Perspective Shift.
Shadows shrouded the entire room, the only light source coming from a massive floor-to-ceiling window. Outside lay the cold, steel forest of the Rocket Hideout.
Corona kept his head lowered, not daring to look directly at the man sitting on the leather sofa in front of him.
The man had striking, short cyan hair, each strand seemingly meticulously trimmed with the sharpest blade, giving him a well-defined look.
He wore the white standard uniform of the Team Rockets, with a wide-cut collar and a rigid, upright posture.
His features were handsome, yet they carried the oppressive aura of someone long accustomed to a high position. Especially those eyes—calm and waveless, yet more heart-stopping than any ferocious Pokémon.
He was one of the Team Rocket Special-Grade Executives: Archer.
At this moment, Archer was holding a crystal-clear glass with two fingers. The amber liquid inside swayed gently, reflecting Corona's deathly pale face.
"...That is how things transpired, Lord Archer."
Corona's voice was dry. He tried his best to gloss over his own impulsiveness, shifting the blame to the opponent's cunning and Ariel's lack of cooperation.
"This subordinate... made a temporary error in judgment, leading to my Houndoom's... death in battle."
After he finished speaking, the entire room fell into a deathly silence.
Corona could hear the drum-like thumping of his own heart. Cold sweat seeped out from his forehead drop by drop, sliding down his cheeks.
He knew that what Lord Archer loathed most were failure and excuses.
"Error in judgment?"
Archer finally spoke. His voice was very soft, yet it felt like an Icicle Spear piercing into Corona's eardrums.
*Crack—*
A crisp sound exploded abruptly in the silence.
Corona trembled violently. From the corner of his eye, he saw the glass Archer had been holding shatter into countless fragments without warning. Sharp glass shards pierced Archer's skin, and blood mixed with wine dripped through his fingers, staining the expensive carpet beneath him.
Yet Archer's expression didn't change in the slightest, as if that hand didn't belong to him.
He simply wiped his hand, covered in glass shards and blood, on his trousers. Then, he raised those cold, temperatureless eyes and stared at Corona.
Fear instantly seized Corona's throat.
"My Lord! Please give me another chance!"
He fell to his knees with a thud, his forehead slamming heavily against the floor.
"I will make up for the losses this time! I can find a replacement for Houndoom's vacancy very soon! My team will recover its combat power quickly. Next time, I will definitely be able to complete an advanced-level mission!"
He babbled his guarantees incoherently, trying to prove his worth—to prove he was still that Fire-type Expert the Team Rockets could be proud of.
"Naive."
Archer shook his head, stood up from the sofa, and paced to the floor-to-ceiling window, turning his back to Corona.
His figure was outlined by the light outside into a pitch-black silhouette, making the pressure even more intense.
"Corona, what do you think a strong person needs?"
Kneeling on the ground, Corona's mind raced. This question was his final lifeline.
"Is it... is it strength? Or... powerful Pokémon? Or perhaps, clear and calm commanding abilities?"
He answered tentatively, each word spoken with extreme caution.
"Wrong."
Archer's voice came from the window, as cold as the steel outside.
"Completely wrong. A truly strong person is never defined by how well they train their Pokémon, how beautifully they command, and certainly not by what rare Pokémon they use."
He turned around, his gaze like a blade, piercing straight into Corona's heart.
"I ask you, how long does it take to cultivate a powerful Trainer?"
The question was too sudden, leaving Corona stunned. He had never considered such a thing. He only knew how to train Pokémon desperately, pursuing stronger flames and more violent attacks.
"...Ten years? Twenty years?"
"Seven years."
Archer spat out a number with absolute certainty.
"For a Trainer, starting from zero to possessing the strength of an Elite Four Candidate, it only takes seven years. This doesn't even require you to have any earth-shattering talent; mediocre aptitude is enough. For those so-called geniuses, it will only be shorter."
Corona's pupils contracted slightly.
"Seven years? Then... wouldn't Elite Four Candidates be everywhere?"
"Everywhere?"
Archer acted as if he had heard a joke, his lips curling into a mocking arc.
"I will tell you the conditions for becoming a powerhouse. It's simple. Ambition, patience, composure, and... being unscrupulous."
He walked toward Corona step by step. His leather shoes stepped on the carpet soundlessly, yet it felt as if he were stepping on Corona's heart.
"With just these few simple points, how many out of a thousand Trainers can truly achieve them?"
"They are as rare as phoenix feathers or unicorn horns! And among that tiny minority, how many died halfway due to bad luck? How many others had their edges blunted and lost their fighting spirit halfway because of women, money, or comfort?"
Archer walked up to Corona, looking down at him from above.
"If a Pokémon dies, you can catch another. If a team is crippled, it can be rebuilt. As long as you have the courage and determination to start over, you can still stand at the peak."
"What the Team Rockets values has always been the worth of the Trainer as a person, not those few wretched Pokémon of yours. Do you understand?"
"Even if you were forty years old now, all your Pokémon were dead, and you had become a complete and utter waste."
"As long as you as a person still have value, with the organization's financial power, we could provide you with a brand-new team that is not inferior to your current one within three days."
"As long as you demonstrate value, you can take your pick of the Pseudo-Legendary Pokémon raised within the organization."
Archer's voice suddenly deepened. Every word was like a heavy hammer smashing into the depths of Corona's soul.
"But the thing to fear most is that you, the person, are no good."
*Boom!*
Corona's mind went blank.
His long-held pride, the capital he relied on for survival, and the Fire-type Legion he was so proud of were all belittled as worthless in Archer's words.
It turned out that everything he took pride in was, in the eyes of the organization's high-level management, merely consumables that could be replaced at any time.
And he himself, the person, was the actual focus of scrutiny.
The result of that scrutiny was: 'no good'.
An icy chill rushed from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head. It was a fear deeper than death.
He understood. He understood completely.
"My Lord! I... I still have value! I am still useful!"
Corona kowtowed like a madman, the floor thudding loudly. Blood soon appeared on his forehead.
"I was wrong! I was truly wrong! I beg you to give me another chance! I am willing to do anything!"
He was afraid. He was afraid of being thrown away like a used-up rag.
Archer watched him quietly. There was no anger in his eyes, nor was there any pity—only a vast indifference.
"Lord Giovanni's eyes are far more piercing than mine."
He spoke slowly, drawing a conclusion to this judgment.
"In his eyes, you are a reckless person."
"That is enough."