Alan froze like someone had just offered to sell him a mansion for the price of a sandwich.
"You… you're really gonna sell me the formula?" he asked, still clutching the energy cube like it was a newborn baby. His hand had half-slipped into his pocket to grab a Pokéball, probably to threaten David into a "negotiation." But now he just stared, stunned. The idea that David had said yes so quickly short-circuited his brain.
David immediately realized he might've made it sound too easy, which would definitely make things suspicious. He cleared his throat, gave a totally unconvincing awkward chuckle, and rubbed the back of his neck like he'd just remembered he had a conscience.
"Ah, well, I mean… the formula's not exactly cheap," David added quickly. "We're talking three million Alliance coins. At least. I mean, come on—this is the holy grail of snacks for Pokémon. They don't care if they're Water-type, Fire-type, Rock-type, or emotionally unstable—every Pokémon eats it."
Alan blinked.
"Three million??" he repeated, as if trying to confirm whether he misheard or just swallowed his own tongue.
David nodded solemnly, putting on his best "reluctant genius" expression. "It's practically a bargain. I mean, the standard mid-tier energy cube recipes go for that much anyway—if you can even get one. And they usually only work for one type, like Grass or Electric. Mine? Mine is the all-you-can-eat buffet of energy cubes."
Alan's face went through a full slideshow of emotions—shock, confusion, a flicker of hope, and then… reluctant acceptance. He wasn't an idiot. As outrageous as it sounded, the price was reasonable in the energy cube market.
And David's version wasn't just better—it was Pokémon crack. No type limits, no downsides, and Pokémon practically begged for it like it was fried chicken dipped in dreams.
Cheap? No. Worth it?
David smiled sweetly. The kind of smile that meant: "Thank you for your money, and also good luck using the totally 'real' recipe I'm about to hand you."
David didn't say a word. He just stared at Alan, face full of forced sympathy, like a salesman pretending to care about your budget right after quoting a ridiculous price. He had already brought the price down so low it might as well have been on clearance, and yet Alan was still standing there, frowning so hard it looked like his brain was buffering.
David crossed his arms, waiting, watching Alan do mental gymnastics.
Alan's eyes kept twitching between David and the bag of energy cubes, like he was trying to solve a moral dilemma using only eyebrow movements. Clearly, his internal debate was heating up.
David could almost see the gears turning in Alan's head.
"Do I fight him for the formula? Nah, too risky… I don't look good in jail stripes…"
He was clearly torn. The Alliance and Black Market had a big red X on private battles over trade disputes. Trying to beat the formula out of someone could get you banned, blacklisted, or straight-up hunted down by security enforcement. Even Alan wasn't dumb enough to risk that.
So, after a painfully long silence, Alan sighed like he'd just agreed to sell his soul for a microwave and finally reached into his coat.
He pulled out something he clearly didn't want to part with: two glittering crystal discs—the kind of things you only bring out when your house is on fire or your kid's been kidnapped. His hands were shaking, and his face looked like he was passing a kidney stone.
"Two TM discs," Alan muttered, like he was being forced to confess a crime. "Should be more than enough to cover the recipe."
David's eyebrows shot up. He hadn't expected that. Those weren't knockoff Poké Ball keychains—those were actual TM discs, rare skill memories! Real treasures from deep in the wild zones. These were high-value items Trainers hoarded like dragons hoarded gold.
David leaned closer, trying not to drool. He was shocked Alan even had these.
TM discs—or skill memories—weren't cheap. They were like cheat codes for Pokémon. Pop one in, and your Pokémon had a chance to instantly learn a move it might normally have to train for months to master. But unlike in games, the success rate wasn't guaranteed.
Low-level skill memories had about a 20% success rate. If your Pokémon had the brainpower of a carrot, forget it. Even with top-tier skill memories, you were lucky to hit 80%. The rest depended on the Pokémon's smarts and talent. Basically, if your Pikachu was a straight-C student, it might not learn a thing.
David took a closer look. One TM was for Protect, the other for Brick Break.
His heart skipped.
Protect was a goldmine. Every serious Trainer used it. It was the Swiss Army knife of battle moves—stalling, blocking, avoiding certain death. Even low-grade Protect skill memories sold for one to two million coins. It was a premium move wrapped in sparkly data.
Brick Break? Eh… less exciting. Kinda like buying socks. Useful, but not exactly the stuff of legends. Plenty of gyms and training centers could just teach it to your Pokémon the regular way. The TM disc for it was maybe worth a million—on a good day.
Still, this was a huge offer.
David rubbed his chin. The logical part of his brain reminded him that TM discs weren't guaranteed to work. He could plug those into his Pokémon and just get two confused stares in return. If both failed, that was basically tossing two million coins in the trash and setting it on fire.
But if they did work?
His tactical flexibility would skyrocket. His Pokémon would have powerful new moves, and he'd have a major edge in upcoming battles. One good Protect could win a match on its own. One successful Brick Break could shatter screens and ruin someone's day.
He looked back at Alan, who was still holding the discs out like they were radioactive.
