, he returned the Poké Ball to his waist and turned his gaze toward another, even deeper stretch of dark sea.
...
The salty sea breeze carried the residual smell of gunpowder as it whipped against his face, bone-chillingly cold.
Ariel stood at the bow of a swaying small fishing boat, his clothes still clinging wetly to his skin. The sea's chill seeped in constantly, but he seemed completely oblivious.
His gaze calmly swept over his surroundings.
A dozen or so fishing boats of similar style were gathered together in this azure sea like a school of startled Magikarp, rising and falling with the waves.
The fishermen on the boats all had dark skin and faces etched with the trials of the elements, but right now they all looked somewhat panicked and lost.
"Gah— Gah—!"
Harsh cries came from overhead, so sharp they seemed to pierce the eardrums.
Large swaths of white figures circled in the air, blotting out the midday sun and casting constantly moving shadows on the sea.
They were Wingull, at least dozens of them.
These opportunists of the sea were currently staring greedily at the freshly caught harvest on the fishing boats, launching dive after dive.
"Damn it! Here they come again!"
A young fisherman waved an oar in his hand, trying to drive away a particularly bold Wingull, but it was in vain.
"Ah Hai, be careful! Don't fall in!"
An Old Fisherman at the stern shouted loudly, his voice hoarse and rough from years of erosion by the sea breeze.
By the Old Fisherman's feet, a Pikachu curled up in a tattered fishing net. Its fur was dull, and the electric sacs on its cheeks flickered on and off, as weak as a candle in the wind.
It was wrapped in crude bandages, clearly injured and unable to use Thunderbolt to drive away these natural enemies as it usually did.
The fishermen's Water-type pokémon, such as Goldeen and Chinchou, were almost defenseless against Flying-type opponents, only able to fruitlessly churn up some spray in the water.
This was their way of fishing?
Ariel felt no emotion in his heart, even finding it a bit laughable.
Relying on the electricity of a single Pikachu to maintain the ecological balance of the entire fleet—once this fragile link broke, the entire system collapsed instantly.
Truly... primitive and naive.
His boarding this fleet was purely accidental.