While Reiji and Shun were gearing up, the underground market beneath the southeastern docks exploded into chaos.

From the start, the "pseudo-legendary auction" was bait—real bait. The Dratini existed, and it had a story behind it. But the point wasn't selling Dratini. The point was using Dratini to draw someone in.

In a room smashed to rubble, two men faced off.

One was the market's on-site boss—the man fronting the Dratini auction. He sat on the floor, too battered to stand: clearly on the losing end.

The other had green hair under a black beret, a black Rocket uniform, a big red R on his chest.

"Didn't expect Team Rocket to send you," the market boss wheezed, forcing a smile at the young man.

He'd been a Top-Tier trainer for years, yet he'd been thrashed by a kid. What a joke his life had become.

"There's a lot you didn't expect," the green-haired man sneered. "Hand over Dratini yourself, or should I fetch it?"

This was Proton—one of Team Rocket's four executives, notorious for cruelty. He'd come to seize the market. Finding a bonus Dratini? He wasn't about to be polite.

"Wait—I'll hand it over." The boss pulled out a Poké Ball and tossed it to Proton.

It sailed a little off. Proton reached—and missed. No clatter of a ball hitting the floor followed.

"You trying to play me?" Fury flashed in Proton's eyes—then the boss's crooked smile told him something was off.

"Play you? I never said that ball was for you. You think too highly of yourself. Heh."

"Bastard—" Proton lunged—then froze at a voice behind him.

"Proton. You're not slipping away this time."

"Lance? What are you doing here?" Proton whipped around. A red-haired man and a burly Dragonite stood in the doorway.

"Dragonite—Ice Punch."

Dragonite's fist bloomed frost and slammed forward. Proton vaulted back and barked at Koffing. A cloud of purple gas surged out, swallowing sightlines. In the cover, he bolted with Golbat and Koffing in tow.

Proton knew better than to trade blows with Lance. He could plot—he could backstab—but head-on? Not against that man. Live to scheme another day.

"Dragonite, clear it." Lance wasn't here to chase Proton. He was here to recover a stolen Dratini. Catching Rocket rats was never guaranteed; they were mediocre fighters but world-class runners.

Dragonite's wings blasted the poison aside. Lance dropped his hand from his mouth and strode to the fallen boss. "You're under arrest—for the theft of Dratini."

"Master Lance, I'll accept any penalty. But first—would you take a call?" The boss held up a keypad phone, utterly unruffled.

Because someone much bigger had told him to do all this—and would protect him.

"What?" Lance paused.

"Please, just take it. You'll understand." The man offered the phone.

Lance could tell the man had backing. He took the handset anyway. Maybe the market wasn't really this man's to begin with.

"This market isn't yours?"

"You jest, Master Lance. I'm just hired help. The real owner is the one calling you."

The line clicked alive. A steady, magnetic baritone filled Lance's ear.

"Master Lance, our first time speaking. Won't you come to my office?"

"Already prepared your story for Dratini?" Lance knew then this wasn't simple. Still—he was curious.

"My secretary is on her way to fetch you."

The line died. Outside the wrecked room, a woman in a black suit waited. "Master Lance, my employer is expecting you."

Lance gave the fallen boss one last look and followed the secretary out, into a chauffeured car bound for a city-center tower.

Soon they were at the tallest building in Kinnow. The elevator took them to the top floor, where the caller stood to greet him—a thinning-haired man in a sharp suit, smiling as he offered his hand.

"Master Lance—at last. No wonder you're the League's rising star among the Elite Four. Even Proton bolts at the sight of you."

One look, and Lance understood the theft and the "auction." This man had sicced the tiger on the wolves: use Lance to drive Rocket off and keep control of the underground.

He had no proof—and the man would never admit it—but the identity was obvious. The real owner of the market. The most powerful figure on this island city: the mayor, answerable to almost no one.

"Spare me the preamble," Lance said coolly.

He'd been used, and he wasn't in the mood. He didn't play palace games. He had Dragonite—and more in the den if one wasn't enough.

"Very direct. Then I'll be direct too. I'd like you to attend this year's Young Trainers Tournament."

"That's it?" Lance hadn't expected a simple invitation to a public event.

"For the trouble I've caused, I apologize. Please be our guest. I promise the honorarium will satisfy you—and I've prepared… compensation."

