Cynthia

  She sat at the edge of the stands, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp as blades.

  From her vantage point, Cynthia could see everything.

  Every stumble.

  Every weakness.

  Every spark of potential.

  The tournament was only just beginning, but already patterns were forming.

  She watched Lance demolish his opponent with raw, overwhelming power.

  Ruthless.

  Uncompromising.

  Cynthia narrowed her eyes slightly.

  Power alone wasn’t enough.

  Not in the long run.

  Not when survival demanded more than brute force.

  Steven Stone fought differently.

  Precise.

  Methodical.

  His Beldum wasn’t fast, but its strikes were calculated — almost mechanical in their execution.

  Steven himself stood calmly behind it, like a general overseeing a battlefield.

  An opponent like him would never offer easy openings.

  And then there was Ren.

  Ren Oak.

  Not from a battle clan.

  Not an heir to ancient tradition.

  But still carrying a name that weighed heavily.

  Oak.

  A name synonymous with genius.

  With discovery.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  With expectations so high they could crush a lesser person.

  Cynthia studied him closely.

  Watched the way he fought — fast, adaptable, unyielding.

  He wasn’t the strongest yet.

  But he was dangerous.

  Because he had something even rarer than power:

  Purpose.

  "This ... it won't be easy," Cynthia thought, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

  "And that's exactly how I want it."

  Steven

  Steven Stone adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, gaze cold and calculating.

  He preferred steel to fire.

  Stability to chaos.

  But battles weren’t orderly affairs — they were messy, shifting storms of will and instinct.

  He respected Lance’s raw drive.

  He acknowledged Cynthia’s sharp intuition.

  And as for Ren Oak...

  Steven's Beldum found him fascinating.

  The way Ren adapted mid-battle — constantly shifting, refusing to be pinned down — was the mark of a strategist.

  An unpredictable opponent.

  The worst kind.

  And while Ren might not have a bloodline of warriors behind him,

  the Oak name was heavy enough to command respect.

  "A variable," Steven thought.

  "Unstable, but full of potential."

  Steven didn't fear variables.

  He prepared for them.

  And somewhere — deep, carefully hidden — he welcomed the challenge.

  Lance

  Lance Wateru leaned back against the cool stone wall, crimson eyes narrowed in thought.

  He hated weakness.

  He despised cowardice.

  But strength alone wasn't enough.

  Strength had to be tested.

  Forged.

  He had crushed his early opponents with sheer force.

  Dratini’s power was growing, sharpening like a blade.

  But Lance wasn’t blind.

  He saw the others too.

  Steven — cold and unbreakable like iron.

  Cynthia — precise and feral at once, a blade honed by instinct.

  And Ren Oak...

  Lance had misjudged him at first.

  Thought him soft.

  Wrong.

  There was something in Ren’s fights — a sharpness, a refusal to yield,

  that made Lance's blood sing.

  A true rival in the making.

  Not a no-name.

  Not an afterthought.

  A challenger.

  And maybe — someday — an equal.

  "Good," Lance thought grimly.

  "Let them all come.

  If they want to stand atop the mountain, they’ll have to fight me for it."

  Ren

  Ren Oak sat alone near the edge of the training fields, notebook balanced on his knee, pencil scratching furiously.

  He wasn’t watching the tournament idly.

  He was dissecting it.

  Every battle.

  Every move.

  Every flaw.

  Lance was overwhelming.

  Steven was impenetrable.

  Cynthia was a whirlwind of grace and brutality.

  Each of them dangerous.

  Each of them better — for now.

  Ren felt it.

  The gap between them.

  But he didn’t flinch from it.

  He studied it.

  Measured it.

  Plotted how to close it.

  He knew the Oak name carried weight.

  Expectations.

  People expected him to be a scholar.

  A researcher.

  A prodigy.

  They didn’t expect him to be a fighter.

  A warrior.

  Ren didn’t care.

  He would build his own legacy.

  Not as a footnote to Professor Oak’s legend.

  But as something — someone — entirely his own.

  He glanced down at Charmander, who lounged lazily nearby, tail flame burning bright.

  They would forge their own story.

  And it would be written not with ink or lectures —

  but with fire, steel, and scars.

  "I don't need a destiny," Ren thought.

  "I'll make my own."

  And somewhere deep inside —

  the first true seeds of ambition took root.

  Not just to survive.

  Not just to stand alongside the others.