Psychic power spread out silently like an invisible, fine spider web, accurately Lock-On to the figure still busy on the fishing boat's deck.
Through Malamar's perspective, the entire world transformed into another form.
That Triangle-eyed man was laboriously carrying a heavy box of chilled fish, cursing under his breath, likely complaining about today's heavy workload or cursing someone.
His back was taut from the exertion, sweat soaking his clothes, and his feet were stepping on the slippery deck.
Malamar's intent, like an imperceptible needle, gently pierced into the other party's mental world.
No complex commands, no forced control.
Just the simplest suggestion.
—You are very tired.
—The floor is very slippery.
—Be careful.
The Triangle-eyed man who was moving goods suddenly felt a wave of inexplicable fatigue surge into his heart; his eyelids felt heavy, and the box on his shoulder seemed to weigh several times more.
He stumbled, and his vision blurred for a moment.
He saw the wet ropes around the edge of the deck; his brain told him to avoid them, but his body seemed a beat too slow, and his left foot stepped on them uncontrollably.
"Ouch!"
The man cried out, instantly losing his balance.
He tried desperately to steady himself, his hands performing Fury Swipes in the air, but the heavy box of goods became the final straw that broke the camel's back.
His whole body fell straight toward the outside of the gunwale.
Thud!
A dull sound of Tackle.
The back of his head slammed hard against the solid steel edge of the boat; the sound wasn't loud, but it made the scalps of those nearby crawl.
Immediately after.
Splash!
The man, along with the box of fish, fell into the cold, murky seawater, kicking up only a small splash that was quickly drowned out by the noisy sounds of the harbor.
"Someone fell into the water!"
"Quick! Save him!!"
The pier instantly fell into chaos; some people jumped into the water, others went to find long poles.
In a distant corner, Ariel recalled Malamar, as if he had only done a trivial little thing.
Earlier on the boat, Ariel had already had Malamar secretly use Hypnosis on him.
As for this small lesson, he hoped the man would be more careful in his next life, remember it well, and not covet things he couldn't have.
...
Morning at Lilycove City harbor, the air was wrapped in a thick layer of dampness.
Ariel stepped on the wet bluestone road; with every step, the soles of his shoes could feel the stickiness accumulated over the years.
The pale dawn in the sky hadn't fully dispersed, and several fishing boats returning with full loads had already docked.
The roar of cranes, the chants of porters, and the fishmongers arguing until they were red in the face over a few league coins' difference in price filled the pier to the brim.
Ariel looked down at his cuffs.
Circles of white salt stains appeared on the dark fabric, traces of being soaked by waves and then dried by the wind.
His hair was as messy as a clump of withered grass, the tips stiff and covered in salt crystals.
This disheveled appearance might draw glances in the bustling center of Lilycove City, but at this moment on the pier, he was just another ordinary member of the laborers.
He didn't head toward those chain restaurants with neon signs that specialized in ripping off out-of-town tourists.
The fish in such places had passed through several hands and had long lost the essence of the seawater.
Following the Old Fisherman's guidance, Ariel turned and ducked into the alley behind the pier.
The road here was very narrow, the walls of the buildings on both sides peeling, revealing the red bricks inside.
Messy lines were tangled on the utility poles, and several Wingull perched on them, tilting their heads to stare at passersby.
Ariel stopped beside a utility pole covered with various recruitment notices and lost-and-found posters.
To the right, a huge, grayish-brown bone sign hung in mid-air.
That was the carapace of a Relicanth; the washing of time made it appear exceptionally hard. The four large characters carved on it—Longming Seafood House—had rough, even slightly crooked strokes, exuding an unrefined, rustic aura.
Ariel pushed open the wooden sliding door.
The door hinge, lacking oil, let out a dry screech.
The heat inside instantly rushed at him, a warmth mixed with the charred aroma of charcoal fire, the spiciness of ginger slices, and the fresh sweetness of bubbling Seafood Soup.
This smell was like an invisible hand, instantly grabbing Ariel's already empty stomach.
The lighting in the shop was dim, with several shiny wooden tables arranged in a scattered yet orderly fashion.
Ariel habitually chose a corner seat.
Back against the wall, facing the door—this was an instinct he had developed while surviving in the wild, allowing him to observe everyone entering and exiting immediately.
His gaze swept casually through the shop, but his relaxed back stiffened slightly at this moment.
Beside the long table in the center of the restaurant sat several burly porters.
They were shirtless, their skin tanned to a bronze color by the sea breeze, and they were shouting loudly.
And among them, an old man stood out particularly.
The old man was about sixty years old, wearing a faded gray tank top, and the apron over it was covered in black oil stains and tiny fish scales.
There were a few streaks of soot on his face, making him look like a cook who had just crawled out of a smokehouse.
He was holding a huge wooden mug, clinking it with the men beside him, malt-colored beer foam splashing onto his beard.
"I'm telling you, the Wingull migration is early this year, which means the air currents in the south are off. This year's big fish will definitely dive into the deep sea..."
The old man shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice raspy, with a grainy quality from years of erosion by the sea breeze.
He squinted, his face full of wrinkles as he laughed, looking like the most ordinary old man from the streets.
But Ariel felt as if his heart had been heavily struck by something.
That face, he was all too familiar with it.
Although it was now covered in dust and grease, and those eyes were squinted into slits, in Ariel's memory, the pressure those eyes emitted while looking down upon all living things from the back of a Salamence was enough to make any opponent's blood run cold.
One of the Elite Four, Drake.
Why would he be here?
The man who was just hunting me down is actually appearing in this tiny Seafood House?!
Ariel quickly lowered his eyelids, his fingers gently rubbing the rough tabletop.
He hadn't expected his second meeting with Drake to come so soon.
But this reunion was completely outside of his plans.
As a top combat force of the League, Drake's appearance in such a remote, hole-in-the-wall joint carried a sense of absurdity.
On second thought, the shop's name was "Dragon Roar," and looking at that Relicanth sign, it seemed reasonable again.
"Young man, what would you like to eat?"
A young man dressed as a waiter walked over, his rag wiping the table casually, leaving a few water marks.
Ariel didn't look up, his voice kept low and raspy:
"An order of Signature Smoked Fish, a bowl of Seafood Soup, and two Rice Balls."
"Coming right up! One Smoked Fish, Seafood Soup, and Rice Balls!"
The waiter called out and turned to run toward the kitchen.
Ariel glanced toward the long table out of the corner of his eye.
Drake was picking up a cooked crab, skillfully prying open the shell with his hands, while still continuously bragging to the porters.
He spoke of the storms he encountered at sea in his youth, and the fishing boats swallowed by sea monsters, leaving the surrounding people stunned.
"Old man, your bragging skills are much better than your fish-grilling skills."
A porter laughed loudly, patting Drake on the shoulder.