David hesitated. This was a gamble. High risk, high reward. He could practically hear a dramatic movie trailer voice in his head.
"One man. Two TM discs. A decision that would change everything…"
His eyes flicked to the system panel in his head. His hoard of negative emotion points was still growing by the minute. He had breathing room. A buffer.
Maybe it was worth the risk.
He took a deep breath. Still unsure, still calculating—but getting closer to the edge of a decision.
He just needed one more moment to commit.
David finally sighed, like he was about to give away a winning lottery ticket for a handful of scratch-offs, and nodded toward Alan.
"Alright, fine. You've got yourself a deal. Wait here—I'll write down the recipe."
Honestly, David wasn't too heartbroken about it. He had just sold out all of his homemade "Jet" cubes at a nice profit, and his account was currently sitting pretty with nearly a million Alliance coins. The guy had money in the bank, confidence in his walk, and just enough smugness to feel like an absolute legend.
Plus, he knew those two skill memory discs would come in handy sooner or later. Protect was a no-brainer for Ralts—if you wanted to run any kind of infuriatingly toxic, stall-heavy, tactical nonsense in battles, you needed Protect. It was the duct tape of competitive strategy.
And the Brick Break disc? That one was for Pikachu. David's Pikachu wasn't some cute little furball with attitude—it was a solid physical attacker with real punching potential. He wanted it to be able to smash through Rock-types like it was breaking drywall.
So yeah, this wasn't just a good trade. It was tactical. Calculated. Kinda genius, honestly.
David quickly scribbled the recipe for his famous "Jet" energy cube onto a scrap of paper. Of course, he left out the system-generated ingredients—"delicious powder" and "negative emotion water"—because Alan wasn't getting his hands on those, not in this lifetime. That stuff didn't even exist in normal markets. Let Alan figure that part out on his own.
David handed over the sheet, trying not to smirk. Alan snatched it up like it was the lost scroll of ancient PokéAlchemy, his eyes sparkling with unfiltered greed.
He read over the recipe, lips moving silently as he scanned each line, nodding to himself with a look that screamed, I just robbed this idiot blind. Then his expression suddenly twisted.
Alan's brows furrowed so hard it looked like he was trying to decipher ancient code. "Wait a minute… why is there a strong laxative in your formula?"
David blinked. Then blinked again.
"Uh," he stalled, scratching the back of his head like a guilty teenager caught Googling weird things. "That's… for detox purposes! Yeah. Y'know, most Pokémon carry around a lot of toxins in their systems—poison buildup, bad diet, maybe some shady berries—and they need to, uh, flush that stuff out!"
Alan stared at him like he'd just claimed eating glue builds muscle. "You're telling me your energy cubes are supposed to give Pokémon diarrhea?"
David's face went through a full loading screen.
"Well, not… diarrhea, per se," he stammered. "Just… internal cleansing. Like a spa day. For the intestines."
Alan narrowed his eyes. "Right."
"I mean, look at the results!" David protested, now fully in sales pitch mode. "You've seen how good my cubes are! Energy, glow, better fur, perfect bowel health!"
Alan tilted his head. "You actually make Pokémon poop more and sell it as a feature?"
David nodded way too quickly. "It's… revolutionary."
Alan squinted, skepticism radiating off him. "It does sound kinda reasonable, but… I feel like I should be offended."
Still, Alan didn't call off the deal. Despite his gut screaming that something was fishy—besides the literal fish oil in the recipe—he couldn't bring himself to believe David was capable of pulling a fast one.
In his mind, David was just some clueless Breeder student who didn't understand the business side of things. A guy so naïve he might give away the Mona Lisa if you smiled hard enough.
The idea that David might be playing 4D chess simply didn't exist in Alan's brain.
He looked back down at the formula in his hands and silently chuckled. Selling the mid-level energy cube recipe was the dumbest move Alan had ever seen someone make.
This was a golden goose. A cash cow. A money printer with glitter on top.
David had basically handed him a license to print cash. Even better—he was too stupid to even patent it.
Alan already had plans forming in his head: repackaging the cube, giving it a fancier name like "Turbo Burst" or "ElementCharge X," and selling it at three times the price. He wouldn't even have to change the formula. Well… maybe just remove the laxative.
The two of them completed the trade with smiles—Alan's a greedy, smug grin that screamed I'm winning, and David's the tight-lipped smile of a man who knew exactly what he'd done but was already halfway out the metaphorical door.
David scooped up the two skill memory discs and promptly bolted. He ran like a man escaping a crime scene. No handshakes, no receipt, not even a backward glance.
He didn't even stick around to collect the 2,000 Alliance coins Alan owed him for the original "Jet" cubes.
Because as he ran, a beautiful sound echoed in his ears:
[Obtained +60 Negative Emotion from Jack]
[Obtained +60 Negative Emotion from Munchlax.]
[Obtained +70 Negative Emotion from Jack.]
[Obtained +70 Negative Emotion from Munchlax.]
David didn't need the 2,000 coins. He was raking in currency straight from people's crushed dreams and confusion.
It was glorious.