The trip back wasn't a return.
It was an extraction.
The moment the ship crossed out of Trial Island's waters, the survivors stopped being "recruits" and became cargo. Armed officers herded them below deck into the lower hold. Just steel walls sweating with salt, recycled air thick with engine oil, and the sour stink of too many people trying not to panic.
Enzo spent most of the journey with his back against a support beam, eyes closed, breathing slowly. Not sleeping. Not resting.
Calculating.
Ronnie slept like the dead, occasionally twitching like he was still falling off cliffs.
Proton passed the time with a knife, scraping under his fingernails like he was sharpening patience into something dangerous.
On the third day, the engines finally changed tone—lower, slower—until they stopped entirely.
A dull thud rolled through the hull.
Docked.
"Move!" an officer barked. "No talking."
They were shoved up a metal ramp—expecting sunlight—only to step into a cavern of concrete and fog.
Not natural fog. Artificial. Chemical. Dense enough to swallow faces at ten meters.
An underground dock.
Cold water dripped somewhere. The floor was wet and slick. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, turning everything the color of sickness.
A corridor stretched ahead—industrial, long, and clinically clean. Every ten meters there was a booth built into the wall, like an elevator with no buttons.
"One at a time," the officer ordered, pointing.
Enzo was first.
"In."
Enzo stepped inside.
The door sealed behind him with an airtight hiss.
The booth was colder than the corridor.
And it wasn't empty.
A man in a lab coat sat in the corner, eyes on a tablet. No insignia. No expression. The kind of person who exists to make things happen and leave no questions behind.
Floating beside him, legs crossed in a lotus position, was a humanoid Pokémon holding two silver spoons.
Alakazam.
It didn't move when Enzo entered. It didn't need to. Its eyes flared with soft blue light, and Enzo felt pressure—like someone gently placing a hand on the inside of his skull.
"ID confirmed," the scientist muttered without looking up. "Rank One."
Enzo's face didn't change.
He knew this method. Physical transport left trails. Cameras. Witnesses. Routes.
Psychic transport left nothing.
The scientist tapped his tablet once.
"Alakazam," he said, like he was turning a key. "Transport."
Enzo's world snapped sideways.
It wasn't pain. It was wrongness—like an invisible hook had grabbed him behind the navel and yanked him through reality. His stomach folded. His vision became static and stretched light. For a fraction of a second, he couldn't tell where his body ended.
Then—
Pop.
The smell of the sea vanished.
And something else replaced it immediately.
Polished floor wax. Dry earth. Cold air conditioning that smelled expensive.
Enzo staggered half a step as gravity remembered him.
He caught himself.
He lifted his eyes.
And the first thought that hit him wasn't base.
It was temple.
The space was colossal—an arena built for judgment, not entertainment. Steel beams vanished into shadow far above. The floor under his boots wasn't concrete or metal, but packed earth—dark, compacted, patterned in geometric lines like someone had turned dirt into architecture.
Volcanic-stone columns lined the sides, carved and polished, severe and deliberate.
This wasn't where you trained recruits.
But the arena wasn't what grabbed Enzo's attention.
It was the wall above it.
A gigantic pane of mirrored glass ran along the northern side—black, impenetrable, reflecting the arena like an unblinking eye. No stands. No seats. No crowd.
Just observation.
A place for people who didn't need to be seen to control everything.
Enzo stared at the glass.
He shivered from recognition.
They were behind it.
The Executives.
And the man at the center of the web.
Giovanni.
Pop.
Proton materialized beside him—immediately doubled over.
He vomited bile onto pristine, packed earth like a deliberate insult.
"Ugh…" Proton spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He took a breath, glaring at the space as if the arena had personally offended him.
"I hate teleportation."
Pop.
Ronnie appeared a few meters away, wobbling like a drunk man but somehow staying upright. He blinked hard, green hair flopping across his forehead.
"Whoa…" Ronnie whispered. "Where the hell are we?"
Proton straightened, scanning the columns, the floor, the glass.
"This isn't a normal base," he said, voice echoing too cleanly. "Look at this. Is that real stone? Real—"
He stopped.
Because Ronnie wasn't staring up.
Ronnie was crouched down, touching the ground.
His fingers pressed the packed earth like he was checking a memory. Then he stood and walked to one of the volcanic columns, running his hand over a specific notch in the stone like he was following a map only he could see.
His goofy expression drained away.
"What…?" Ronnie murmured.
Enzo's gaze narrowed. "You recognize it."
Ronnie swallowed.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "One year ago, as a logistics grunt. They had me delivering 'special supplements.' Heavy boxes. Ground-type stuff. Nutrients. Boosters. Things you don't ask questions about."
He looked up again, eyes widening.
"Guys…" Ronnie whispered, voice suddenly small in the huge arena.
"We're inside the Viridian Gym."
Proton let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
"No." He shook his head once like that could undo reality. "Viridian is the eighth gym. League-sanctioned. The strongest gym in Kanto."
He looked at Enzo, waiting for him to correct it. To laugh. To call Ronnie insane.
Enzo didn't.
He kept staring at the mirrored glass.
Proton's laugh died instantly.
Enzo didn't turn around. He just dropped the truth into the empty air like a grenade.
"You're asking the wrong question, Proton. We aren't borrowing the Gym. The Gym belongs to the Boss."
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the space between the columns.
Proton's jaw slowly fell open.
"Giovanni..." His voice was barely a whisper. "He runs the Viridian Gym?"
Enzo's lips quirked upward—not in amusement, but in cold admiration.
"He doesn't just run it. He is the King of the Ground Type," Enzo said. "The Strongest Gym Leader in Kanto."
He didn't add the rest out loud.
He didn't need to.
Team Rocket wasn't hiding in the sewer.
It was sitting in the center of the city, wearing a badge.
Ronnie stared up at the glass, throat working.
"They're back there," he whispered. "All of them."
Enzo didn't blink.
"Yes. And they are looking for soldiers."
The arena lights shifted.
Not brighter—focused.
A single spotlight cut down onto the center of the battlefield, sharp as a blade. Another. Another. Like the room was selecting what it wanted to see.
A side door opened.
Instructor Viper walked in.
Not in island gear.
Not in practical clothes.
He wore the real uniform now—impeccable black, polished boots, the red R on his chest bright enough to look like blood. His hair was slicked back, posture rigid, face composed like a man who'd never made a mistake in his life.
In a space this large, he should've looked small.
He didn't.
His voice carried—not loud, but engineered. Hidden microphones made sure every syllable hit the stone walls and came back.
Then he lifted his hand and pointed straight at the black mirror.
"You survived hell on the island," Viper said, a cold smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. "That was screening."
A pause—just long enough for everyone to feel judged.
"That was to clear out the trash."
Somewhere, someone swallowed too loudly.
Viper lowered his hand.
"Now you are not fighting to live."
He let the words hang, then sharpened them.
"You are fighting for a place in Team Rocket."
His eyes flicked toward Enzo, then away—like he'd already filed him under useful.
"Your judges are watching," Viper said. "The Executives are watching."
A beat.
"The Boss is watching."
Viper clapped once.
The sound cracked through the arena like a gunshot.
"The Final Exam starts now."