"Heh." Lance didn't bite. He was Elite Four—and heir to the Dragon Clan. He didn't lack trinkets.

"Please look, Master Lance." The secretary offered a folder.

Lance didn't take it; he glanced. It was generous—even by his standards. For the League, irresistible: leverage to extend their reach deeper into the Orange Archipelago.

That region had a single Chief Trainer—no Champion, no Elite Four, no even-named reserves.

"A big move," Lance sighed inwardly at the mayor's audacity. Sacrifice others' interests to protect his own, and drag the League in to drive Rocket out. It was open strategy, and still hard to refuse.

"When's the opening?" Lance asked at last.

Acceptance, plain and simple. He'd weighed it: the man's terms were too useful to the League to dismiss.

"Tomorrow. The TV crews are ready," the mayor said, lifting two glasses of red wine—one for Lance, one for himself.

"I don't drink. Arrange a room—I need rest."

"My fault." The mayor set the glass down, smiling through the misstep. "See to Master Lance," he told the secretary. "Whatever he requires."

"Thank you," Lance said, and left with the secretary.

Once they were gone, another secretary entered—the one who handled the underground market.

"Damages?" the mayor asked.

"Cosmetic, sir. Some buildings need repair, but everything's salvageable."

"And the Team Rocket?"

"Pulled out completely. They even cleared their safehouses. Unlikely to return."

"Still—tighten security. Hire more. If they counterattack, I want us ready."

He paused. "What about Uncle Yun?"

"Minor injuries. One partner Pokémon fell holding off Proton. Elsewhere, security took heavy losses. Many Pokémon down."

"In clashes, there are casualties," the mayor said quietly. "Compensate them. Let them each choose a Pokémon—or take a high-grade evolution stone."

"Sir… everyone's been hoarding high-grade stones lately. We secured thirty percent. Other factions, thirty. Team Rocket, forty—they carted theirs off."

"No matter. As long as we keep the market, we can get more stones." He waved it away. Team Rocket was a nuisance. Worse, they had talent—strong trainers. Where did they find them all? His own clan's youngsters were useless—good at wine and nightlife, cowards with Pokémon despite all the resources he'd poured in.

Without Lance, they might have lost the market tonight. Money was a small price.

"Sir, an Officer Jenny is tracing a stream of funds. She's already dug up a nest of rats at City Hall and seized illicit gains—the city budget just swelled."

"Keep an eye on it. Don't interfere." He flicked his fingers. "Let her clean out the leeches. If there's nothing else, handle the market."

Alone again, he kneaded his temples.

Team Rocket. The market. Kinnow City. Officer Jenny. The clubs, their league, the Fighting Tournament, the Young Trainers event—so many threads.

But the worst of it was over. The rats had scattered. The rest was cleanup.

Anyone who jumped would be made an example. He'd already slaughtered one chicken tonight; the coop would quiet. If Team Rocket could only flee, who else would dare dance?

He'd used Lance—but he'd also fastened himself to the Dragon Clan's banner, to the League's most talked-about Elite Four. Tomorrow, with Lance on stage, the message would go out—whatever people chose to read into it. He wouldn't say a word. He didn't have to. He'd wear the tiger skin and let the League be dragged into the water willingly.

City Hall's parasites? He'd wanted them gone anyway. Now Jenny was doing it for him. Three birds, one stone: the market secured, Lance courted, the rot cut out.

Tonight, at last, he could sleep.

…

On the little dune in the west, Reiji had no idea the mastermind was Kinnow's mayor. The mayor had planned all of it—even penciling Lance into the equation. He'd ordered the Dratini stolen the moment he sensed Team Rocket aiming for the market, and used it to lure Lance into driving them out.

As for Officer Jenny, that was an easy side play. The underlings had overreached; Jenny would have smelled it soon anyway. Better to steer that anger.

The mayor didn't know another truth, either: a bit-player had kicked off the cleanup wave—and landed right inside his plan. It didn't matter who tripped the wire; only that the mine went off. The hate would be aimed elsewhere, not at him.

So the bit-player was swept into the storm, made a small lever by a giant hand.

And it wasn't just that one: the orphanage, the tavern old man, the clubs, the breeders, the market, the department store, the Pokémon Center, Officer Jenny, and half the city—everyone was caught in the net, more or less.

What a grand game indeed.

[End of Chapter]

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