Veyron Lux stepped into his penthouse suite, the soft automation tones greeting him as the locks sealed behind him with magnetic precision. He slipped off his jacket with the practiced grace of someone who never let wrinkles form—neither in fabric, nor in strategy. He hung it on the designated hook beside a minimalistic wardrobe alcove, polished and orderly.
The space around him was museum-grade: silent, methodical, untouched by chaos.
But not sterile. No—there was intent here. Curated presence.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, revealing the midnight glow of Lumora City below. Neon arteries pulsed across the grid, like veins in a living machine. The city moved endlessly—ever-consuming, ever-churning. The corporations below made noise.
Veyron made plans.
With deliberate steps, he crossed the suite to a section of wall that appeared blank—seamless matte stone—but to his touch, it yielded with a quiet hiss. A biometric scanner blinked once.
Green light.
Accepted.
The door opened to reveal a room unlike the rest of the unit.
The Shrine Room.
Bathed in soft, customizable lighting that shifted to a gentle violet hue the moment the door hissed closed behind him, the room exhaled calm. The air was purified, scrubbed twice through discreet wall filters to ensure there was no trace of dust, humidity, or age. Even the ambient temperature was tightly regulated—preservation-grade environmental control, the kind typically reserved for archival vaults or high-end art galleries.
The moment the door sealed behind him, the noise of the city vanished.
Not muffled.
Erased.
The temperature, the scentless air, the clean, dry pressure of the room—all controlled. All perfected. No fingerprints. No dust. No variables. The shrine was held in a condition more pristine than the rest of the penthouse, not because it was more important, but because it required nothing less. It was a space without deviation. A vault, not for security—but for stillness.
Shelves lined the walls in subtle curvature, each forming a crescent of memory shaped by deliberate curation. Not cluttered. Never cluttered. Each item had its axis. Each axis had its reason.
A limited-run fan club badge sat in its own case—#0001. No replica. No duplicate. First print. First design. First, everything.
Unmarked. Unbent. Unshared.
Next to it, a trainer glove signed during Vivi’s first regional contest appearance. A single signature, signed in silver. The glove never worn since. Preserved in low-oxygen casing.
Further down, a mounted display showcased the “Celestial Sparkle” foil Braixen card—the first card ever printed under Vivi’s official League-endorsed brand. This wasn't some mass release. It was part of a prototype batch—flawless, untouched, and minted before public production even began. He had three. Two sealed. One displayed with exacting care, lit only by spectrum-stable, no-fade lighting.
On the eastern wall, a climate-controlled vertical gallery rotated a series of exclusive PokéGear faceplates, each a seasonal Vivi-themed variant. These weren’t standard releases; they were the original run—first-pressed, serialed in perfect numerical order, each one released in coordinated rollout with her debut campaign. Nothing here was secondhand or substitute. Only the earliest iterations. Only the purest form of the design.
Each shelf didn’t just hold items—it held origin points. The moment before popularity. The spark before the flame. And Veyron had them all catalogued, cross-referenced, and preserved—not because of what they were worth.
But because of when they were born.
He was neither a madman. He was a curator.
Every item. Every margin. Every calibration of light and distance and balance—it wasn't love, and it wasn’t obsession.
It was Discipline.
The kind that couldn’t be taught—only ingrained, over decades of lineage, blood, and consequence. The kind shaped in silence, refined in precision, and etched into the soul of someone who never forgot the weight of what he carried.
He moved slowly, each step rehearsed in the way dancers move before a performance—measured, seamless, assured.
At the center of the room stood the pièce de résistance.
A Braixen plush. Not mass-produced. Not merch. A one-of-twelve promo piece made for internal pre-launch celebration. Each stitch fire-threaded. The flame-reds are still vivid. The velvet fur is pristine. In its ear, a silver tag reading “V01.” Sealed within a hermetically controlled column case. Light did not touch it until Veyron stepped near.
And when he did, the system responded.
A subtle glow pulsed from the base.
Recognition.
He paused before it, hands clasped behind his back, posture neither rigid nor relaxed—simply correct.
