Pokémon: Master of the Rain Team

The third day on Kinnow Island. Light rain.

This morning, just like the drizzle, many people weren't in the best of moods.

That included Reiji. The light rain meant he couldn't go anywhere today and could only lie flat inside the tent, watching Poliwhirl and the others splash around in the woods.

The old man from the Bar wasn't feeling great either. The wall that got smashed through had finally been repaired—but now, his bar had welcomed an uninvited guest.

He had known this day would come. Things like this couldn't be avoided. Still, the new visitor was easier to handle than Reiji.

A muscular man who looked about 70–80% like the guy from last night sat down at the bar, drawing the eyes of many early drinkers. The murmurs quieted down noticeably.

Everyone had heard about what happened last night. The muscular man's younger brother had provoked a ruthless trainer, and both he and his Pokémon were critically injured in one hit. The Pokémon was even taken.

Had the old man not stepped in, the brother would've been dead.

"Old man, here's 200,000," the muscular man said as he slapped a stack of Pokédollars on the counter. "I want all his information."

"Settle the tab first. This is the bill your brother racked up," the old man replied without answering the question. He continued wiping glasses and pulled a detailed bill from under the counter—listing all the expensive drinks the younger brother had ordered.

The man glanced through the list and stared at the total: 300,000 Pokédollars.

He couldn't believe it. His eyes widened. Was his brother a bottomless pit or something? How could he have drunk that much? Still, belief didn't matter now. If he wanted information on the guy who injured his brother and took his Pokémon, he'd have to pay.

Trying to pull a stunt like Reiji—threatening the old man into giving up the info? Don't make him laugh. Not everyone was that reckless.

He glanced at the Poliwhirl behind the counter. Many unruly guests had been thrown out by that Poliwhirl—and their Pokémon, too. Clearly, it was a strong partner. And the old man didn't just have one.

Even if he fought back, the best he could hope for was a draw. And like what happened to Reiji, everyone in the bar would gang up on him. Out of respect for the old man, the drinkers would easily take sides.

These folks were useless alone, but ganging up on someone? That was their specialty.

And he wasn't carrying explosives. He wasn't planning to die here. He had too much to live for—luxury clubs, beautiful women—no way he'd throw his life away. He hadn't enjoyed enough yet.

So he didn't argue. He took out another 300,000 Pokédollars and pushed it forward.

But he didn't let go.

His sharp eyes locked onto the old man. "I want all his information. Every bit of it."

"Sure." The old man first pocketed the 200,000, then took the rest once the man let go. Only then did he start describing Reiji from the night before.

"Height between 170 to 180 centimeters. Body type unknown. He was bundled up in black, top to bottom, face covered—you couldn't see what he looked like."

"He came to get a fake ID. Name: Umihara Reiji. Age: fifteen. Probably a fake name. You know how it is—no one uses their real name for this kind of thing. If you want to find him, that alias is your only lead."

"Take a word of advice—this kid's got blood on his hands. More than one. Unless you're ready to die, don't go poking the hornet's nest."

"Thanks, Captain. I appreciate you saving my brother. I'll take it from here," he said. Then he turned and left, heading for the hospital to check on his brother.

The old man watched him go. He stuffed the 500,000 Pokédollars into his pocket, humming with satisfaction.

The 100,000 he paid to save a life? Recovered.

The wall repairs? Covered.

Another 100,000? Pure profit.

He had, of course, padded the brother's bar tab a bit—added an extra 100,000 as "compensation" for the broken tables and chairs. So really, the guy wasn't paying for nothing. That was the price of information.

But did the old man really give up anything useful? Not really.

A vague height range, all-black outfit—on the black market, that described half the crowd.

Most wild Trainers in the underground world covered their faces. Out of every hundred people, fifty wore black, and ninety were masked. How the hell was he going to find Reiji?

The name and age? Clearly fake. Even if Reiji used that ID, who said he'd show up again?

The old man also never mentioned Reiji's Pokémon—Poliwhirl and Spinarak.

There were plenty of witnesses last night. Even if the old man stayed quiet, he could ask around.

And don't bother asking when Reiji might return for the ID. What good would that do? Camp out here 24/7 just in case?

Please. No one's that stupid. Unless the old man cooperated, it was useless.

And even if he did, what kind of idiot would Reiji have to be to walk straight into a trap?

Yeah—Reiji wasn't that stupid.

If Reiji showed up openly, he'd just take back the Mankey.

But if Reiji showed up cautiously—then he'd take everything.

It wasn't hard to gauge someone's strength based on how they showed up. Just look at the old man: if you can't beat him face-to-face, sneaking around won't help.

