The battle kicked off and Porygon's Trace flickered—copying Machop's No Guard on the spot.
Miles Cipherwright didn't shout a plan. He let the machine work.
Porygon slipstreamed to range with bursty footwork and lanced a Psybeam across the rockfield, carving a chunk out of Machop.
"No Guard confirmed. This shouldn't have suspense," Miles murmured.
He'd mapped counter-packages last night for common Fighting mons. For a three-ability-line like Machop, the "poke-at-range" template paired perfectly with No Guard.
Sitting cross-legged with a laptop on his knees, fingers clattering, green strings of data scrolled in his lenses. While he compiled, he issued clean, minimal directives:
"Porygon—maintain a ten-meter perimeter. High-speed strafe. Continuous Psybeam."
Short arms, shorter reach—Machop couldn't touch it. Veteran teacher or not, there wasn't a lever to pull into that geometry.
The second Psybeam hit; confusion procced. Machop staggered and face-planted into a jut of arena stone. Out—an aggrieved finish.
Compared to Adrian Ashborne's grind, Miles's five-minute clinic popped. Still, Ethan wasn't shocked: Level 12 Porygon, hard Psychic pressure into Fighting—any competent trainer closes that.
Machop — est. Lv.10, Ability No Guard, effective radius ≈ 5 m.Likely set: Leer / Low Kick / Focus Energy / Revenge.Inheritance/extra tutelage unknown. For your reference.
Miles snapped the laptop shut, recalled an unscathed Porygon, and deadpanned the packet. He looked like he was talking to himself, but it was clearly for Ethan and Lana.
They thanked him—genuinely grateful for the cool-outside, warm-core almost-classmate.
"Hnh. You actually think those two can win? Naive."
Regis Granitehall, silent till now, couldn't resist sneering.
Julian Ravenshade palmed Regis's mouth and shot Ethan and Lana an apologetic smile.
Miles stiffened at the noise, then only bowed his head. "Good luck. I'll be in back," he said softly, ghosting toward the rest alcove.
Everyone except the muzzled Regis nodded after him—though a few traded looks; he never raised his eyes once.
On the balcony, the panel chuckled.
"My brother's got a mischievous streak," Lincoln admitted, awkward. "Please be strict with him at school—knock the arrogance off."
Director Rowan Kingsley waved airily. "But of course."
Lincoln winced; the tone sounded exactly like a customer-service coin slot.
"This one's Professor Cipherwright's kid from Imperial University," Huang Yi added. "Good temperament, just too introverted."
The rest hummed family-notes and let it drift.
—
On the floor, Naomi Stormvale and Heracross stepped up.
First pull: Fletchling, Lv.10, Keen Eye—quad Flying damage primed.
If you ignore exotics, Fletchling's only early Flying stab is Peck. Play it right and you live.
The bird dived in a full Brave Bird instead.
Ethan whistled. Shameless school. Inherited nukes for Round Three? They truly didn't want to hand out Starter slots.
Fletchling was a meteor. Naomi's call was ice:
"Protect."
Green flare. Heracross ate the divine bird at one HP.
As Fletchling rebounded, Heracross's claws locked on. Calm eyes went feral; it spiked the bird into stone.
Inherited Reversal—the lower your HP, the higher the hurt.
One strike. Out. Thirty seconds, bell to bell.
"This girl is… kinda cracked," Lana breathed.
"Yeah—and thank goodness this isn't candidate-vs-candidate," Ethan said. Honest odds into that Heracross? Maybe forty percent. Bloodthirsty mon, sharp handler, type edge—no thanks.
But a gauntlet is a gauntlet; how long can you ride fumes?
No mercy from the proctor—round two flashed. Cyndaquil, Lv.8, Flash Fire.
Ethan recognized the squinty arsonist from yesterday—recycled as exam stock.
Naomi threaded a Swords Dance through Flame Charge, then answered with Rock Blast—five clean hits. Cyndaquil skittered off-court.
Between Moxie and Swords Dance, Heracross was already +4 Attack, aura surging.
"It's over," breathed the room.
Third pull: Abra, Magic Guard, Lv.8—the same one from the gallery.
Ethan leaned in, curious.
Abra ignored the script, Teleported to the balcony, and shut its eyes.
The proctor paled, looking up. Director Kingsley's hand flicked: Naomi cleared Psychic by default—roll Fairy.
Out came Comfey. At +5 (Abra's "win" gave another Moxie tick), Heracross lowered its horn; the lei exited stage left.
Second perfect pass: Naomi earned her Starter-Trio right.
As she lifted a ball to recall Heracross, another Abra popped from a table ball and blocked the beam—then bounced circles, chittering "ka-ka-ka."
Heracross eyed it sideways. In the wild, they're sap rivals. Why the flattery?
"Kanto rivals," Ethan mused. "But in Alola? They don't clash. Wouldn't shock me if this one learned island manners."
On the balcony, Kingsley smiled. "Good taste—the Bug King's granddaughter."
"Huang Yi, coordinate. These exam partners choose as much as test. If Abra's decided, we honor it."
Huang Yi scratched his shaved head and went to work. Under curious stares, Naomi, Heracross, and the clingy Abra followed him out to do papers.
Secret of Round Three: some exam mons were shopping for trainers.
Julian and Regis looked unsurprised. Adrian had slunk back, jealousy flaring as Naomi left with two partners. Miles didn't even glance up.
Regis snorted. Lana rolled her eyes; if Lincoln hadn't sweetened things, her temper would've popped.
Julian leaned to Ethan and Lana with an apologetic smile. "FYI, some of these exam mons are talent-scouting. Like that Abra picking our 'Bug-Catcher Girl.'"
"Julian Ravenshade—on deck!"
He took center with Honedge. Ethan leaned forward; blade-ghosts were his weakness.
Julian promptly nuked the drama: after eating two Rollouts from Phanpy, he surrendered—with Honedge still healthy enough to continue.
"Heh. I lose," he grinned, carefree. "You've got this."
He slid to the benches beside Miles.
"You see?" Regis Granitehall barked, striding out with Aerodactyl. "This exam is nothing. Only idiots lose!"
Julian just spread his hands: I tried, man.
Adrian's jaw knotted. He really shouldn't have come back to watch.
Round one for Regis: Aerodactyl vs. Nosepass.
Stealth Rock again. Rock Tomb again. And again: silver-edged Steel Wing carved the traps and meteors to gravel.
A leering Scary Face crushed Nosepass's speed; Aerodactyl flowed in—Steel Wing to crack, Dragon Claw to finish. Clinical.
Up top, Lincoln clicked his tongue and leaned to Kingsley. "Director, I sent you Aerodactyl's full dossier. Are you sure about the pairings?"
"Relax—it's just Nosepass. Let him have the appetizer. The real course is next."
Regis, mid-preen, had no idea big bro had shipped his build sheet to set up a fall.