“You’ve been with me through all of it,” he said, voice quiet, unadorned. “Every late night. Every quarter I pushed too far. Every meeting I walked out of because they couldn’t see past their own margins.”
He chuckled softly, the sound more breath than humor.
“Still here.”
He didn’t linger on the emotion. That wasn’t what the room was for.
It wasn’t a place for indulgence.
It was a threshold—where feeling became memory, and memory became resolve.
He turned toward a low-sitting table on the far side of the room. Atop it lay the first-edition collaboration album between BraixenVivi and Snow_Hite, still sealed in its brushed-titanium casing. The “001” etching in the corner was faint but unmistakable. Unique. Unduplicated. Its corners had never touched bare hands until tonight.
He opened the case with practiced care and slid the album into a padded sleeve, one made for aerospace delivery transport.
“One chance to get this signed,” he said under his breath. “Let’s not screw this up.”
He let his eyes scan the room one final time. And they landed not on the most valuable item—but the oldest: A faded Polaroid.
The faded Polaroid was the only imperfection in a room engineered to be flawless.
Clipped just above the far shelf—slightly off-center, edges curling from time and quiet reverence—it defied the sealed glass, the pristine lines, the obsessive cataloging that defined everything else in the shrine room. A room where collector's cases hummed with temperature-regulated care, where every autograph had a certificate, where every figure came with its own story and a precise acquisition number logged by Veyron himself.
Except for this one.
There was no certificate. No tag. No origin entry in the index.
Just a grainy image, captured with something archaic—a Polaroid camera, of all things.
And in it: a younger Vivi. Not BraixenVivi the icon. Not the radiant idol mid-performance.
But Cierra. Or rather, a sliver of her. Laughing. Smiling.
Not for fans. Not for content.
But for someone—or something—just off-frame.
The light hit her hair in soft waves, her cheeks flushed with the kind of joy you don’t pose for. It wasn’t meant for the world. It wasn’t even meant to last. But someone had kept it. Protected it. Elevated it.
It was the only item in the room without a serial number…
Because it couldn’t be reproduced.
Because it shouldn’t be.
In a space defined by discipline, detail, and control, the Polaroid was a crack in the mask. A quiet, vulnerable truth preserved in plain view. For Veyron, it wasn’t just memorabilia—it was memory, unfiltered and fragile. A reminder of who she was before the lights. Before the persona. Before the branding.
It was never spoken about.
The others—the rare drops, the badges, the #0001 club merchandise—those were symbols.
But this?
This was the reason behind the shrine. The tether to a moment too important to discard, too honest to hide behind glass.
The only real thing in a room full of perfection. And perhaps, the most sacred.
He stepped out of the room. The lighting dimmed as he left.
The air sealed.
The systems returned to standby.
And the shrine returned to silence.
Before leaving the penthouse, Veyron settled into the leather chair at his command-center of a desk—gloss-black, edge-lit, and perfectly clean except for a single matte Pokéball coaster near the corner. The interface on his custom terminal blinked to life with a soft chime, casting a cold light across his face.
His fingers danced across the biometric keys without looking.
The screen expanded in high-res detail: PokéNet Forums—the sprawling, labyrinthine digital hive of Virelia’s most passionate trainers, lurkers, data-miners, conspiracy theorists, and battle junkies. Veyron had five burner accounts across it, each with their own identity, digital behavior profile, and voice. But this one—@StrategistSensei—was his primary voice. Not loud, not frequent. Just surgical when it counted.
He scrolled through the trending tags. A rising thread on the front page caught his attention.
[Suspicious Sightings] Uniformed Trainers Near Blazebrook Gym?
Posted by: @RouteWatcher
"Spotted some sketchy trainers hanging around the trails leading to the volcanic tunnels. Black uniforms with a sharp ‘E’ emblem. Anyone know what that’s about? They weren’t battling or catching Pokémon—looked more like they were taking notes or setting up equipment. Kinda creepy, tbh."
Veyron’s gaze narrowed, eyes flicking across the attached low-res images—grainy silhouettes against the horizon, the glint of gear harnesses, and what looked like electromagnetic sensors being placed near a collapsed rock formation.