That would tell everything he needed about the guy who beat up his brother.

The strike from last night hadn't provided enough info. But if one hit was enough to critically injure a Trainer and their Pokémon—well, his Primeape could do that, too.

Every veteran Trainer could thrash a rookie in one hit. That was the nature of the gap between rookies and seasoned Trainers.

His little brother? Definitely a rookie. That Mankey was just about to evolve. Only then would he have barely reached the veteran threshold.

He had even prepped a Machop as his brother's second Pokémon. He'd wanted to surprise him. Now all that was wrecked.

As he left, the bar began to buzz again. The drinkers, naturally, were gossiping about the two brothers.

"If you ask me, those two just messed with the wrong guy."

"I was there last night. If Captain hadn't stepped in, that kid would be dead."

"Why bother stopping him? Should've let those two tear each other apart—like dogs fighting over a bone."

"Shhh—keep your voice down. You want another beatdown? You want your stuff stolen again?"

"Hey, the real show's just beginning. Let's wait and see. Would be best if both brothers got taken out…"

"Both of them? You're not scared of that guy?"

"What for? We didn't mess with him. Just don't provoke people like that. Those brothers? They bullied everyone here. Their reputation's trash."

"True. They ran up tabs all the time. Even the old man didn't dare say anything."

"He might be a vet, but let's see if he can really get revenge."

"Stop worrying. The older brother's just a thug with a title. That guy last night? Straight-up maniac. His presence alone made my legs go weak…"

"Tch, you had two drinks too many, admit it."

"Ha! No way!"

"Thug vs. madman? Madman wins for sure. So what are we?"

"We're… drinking, drinking…"

Damn. Couldn't even finish the conversation. If even thugs can't win, then what were they? Lower than that?

At least the brothers were part of some gang. The rest of them? Wild nobodies.

…

Meanwhile, Reiji was still lazing in his tent, completely unaware of what had gone down in the bar.

The old man had sold him out for money—cleanly and without hesitation.

But even if Reiji knew, he wouldn't care. He never trusted that old man anyway.

Judging by that muscular man's strength, his backers weren't worth much either.

Anyone willing to help him probably wasn't that strong. And anyone strong enough wouldn't bother.

If the older brother had power and money, he wouldn't be hanging around bars, picking fights and being useless.

He'd be in clubs with models, showing off. Not creeping on the barmaids.

And if he were trying to climb the social ladder through the black market, he wouldn't be wasting time in bars. He'd be in the training halls.

Unless he was born noble—with servants to help him get strong just by eating and playing—it wasn't going to happen.

Who didn't want that life? Drink and party and get strong? Reiji wished it worked that way. He would've quit fighting ages ago.

But no. To get stronger, you had to grind. Suffer. Fight. And Reiji hated that crap.

He didn't want to be a grinder. He wanted to chill, fish, and do nothing.

Status, money, power, strong Pokémon—all that crap people chased—they were just byproducts of trying to lie flat.

The rain outside was the same. When it stopped, he'd move.

He didn't make his Pokémon train today. Only Poliwhirl was jogging in the rain. Krabby was lifting its claws.

Poliwhirl was still recovering. No intense training for now. Same for Rhyhorn. Reiji had used healing sprays on both in the past two days—but not today, since it was raining.

Rhyhorn was finally free to stretch its legs—but Pelipper was tailing it closely, not letting it stray too far.

Lunch was cooked in the tent. They all ate something simple and took a nap. Rhyhorn, Magikarp, and Wishiwashi were returned to their Poké Balls.

Six Pokémon remained outside: Poliwhirl, Butterfree, Pelipper, Krabby, Slowpoke, and Spinarak.

Reiji hugged Slowpoke and napped. Any Pokémon that wanted out of the rain could rest in the tent too.

With the light rain as background noise, Reiji slept soundly and didn't wake until evening.

Dinner was a rushed affair, and by then, the sky was dark. Time to head to the harbor for the appointment.

Finally, the rain had stopped.

It had drizzled all day, and aside from sleeping, he hadn't done a thing.

If only there were a big indoor training center. Once he had money, he'd rent one in the city—for rain-proof training.

He packed up his soaked tent and ground mat, slung on his backpack, and let Spinarak rest on his shoulder. Then he mounted Pelipper and flew toward the meeting spot the old man mentioned—under the streetlamp by the harbor.

He didn't know if the old man had set a trap. He'd need to scout from above.

If the old man came clean and there was no ambush, Reiji would just have a Pokémon retrieve the ID…

(End of Chapter)

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