Pokémon: Master of the Rain Team

”Ah… guess I can only go crazy with you two one last time.” Grandpa sighed. For his grandson’s sake, he had to take this on. He did not want to spend the rest of his days on the run with Shun, hunted by Team Rocket.

”Grandpa, there’s still a way through this—don’t look so bleak. I don’t know if City Hall has Rocket moles, but Officer Jenny is definitely not one of them.” Reiji, already half-packed to bolt, found himself reassuring the old man instead.

”I’ll arrange it,” Grandpa said. Once he decided for Shun’s sake, he wouldn’t walk it back.

He was still thinking through how to file the report when a special guest popped up on the TV news—a red-haired pretty boy. Reiji and Grandpa didn’t notice; only Shun did.

”Reiji, Grandpa—look! It’s Lance. He’s on TV!”

”What? Lance?” Reiji jerked his head up. On screen stood the caped, red-haired man who looked exactly like the anime—who else could it be?

With Lance here, the black market, Team Rocket, the casino—none of it looked nearly as scary.

”Grandpa, we can report Rocket boldly. With Lance in town, they won’t dare jump out. Let him pull their aggro and they won’t look our way…”

Reiji let out a breath. Lance and Team Rocket were mortal enemies back in Kanto; the two sides didn’t play nice.

If Lance was on a local broadcast, the city’s initiative was still in League hands, not Rocket moles. The black market was probably the same.

He didn’t know Lance personally, so he couldn’t say how Lance felt about a black market existing—but talking one-on-one with a member of the Elite Four? He wasn’t there yet. He needed to grind more.

”You’re right,” Grandpa murmured, easing a little the moment he saw Lance. Maybe today he wouldn’t have to write a testament after all. He wasn’t about to go in person, though—he’d send trusted people in disguise, with the Rocket uniform as evidence.

Once his plan was set, Grandpa rose and left the room to make arrangements. Reiji and Shun stayed on the sofa, watching Lance speak.

Lance announced that Kinnow City would host the XXth Youth Trainer Tournament. Anyone under sixteen could enter; registration was by the Pokémon Center. The prelims would be a points race: from the day you sign up, you have five days to reach 100 points to qualify for the bracket. He’d attend in person and award the top three.

He wrapped by urging young trainers to sign up—and declared the tournament open.

Right before the segment ended, Reiji noticed the host never took her eyes off Lance; her pupils had basically turned into hearts. Off-air she’d probably try to cozy up to him.

If even a news host was like that, imagine the fans—every trainer who idolized Lance, all those little fanboys…

No exaggeration: in this world, Lance’s popularity was like a top idol’s.

Even Shun was a Lance fan. At least half the trainers were—though plenty favored the other Elite Four, too.

Reiji himself? He kinda liked that cool Ice-type queen, Lorelei. Too bad he transmigrated late—she was already Elite Four. No shot.

Even if he reached Elite level, he’d still be a kid brother next to Lorelei. Sure, he could dream about ”hitting it rich”… but she probably wouldn’t even look his way. Pure daydream.

Sigh. Even living off a rich partner is hard. Officer Jenny or Nurse Joy clans? Out of the question. The Elite Four? Even less likely. Man…

He really felt down bad. All those other isekai guys landed Champions or Gym Leaders, even harem routes.

Stranded on an island, scared every day, eating dirt for over a month, sleeping in a foam-pad ”bed” in a tree hole. Back to civilization, still running into walls, sleeping with one eye open in case someone ”sent him swimming.”

All he wanted was to fish in peace. Who did he offend? Sigh…

After a long exhale, Reiji pulled himself together. Even if he couldn’t be anyone’s son-in-law, life had to move forward.

He’d already crossed over. Too late to complain. Back home he’d just be a broke guy with two dogs. Here, if he pushed himself to Elite… maybe—just maybe—he could grab that golden ticket. Heh.

”Reiji, are you going to sign up? There’s an age cap on this one,” Shun asked, giving him a nudge—he’d spaced out and was grinning to himself.

”Huh?” Reiji snapped back and swallowed. Gotta keep the persona intact in front of the kid.

”You signing up for the tourney?”

”Nope. You go.”

One tournament was plenty. He wasn’t winning any titles right now anyway—why spam brackets?

”Okay, I’ll go myself.” Shun stood, determined to make the cut and see Lance in person.

At the door, worry tugged him back. ”Reiji, the Team Rocket thing… is it really fine now?”

”Yeah. Go. With Lance here,Team Rocket’s a footnote,” Reiji said with a wave. No way they’d tug a dragon’s whiskers with Lance in town.