The emblem was unmistakable. That jagged silver ‘E’...
Team Eclipse.
He scanned the replies.
@RockyRoadJunkie:
“Maybe it’s a new Gym Leader evaluation? The League sometimes sends scouts.”
@CoolDownBro:
“Bet it’s Groudon fanboys doing a ritual or something lmao.”
@ArceusIsMyDad:
“Nah, this is Eclipse, guaranteed. I saw them last year in the Sapphire Flats. Same gear. It’s happening again. Wake up, sheeple.”
Veyron smirked at that last one. Alarmist, sure, but not entirely wrong.
He leaned forward, fingers moving with silent precision as he typed:
Comment by @StrategistSensei:
"Sounds like Team Eclipse. They’ve been popping up in scattered sightings lately. If you’re near Blazebrook, keep your distance. They’re known for operating near volatile terrain and exploiting it. If they’re setting up equipment, they’re probably not just sightseeing."
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He clicked Post.
The thread updated almost instantly. More comments flooded in. Some mocking, some genuinely curious.
@MetaDexMaster:
“Yo, @StrategistSensei, are you saying they’re back for real? Like full-on ops?”
@RouteWatcher:
“I was afraid of that. They had this weird box… like it was humming.”
@CoolDownBro:
“Still betting it’s cosplay.”
@StrategistSensei replied once more. Brief. Cold.
"This is why you avoid these people. They’re reckless and don’t care about collateral damage. Trainers should focus on reporting sightings and staying out of their way. Don’t play hero unless you’re prepared for the consequences."
He didn’t watch the replies this time. He knew how threads like this spiraled. Someone would post memes. Someone else would accuse the League of covering it up. Someone would insist they saw Zapdos fly overhead. All noise.
He clicked Log Out, encrypted his activity, and ran a silent data-purge script out of habit. Not paranoia. Just protocol.
After all, Veyron Lux didn’t exist online.
He was just a man who stood from his desk and straightened his tie. He had already drawn his conclusions.
Team Eclipse was moving again.
And if they were near Blazebrook… Isabelle would be close by.
He closed his laptop with a soft click and stepped into the elevator.
Time to go.
As Veyron stepped out onto the marble-patterned promenade of Starlight Crosswalk, Lumora City’s famed business district pulsed with quiet momentum. The glass towers around him shimmered beneath the neon morning glow, their surfaces catching the last remnants of night like dew on steel. Traffic hummed along skyrails above, while below, early commuters shuffled into automated cafés, their VireBands already synced to pay for their orders before they spoke.
He adjusted the lapels of his charcoal-gray suit, activating the sleek interface embedded within his VireBand. A pale blue hologram flickered into view over his wrist, displaying an animated crest—silver feathers rotating in a slow spiral. The badge gleamed with a subtle ripple of auric verification: Flying License — Tier 3.
A League Official patrolling the plaza looked up from his own device, his uniform crisp, his Flygon hovering dutifully at his side. He approached without urgency, scanning the ID with a single tap.
“Special permissions, huh?” the officer murmured, raising an eyebrow. His tone wasn’t suspicious—more curious. Respectful, even. He didn’t press further. “Just keep the skies clear. Wind gust advisories over Route 7. You’re good to go.”
Veyron offered a silent nod in return, and with a press of his PokéBall release, a white beam arced outward into the plaza’s designated flight ring. In an instant, the air shifted.
The plaza’s ambient chatter dulled as a ripple of pressure moved outward, parting crowds like a subconscious warning.
Pidgeot materialized in a flash of light and feathers, its plumage shimmering under the rising sun—cool silvers and warm siennas catching the early glow like burnished bronze. At over five feet tall, it exuded a regal stillness, its wings tucked tight, its gaze already searching the sky.
Zeus, as Veyron had named him, had been with him since the last year of his League days.
“Alright,” Veyron said, brushing dust from his coat sleeve, “we’re heading to Gleamshore. Smooth flight. Minimal turbulence. Keep high until we cross the coastline.”
Pidgeot answered with a low screech—measured, confident. The kind of sound that said I already know.
