One of my earliest memories is of my grandfather picking me up from nursery school. He knelt down, pulled me into a hug, and started to cry. I didn’t understand. I was too young.

  So I patted his back and whispered, “There, there.”

  That was the day my parents died.

  They were caught in a city-wide incident—killed by the aftermath of recklessness disguised as heroism. A group of teenage trainers had spotted a known terrorist walking through town. Rather than reporting it, they tried to take him down themselves. They assumed, foolishly, that he’d hold back with civilians nearby.

  They were wrong.

  According to Grandpa, “Those damn kids thought they’d get famous. Thought they’d be legends. Instead, they caused a bloodbath.” Thirty-four people died that day. One of the trainers. The terrorist. And thirty-two innocent civilians. My parents were two of them.

  The surviving trainers were condemned by the media. The League swore swift justice. But their families were powerful—wealthy enough to drag things through court for years. In the end, they paid a fine. A large one, sure, but still just money. They bought their way out of accountability.

  Our family received compensation too. Blood money. That was the day I saw Grandpa truly angry for the first time.

  But he took it.

  I didn’t understand why—not then.

  We weren’t wealthy. Grandpa ran a small ramen shop in Slateport. We had enough to eat, a roof over our heads, and little else. Still, I never felt poor. Grandpa gave me everything he could, and all of it came with love.

  When I turned ten, he sat me down and told me a story.

  “I had a journey once,” he said. “Didn’t last long. I saw too many kids get hurt—some didn’t make it past Mauville. I came home, opened the shop, met your grandma. No regrets.”

  Then he pulled out a Pokéball.

  “My partner wanted more. So I passed him on to a friend. This here—this is his kid.”

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  That’s how I met Kit, a bright-eyed Electrike with a stubborn streak and a big heart.

  That same year, I decided I wanted to apply to the Pokémon Battle Academy. The most prestigious school for trainers in the world—only a hundred students accepted each year. It wasn’t a dream. It was a goal. One I intended to reach with hard work.

  I trained every day with Kit. When the application season came, I passed the written exam with a perfect score. The second test was… strange. I don’t remember much—just that there were Pokémon in the room and some kind of illusion. I walked out with tears in my eyes and a deep ache in my chest.

  They said I passed.

  I was ready to celebrate.

  Then I got the call.

  Grandpa had collapsed. He was in the hospital. The doctors told me he’d been sick for years, but stayed alive through sheer willpower—because he didn’t want to leave me alone.

  I never got to say goodbye.

  He died that night.

  He left behind a letter and a bank account in my name.

  *

  My beloved Irene,

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was sick. I didn’t want to distract you from your dream.

  That account holds the money we received after your parents’ deaths. I hated accepting it, but I knew one day it might help you. The Academy isn’t cheap, and you’ll need every resource. Use it without guilt. You’ve already made me proud.

  Remember, your parents, your grandmother, and I will always be with you. We love you. Live well. Live fully.

  —Grandpa

  *

  After that, I was alone. Just me and Kit.

  I didn’t even notice the days passing until the message for the final exam arrived. The last test.

  They brought us to an island. Over a thousand applicants remained. We were given six Pokémon and one medal. Every battle won earned you another. The first ninety-six to collect eight medals would be accepted.

  I fought. I won. Every single match.

  I was the first to qualify.

  Well—technically, fifth. Four students were pre-selected because of their parents’ legacy with the Academy.

  I thought of those other trainers—the ones who’d caused the tragedy years ago. How they got off with a fine. How my grandfather had to accept money from the families of people who got his daughter killed.

  How I’d missed his last moments because I was chasing this dream.

  I’d paid for this place with that blood money. And others had bought their way in without sacrifice.

  At the welcome ceremony, I saw one of them.

  Light brown hair. Green eyes. A friendly smile.

  A teacher greeted him like an old friend.

  He didn’t look nervous. Or grateful.

  He looked like he belonged.

  A legacy.

  And in that moment, I felt it—anger. Deep, ugly, and sharp.

  He hadn’t done anything to me.

  But I hated him all the same.

  Because he represented everything I had to claw my way through.

  Everything I had to lose.

  Everything that was taken from me.

  And no matter how kind his smile looked, I made myself a promise:

  I would beat him.

  And I would never, ever forgive him.