And the black market? Likely out of Team Rocket’s hands too. Which meant… who profits most?

Whoever really controlled the market. And if Lance was appearing at an official event, they’d probably made some backroom trade.

Reiji had guessed from the start that the market existed with someone’s tacit approval—a true power in Kinnow City. Who else could shelter it?

The clubs and breeding houses were big, sure, but they only ran a single storefront in the market and paid its taxes. That narrowed the ”real owner” down pretty neatly.

Not that any of this mattered to a small fry like him. One Team Rocket squad leader had already forced him to risk everything on a stealth op. If a unit commander or an admin—heck, someone Lance-tier—showed up, his ”second life” would end early.

He shook the thoughts away. If that day came… tough luck.

He left with Shun, partly so Grandpa wouldn’t accuse him of raiding the ”old man’s piggy bank.”

They ran into Grandpa in the hall. Hearing they were off to register, Grandpa didn’t pry and let them go.

Outside, they split up. Shun headed for the Pokémon Center to sign up.

As he walked, Shun replayed the talk about Team Rocket. It had sounded dire—until Lance appeared and the knot loosened. So this was the deterrent power of a truly strong trainer.

If he were as strong as Lance, he wouldn’t have to worry and could protect Grandpa. He was still too weak.

—

Reiji hopped onto Pelipper and flew Kingler to the beach to learn Swords Dance from Muta.

After he dropped Kingler off, he returned to the villa. It was a little past eleven—perfect time to cook.

Kingler had already had two Water-type blocks—enough fuel for the afternoon session.

He prepped lunch for the rest. As for the club league, his match number was in the 3000s; he wouldn’t be up till afternoon. No rush.

He ate alone today; Shun was probably grinding prelim points at the youth tourney.

If each win was one point, and you needed 100 in five days, that was absurd—twenty straight wins a day, five days running? Trainers and Pokémon would collapse.

And you couldn’t lose even once? Brutal. Unless… you bought points. Pay people to throw—one day, one hundred matches.

Everyone starts at ten points; bribe ten entrants and you’re through. The elimination math is basically one in ten.

Come to think of it, he could sell points. Ten points for 100,000 Pokédollars sounds fair, right?

Eh, deal with it later. Lunch first; then training.

No nap today—the morning had already been light. Reiji planned to start Croagunk’s regimen and get its poison under control.

Before that, he pulled out the incubator for a peek, then put it back. Day fifteen—no movement. Definitely not a dumb bird like Spearow. He exhaled in relief. Anything but a dopey bird. Just please don’t be a bad pokemon…

He fetched the glass jar from the fridge and called Croagunk, who was under the eaves staring blankly at the sea breeze.

”Croagunk, detox.”

”Croa.” Obedient as ever, Croagunk slipped its hands into the jar and let the venom drip. After a bit, it pulled out.

Thanks to daily drainage, it hadn’t shown any poisoning since the Pokémon Center visit.

Even so, he spiked Croagunk’s breakfast and lunch with antidote—less wear on the body, less pain.

He sealed the jar and slid it back into the fridge. ”Croagunk, your physical stats are too low—that’s why the toxins spiral and eat at you. You need to train your body.”

”You saw Poliwhirl and the others running this morning, right? Start with easy jogs. Half an hour at a time, then rest. If you’re tired, thirsty, hungry—there are blocks and Moomoo Milk here. Help yourself.”

”Croa.” Croagunk glanced at the food, then out at the yard—everyone was already grinding. Even Rhyhorn who slacked most afternoons had gotten up to run.

”Come with me,” Reiji said, leading it out so they wouldn’t bother the others.

Because Croagunk’s skin carried venom, training indoors or on the villa lawn was out—sweat would dot the floor and grass with toxins. If Rhyhorn decided to munch grass mid-run and licked up Croagunk’s poison, Reiji would be paying a vet bill.

On the way to the beach, he kept checking that Croagunk was following. It never talked back, but it stayed with him. He had no idea what was going on in its head. Body first, heart later.

On the sand he spotted another Pokémon—Farfetch’d—sitting and skipping stones into the waves.

His Farfetch’d, in fact. He’d thought it was training.

”Hey, what are you doing out here?” Reiji sat and reached to scruff its head. The wing batted his hand away.

When he sat beside it, Farfetch’d scooted its butt farther off, plainly not in the mood.

Reiji drew his hand back, awkward. As long as it didn’t try to attack him anymore, that was progress.

Then, right there on the beach, he began Croagunk’s training.

(End of Chapter)

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