Veyron secured his briefcase along the custom-mount satchel slung behind the saddle and reached for the velvet-lined carrier housing the prized album. He checked the magnetic seals twice before mounting, his movements practiced, economical.
Then, with the ease of a seasoned air rider, he gave the nod.
Pidgeot’s wings unfurled with a single, powerful beat, stirring a whirlwind of loose flyers and discarded receipts as it launched into the sky. Pedestrians nearby instinctively stepped back—not from fear, but reverence. Flying wasn’t common anymore. Not really. Not like this.
They soared upward through controlled aerial corridors, past data towers blinking with grid overlays, until Lumora’s noise softened into a distant murmur. The city below unraveled like circuitry: veins of light, patches of motion, little clusters of life ticking inside its carefully planned sprawl.
Veyron didn’t need navigation. He’d memorized the grid long ago.
They passed over the edge of Blazebrook’s volcanic ridges, the dark earth below glowing faintly in rivulets of magma far beneath the surface. The smoke plumes in the distance made it look like the land still hadn’t forgiven whatever had once scorched it. He caught sight of the League Gym—a jagged, monolithic structure like a sword plunged into the rock. For a moment, Veyron’s gaze lingered there.
The girl should’ve reached it by now, he thought. She’ll either break or reshape again. Both are acceptable.
Pidgeot banked left with a subtle shift, guided by instinct alone.
The terrain below smoothed into broad meadows and rocky inlets, before giving way to the glistening blue horizon. The western sea. The sky turned clearer, the clouds thin and stretched like whispered thoughts. The further they traveled, the more the architecture shifted. Glass and neon gave way to terracotta rooftops, half-moon windows, and old fishing towers built into crags where cliffs met surf.
Gleamshore City came into view just as the horizon blushed with the first edges of daylight. The city curved around the bay like a cradle—its skyline a marriage of old and new. Docks extended like fingers into the water, some still in use by fishermen, others repurposed for yacht clubs and performance arenas.
Pidgeot descended slowly, a controlled glide that carried them over the outer walls and toward a League-approved landing tier—a quiet observation platform just outside the northern cliffside. They touched down without a sound, talons clicking against reinforced tile.
Veyron dismounted, adjusting the hem of his coat with one hand, the other stroking Zeus’s neck once—grateful, unspoken affection exchanged between warrior and mount.
“Good work,” he murmured, then returned the Pokémon to its capsule in a blink of light.
As the plaza behind him stirred with the sounds of a city waking, Veyron Lux adjusted his cuffs and walked towards Gleamshore City, the prized album secured beneath his arm.
There were idols to see. Events to gauge.
And a stage being set where none of the performers yet realized they were part of the act.
Veyron approached the edge of Gleamshore City as morning light gilded the skyline. The breeze carried a mix of ocean salt and cherry blossoms, an unlikely but oddly fitting fragrance for a city suspended between tradition and affluence. Ahead, the city gates gleamed with embedded League emblems, flanked by twin guards in navy-grade uniforms. League Officials. Their expressions didn’t waver much, but they took note of him as he stepped into range.
One scanned his Trainer ID, the VireBand flickering with a soft blue pulse as the database verified his credentials. A second later, the guard’s brow lifted.
“Veyron Lux?” he said, half-surprised. “Haven’t seen that name since your League Circuit days.”
Veyron offered a calm, almost disarming smile. “Just on vacation.”
The guard glanced at his colleague, a silent exchange passing between them before he waved Veyron through. “Well. Don’t stir the Contest scene too much.”
“I never do,” Veyron replied, his tone smooth as the leather grip on his briefcase.
Behind the gates, Gleamshore City stretched before him like a dream made real—every angle, every corner, every brushstroke of its design crafted to dazzle. Where most cities chose an aesthetic and committed to it, Gleamshore transcended the notion entirely. It was not a clash of culture, but a fusion, a deliberate balancing act between the historic elegance of old-world craftsmanship and the sleek ambition of modern industrial glory.
