For round two, a fat, brown, two-legged cat padded onto the stone.
Ethan and Lana perked up. A Meowth—but not just any. Galarian Meowth, Steel-type, Tough Claws, Lv. 10.
The moment it appeared, Meowth snapped into its racial party trick—Fake Out—springing like a ghost to slap Aerodactyl across the snout.
On Regis Granitehall's cue, Aerodactyl popped Tailwind, speed spiking as it carved lazy figure-eights high above, predator-circling for the punish.
Meowth planted, spun; silver bled across its fur—then it became a whirring top. Gyro Ball. Snickers rippled through the seats.
Wrong target to mock—the slower you are, the harder Gyro Ball hits. With Tough Claws on top, that was a meteor.
Just before impact, Aerodactyl flared a translucent pane—Protect—and the kill-shot bounced. Meowth dropped; the counter hit instantly. Aerodactyl dove, clamped with Fire Fang, dragged Meowth into the air where it couldn't brace, then raked with Dragon Claw until the Steel cat went limp.
Round three finally showed the Water slot Ethan had been waiting on: a Totodile with Sheer Force and Dragon Dance—great pedigree, bad package at this level. With Tailwind up, its Water Gun/Water Pulse accuracy looked cursed; one in ten found skin. Aerodactyl rode the rafters to blank the ripples, then ended it with Thunder Fang.
Ethan winced anyway. On paper Aerodactyl toyed with it because it could fly; if Houndour had to take that Totodile on the ground, it'd be a scrap.
Round four—Blitzle vs. Aerodactyl. Ethan didn't watch; with all the exam sheets basically leaked by Lincoln, he was busy running contingencies for Machop, Nosepass, Phanpy, Totodile. He whispered a plan to Lana, palmed Houndour's ball, and slipped out.
Cameras tracked him the whole way; he did nothing shady—just the restroom. When he returned, six faculty types scanned him and passed a sensor over Houndour for foreign statuses. Clean.
Lana's look said: do not be dumb. Ethan answered with his best choir-boy shrug. He wasn't about to maim his partner for one W. But that didn't mean he was above a little… optimization.
By then Aerodactyl was grounded, panting. Lana summarized: it squeaked past Blitzle—Shock Wave had made a mess of it.
No breath granted—round five hit immediately, and the school flipped a real trump: a Euro import, the "Ice Goose."
Eiscue, to be precise. And the set was nasty: Ice Face + Hail + Protect + Weather Ball (pre-taught).
Aerodactyl had no special coverage. In hail, Weather Ball (Ice) doubled and Eiscue's mask reset on loop. Aerodactyl never laid a proper hand on it; the penguin swept him, untouched. Regis became the third fail after Adrian and Julian.
"Beautiful," Lincoln clapped from above—like he didn't share a surname.
"Heh. If I can't pass that, none of you bumpkins can," Regis spat, recalling Aerodactyl.
His beef wasn't random spite. He loathed Ethan and Lana because Lincoln liked them, and he lived by bloodline theory: sky-gym pedigree above all. In his head, he was purging the circle for his brother's image.
Lana finally snapped. "Arrogant clown—pass or not, I won't lose to you. After this assessment, dare to fight me?"
"Gladly," Regis smirked. A cat? Please.
"Your turn. Educate him after I'm done," Lana muttered. "And you really didn't back me up."
Ethan scratched his neck. "He's background noise. Don't feed the stray; it just barks louder."
He didn't lower his voice. The jab carried—to the panel, too. A few eyebrows climbed. Bold, this kid.
"Pass first," Regis said, palming Aerodactyl's ball like a threat. "Then I see if your mouth cashes checks."
Ethan stepped out with Houndour.
Adrian Ashborne scoffed from the back: "Does anyone actually believe a dog does what my Charmander couldn't? No way—right?" Silence answered. Even Naomi Stormvale just blinked at him.
Heracross, tuned to auras, quietly ranked the room: 1) the plain black hound (Houndour: (/cukou ′)/~/), 2) the ancient sky-lordling, Aerodactyl, 3) the strange, sleek cat with the eerie vibe (Lana's Alolan Persian). Adrian didn't even chart.
Machop—taped up and stable—returned to center. Ethan's gauntlet began.
"Focus Energy. Bulk Up."
The proctor opened greedy, not respecting Houndour at all. One buff for crit lines, one for raw power; Machop's stance sharpened, eyes knifed thin.
Houndour stayed still. The proctor shook his head—cocky.
Lana clenched her fists. At +1 Attack with type advantage, a clean crit could paste Houndour.
"Low Sweep!"
Machop sprinted, planted, and spun—support leg a pivot, the other leg arcing for Houndour's jaw.
Houndour stared like a deer in headlights.
"Is he green enough to freeze?" Adrian sniped.
"Ethan!" Lana barked.
Two meters from impact, Ethan finally spoke.
"Toxic. Protect."
A violet glob smacked Machop between the eyes—and the pane flashed up. Protect caught the sure-kill sweep; recoil flung Machop back. Its face mottled black-purple—badly poisoned.
Jaws dropped. The classic filth package.
Toxic + Protect.
The bathroom run had been to buy one TM and slot it. It cost Ethan dearly in his own weird currency… but it would also pay Lana forward.
"Flame Vortex!"
Solar-bright fire roared; Machop didn't get clear and got swallowed. The ring spun, dizzying the fighter.
The proctor cursed himself for woolgathering and snapped, "Rollout—turtle and break out—then smash through!"
Ethan's answer was immediate. "Show them Flash Fire."
Fresh sparks fed the storm; the vortex accelerated, centrifugal forces pinning Machop's curled body even as it tucked tight and started to tumble. In the clash, everyone could see the math:
Rollout has to spin up. Flame Vortex was getting continuous fuel. Time favored the fire.
Poison ticked—steeper each turn than regular poison. Exhaustion set in. The tumble slowed… then stopped. When the fire unwound, Machop lay purple-black and still. Out.
Ethan exhaled, a sliver of guilt in his eyes, and glanced at Lana. "I'll try to end each one fast. If they keep the same Machop for you, it'll be… less whole."
Through the first five showcases, he'd worn her shoes in his head. If Alolan Persian's Hypnosis was still inconsistent, a fresh Machop could brick her entire run. So he'd chosen the ugliest line: Toxic + Burn + Fatigue—to shave her hurdle down.