The final dish was served.
Special "Gyarados Rolls."
It wasn't actual Gyarados meat.
Instead, it was an oversized portion of sushi rolls!
Each roll was as thick as an adult's forearm; seaweed wrapped around vinegared rice and plenty of fish, cut into thick discs and neatly arranged in a massive wooden boat-shaped food box.
The rich aroma of rice mixed with the freshness of seaweed and raw fish instantly filled the already crowded air.
The last local challenger who had been struggling to hold on—a burly fat man—turned from flushed red to deathly pale the moment he saw this "sushi boat."
His throat bobbed once; he covered his mouth, stood up abruptly, and stumbled out the door.
After a wave of good-natured laughter, the atmosphere in the entire room reached its peak.
Everyone's eyes were focused on the remaining two people.
"Drake! Drake! Go for it!"
"Take him down! Show this kid from out of town how tough we are in Lilycove City!"
The fishermen slapped their arms hard, their roars nearly lifting the roof.
Their faces glowed red from alcohol and excitement, and their eyes were full of admiration and trust for their own "Drake."
"Who is that young man? He's really holding out, actually managing to fight Uncle Drake until the very end."
"Never seen him. I heard his name is Ariel, an out-of-town Trainer, right? He looks pretty thin; you really couldn't tell he could eat this much."
Discussions flickered in and out amidst the boiling cheers.
Ariel turned a deaf ear to the surrounding clamor.
His stomach no longer felt full; it was a hard, heavy, sinking distension.
With every swallow, the food felt like it was about to overflow from his throat.
But there was no expression on his face. His movements with the chopsticks remained steady as he picked up a sushi roll as big as a fist and delivered it precisely into his mouth.
Chew, swallow.
Every movement was like a preset program, without a single redundant tremor.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Drake opposite him.
The old man was drenched in sweat, which flowed down his deep wrinkles and soaked his gray beard.
But his eyes shone with startling brightness amidst the grease and sweat.
He wasn't enjoying a meal; it was more like a struggle for dignity, with a flame of refusal to lose burning in his eyes.
Drake's way of eating could be described as wild.
He didn't use chopsticks at all, directly using his large, calloused hands to grab the sushi, swallowing a piece in two or three bites, his rough Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
Grease stained the corners of his mouth and beard. He didn't care at all, even heroically wiping his face with the back of his hand, bringing down more grease.
This wasn't eating; this was devouring, conquering.
Ariel silently calculated the limits of his body.
His physical fitness, honed through high-intensity training, far exceeded that of an ordinary person, but he was still flesh and blood, not a bottomless pit.
Stomach acid was secreting frantically, and his muscles began to send signals of protest.
He could feel that he was nearing his breaking point.
Meanwhile, Drake opposite him was like a tireless old dragon, still roaring forward.
Another plate went down.
When Ariel picked up the last plate of sushi rolls and ate about half, his movements finally showed a trace of imperceptible stagnation.
In that instant, his hand stopped mid-air.
His throat felt as if it were being throttled by an invisible hand, unable to swallow anything more.
"Roar!"
Drake opposite him caught this moment of hesitation.
He let out a hearty roar, like a general who had won a battle.
He grabbed the last piece of sushi and stuffed it roughly into his mouth, his cheeks bulging like a gluttonous hamster.
Chew, swallow.
He even picked up the nearly empty Miso Soup bowl beside him, tilting his head back to pour the last of the broth down his throat.
Thud!
The heavy wooden bowl was slammed onto the table, making a loud, dull sound.
Drake leaned back in his chair with his rounded belly and patted it hard.
"This old man... isn't old yet!"
He announced loudly, his voice resonant and full of vigor, making the entire space hum.
After a moment of silence, the entire venue erupted into thunderous cheers and applause.
"Uncle Drake won!"
"As expected of our Dragon Master!"
The fishermen crowded around, excitedly slapping Drake on the back and shoulders.
Amidst the compliments and laughter, Drake turned his head, his gaze falling on Ariel.
The young man was still sitting in his place, his face flushed red, forehead covered in fine beads of sweat, and his chest heaving violently, clearly trying his best to settle his churning stomach.
Drake grinned, stood up, and walked over to Ariel.
He reached out with his rough, large hand—which even carried a heavy fishy smell—and slapped it heavily on Ariel's shoulder.
The force was startlingly large; Ariel felt like his shoulder blade was about to be shattered.
"Good lad! Your name is Ariel, right?"
Drake's voice was full of appreciation.
"If all young people these days could eat like you, there's hope for the future of the League! Not bad, really not bad!"
Ariel endured the upheaval in his stomach and the sharp pain in his shoulder, looking up to squeeze out a somewhat shy smile; this was part of the harmless Trainer persona he had designed for himself.
"Uncle Drake is amazing; I'm still a bit lacking."
He deliberately used the local way of addressing Drake.
Drake didn't connect the blushing, panting young man before him with the Team Rockets member who had made him suffer at sea.
In his eyes, this was just a junior with a great appetite, unlimited potential, and a stubborn streak in his eyes.
"Haha! Don't call me Uncle, just call me Drake!"
Drake was in an excellent mood and said half-jokingly,
"If you ever want to go out to sea for fishing, or want to learn how to deal with those disobedient dragon-type Pokémon, you can come find this old man at the pier anytime!"
After saying that, surrounded by the crowd, he triumphantly picked up the jar of sea god festival wine that served as the prize and walked into the Seafood House, preparing to share the wine and drink with his old buddies.
"Open the wine! Today is my treat!"
The room was once again filled with a happy atmosphere.
Ariel slowly exhaled a breath of turbid air, finally suppressing that feeling of nausea.
Through this absurd competition, he had personally felt another side of this Elite Four Champion—not the pressure of a strong person, but a vigorous and resilient aura originating from life itself.
Ariel also followed into the Seafood House.
Just then, the creaking wooden door of the Seafood House was pushed open again.
Sunlight from outside poured in, outlining several figures against the light.
A few young people wearing brand-new, brightly colored hiking gear walked in.
They carried new-model hiking backpacks that looked expensive at a glance, and held professional cameras and boom poles in their hands.
The appearance of these people was out of place in the environment filled with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and fish.
They frowned, looking at the sticky tables and chairs and the noisy fishermen around them, their faces carrying an undisguised, condescending curiosity.
The young man in the lead swept his gaze across the room, finally settling on the jar of "sea god festival wine" that had just been carried into the inner room, his eyes lighting up slightly.