The Old Quarter, closest to the city’s central garden district, was a preserved marvel of Virelian heritage. It bore the unmistakable influence of French-style architecture passed down from settlers long before the League rose to power—limestone walls adorned with ornate carvings, copper-tiled rooftops browned with age, and weathered fountains that still whispered ancient family crests in their chiseled stone. Arched bridges swept gracefully across man-made canals, designed with the same delicate geometry found in traditional eastern shrines, where every curve honored harmony. Cherry blossom trees lined the waterside streets in bloom, petals drifting over the cobbled alleys like soft snowfall, brushing against signs in both Kalosian script and elegant Kanji strokes.
And above that serene canvas, Gleamshore’s ambition gleamed like a blade.
Suspended monorails sliced through the air between glimmering towers, their routes lit by programmable neon lines that danced to the beat of the city’s nightlife. Towers of glass and silver cast their reflections over the water’s surface—headquarters for corporate behemoths like Hayashi Innovations and EvoTech Labs, and gleaming arenas where regional idols hosted virtual meet-ups broadcast across the globe.
Radiant Hall rose from the city center like a goddess's crown. Modeled after an open seashell kissed by moonlight, its exterior shimmered with lightstones embedded into opalescent plating, catching both sunlight and spotlight. It was the epicenter of Gleamshore’s soul—the throne from which contests, festivals, idol performances, and world premieres were launched. Its acoustics were engineered not just for sound but for feeling—every cheer echoed like it belonged to a higher place.
To the west of the main terrace roads, past delicately arranged sculpture parks and sleek glass pavilions, sat the Port of Gleamshore. Divided by invisible boundaries of status, it was both artery and artifice.
The Yacht Club glistened in morning light, its marina full of alabaster-white vessels owned by the ultra-wealthy—heirs of the Martial Clans, Hayashi’s golden executives, minor royalty from other regions. Moored like art pieces, each yacht had its own helipad, its own security escort, its own story told in silent prestige. Just south of it, shrouded in architectural sleight of hand, was the porting dock—a place of labor, of shipping containers and longshoremen, of minimum wages and unmarked crates. Gleamshore’s lifeblood flowed here, behind the veil.
To the east, nestled on the coast’s horizon, floated a marvel of environmental design: the Orchid Wave Data Center. Suspended atop a steel-and-carbon chassis 25 meters long and 80 meters wide, the floating facility was entirely powered by renewable energy drawn from wave turbines and solar coils embedded beneath its platform. It stored data for not just regional League operations, but idol performance archives, Pokémon habitat trackers, and experimental AI simulations tied to research institutions. Gleamshore boasted it often—“We’re the only city in Virelia with a living, breathing server room.”
Beachfront paths curved around the city’s outer rim, white sands glistening with imported quartz and cordoned off by League-determined swimming zones. Certain areas were restricted entirely, marked by old shrine stones and local legend. At the edge of the coastline, just beyond the reach of daily foot traffic, lay the Tideheart Cradle—a sprawling geological structure formed from glass-slick obsidian rock, naturally shaped like a sleeping Lapras. Locals say it was the site of an ancient vow between sea-bound guardians and the first families of Virelia, though scholars write it off as myth. Still, no one dared build near it.
Other landmarks of note included:
- Gleamshore Cultural Museum of Pokémon Ecology – A towering gallery that paid tribute to the harmony between humans and Pokémon across regional history, including live exhibits and interactive lore domes.
- The Ferris Bloom – A grand ferris wheel built over a shimmering pier, adorned in seasonal fairy lights and retro music players, known for giving the best view of the city’s dual personality—old stone rooftops on one side, glass towers on the other.
- Coral Market District – A mid-tier section of the city built for trainers and contest hopefuls, home to PokéSalons, tactical outfitters, accessory markets, and specialty move tutors.
Gleamshore didn’t just shine. It performed.
Everything here had purpose. Image. Radiance.
And yet, as Veyron Lux adjusted his collar and walked past the flickering projections of idol advertisements, he understood the truth behind the gleam.
This city was bold, yes.
But boldness wasn’t always about light.
Sometimes, it was how well you could cast your shadow.
He tapped the Poké Balls one by one, their smooth surfaces cool beneath his fingertips, each capsule polished to a gleam. No fingerprints. No scuffs. Just history, encoded in seamless craftsmanship.
Each orb pulsed faintly with light as he touched them.
Serperior—sharp, poised, commanding without a sound. The quiet general of his team, coiled elegance and cold efficiency forged through league-level discipline.
Toxapex—a wall of quiet menace, its toxic spines a metaphor for the way Veyron handled negotiations: slow, suffocating, inevitable.
Glaceon—grace and clarity embodied. A Pokémon that moved like she knew the ending to every battle before it began.
Gallade—his mirror. Calculated, efficient, precise to the millisecond. If Serperior was his general, Gallade was his blade.
Pidgeot—Zeus—the ever-watchful sentinel. His partner through flight and storm, the one Pokémon who had carried him across more maps than any train or tram ever could.
And then the sixth.
His fingers hovered over it—Charcadet. Still green. Still learning. Still prone to bursts of fire it couldn’t quite control. But there was promise there. Fire waiting to be sharpened into something brilliant.
“You’ve got a long way to go, little one,” he said quietly, the words for no one but himself. “But we’ll get there.”
He stood, adjusting his cufflinks, and resumed his stride—shoes tapping rhythmically against stone paths inlaid with cherry-blossom motifs. Gleamshore City unfolded around him like a stage mid-performance.
He passed under the Verdance Arches, where blooming sakura petals drifted lazily through the air, catching in the folds of passerby scarves. To his right, gondolas slipped along tranquil canals, their reflections broken only by the occasional Magikarp splash or tourist-aimed Wingull. Beyond them, tiled rooftops curled upward at the edges, ornamented with golden Dragonite statues peeking toward the sea. Workers in fitted uniforms bustled between corner bistros and artisan shops, the scent of grilled berry skewers wafting through the breeze.
Gleamshore did not hum. It sang.
Neon billboards shimmered softly above more traditional pagoda-style rooftops, advertising the upcoming Radiance Revue in delicate brush stroke fonts overlaying flickering holograms of BraixenVivi and Snow_Hite, twirling in slow motion. Their digital projections danced in the sky above cobblestone roundabouts where pedestrians flowed in elegant streams—some wearing League-issue gear, others in couture contestwear.
Veyron offered a faint smirk. Gleamshore’s duality was no accident. It was designed—curated, like a luxury product meant to feel timeless, yet new.
His briefcase shifted in his hand. Inside, sealed in a padded, reinforced sleeve, was the limited-edition Vivi & Snow_Hite collaboration album—number #0001. He never intended to have the first. He just always did.
“One chance to make this perfect,” he muttered, his tone more focused than wistful. “And maybe, just maybe, this trip will be the break we all need.”The city pulsed around him. Behind the curtain of grandeur and spectacle, he kept his knowledge hidden like a blade beneath silk.
Because he knew. He knew that BraixenVivi was just a mask—and the girl behind it, Cierra Isaure, was somewhere nearby, probably in her standard-issue Nurse Joy wig, handing out Oran Berry smoothies and checking Trainer vitals at the Gleamshore Pokémon Center like she hadn’t captivated half the region the night before.
He didn’t laugh. But a quiet glint of amusement danced behind his shades. The irony was delicious. The idol, adored by millions, now calmly wiping down a vitals scanner behind a clean white desk while her face flashed ten feet tall on a screen three blocks over.
But he would never say a word.
Every performer deserved the safety of their curtain.
The street turned, and the air changed. He passed a boutique storefront displaying ceremonial contest ribbons from decades past—some worn by Champions, others etched with Martial Clan sigils rarely seen outside eastern territory. He glanced briefly through the window as if appraising legacy in a frame. Then continued.
Gleamshore’s heartbeat quickened as he neared the Radiant District, the floral cobblestones giving way to sleeker, ivory pavement under LED-lit lampposts. Ahead, the glowing silhouette of Radiant Hall loomed like a divine shell—pearl-white, adorned in lightstone tesserae that caught the sunrise like a prism.
His path turned again. Not toward Radiant Hall. Not yet.
Toward the Pokémon Center.
He adjusted his designer shades, his voice low but clear.
“Let’s make this count,” he murmured. “Time to pay a visit.”