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Roughly twenty minutes later, the silent middle-aged man in front of Sato finally came to a halt. By the light of the ever-burning lamps lining the hidden corridor's walls, Sato could see that the path had ended—what lay ahead was a pitch-black wall.
Seeing this, Sato silently rested his fingers on the PokeBall containing Swampert, his gaze locked tightly on the man who had stopped in front of him.
The moment that man made any suspicious movement, he would release Swampert without hesitation and crush him. In this narrow terrain, Swampert was practically invincible.
Although the man's earlier stealth had been unsettling, now that he was clearly exposed in Sato's line of sight, the threat level had dropped significantly. Sato felt confident that he could hold his own in a direct confrontation.
Besides, Swampert was part Ground-type. With its excellent control over Ground-type energy, it could navigate through earth as easily as through water. As long as Swampert was around, Sato wasn't even slightly concerned about being buried alive underground.
In such a remote, narrow subterranean space, there was no doubt—it was the perfect place to kill and rob. Law held no sway here, and no identity carried weight. Down here, only strength mattered.
Perhaps sensing the dangerous aura coming off of Sato, the man hesitated slightly before stepping forward again. He walked up to the end of the corridor and pressed firmly against a specific spot on the wall.
In the next moment, the section of the wall he touched sank inward. A mechanical click echoed through the passage.
Then, under Sato's watchful eyes, the wall at the end of the corridor split open slowly, revealing a basement lit by harsh white lights.
At the same time, a thick metallic scent of blood wafted out, and Sato instinctively narrowed his eyes against the sudden brightness. His pupils shrank to pinpoints.
"Please, guest. All of my finest goods are kept here."
The man turned around and offered Sato a pale, unsettling smile, gesturing for him to step inside.
But when he saw that Sato had no intention of moving—or rather, was unwilling to place himself ahead of the man—he retracted his smile and stepped into the basement first.
Sato's eyes gleamed subtly. A flicker of thought passed through his mind. Only once his eyes had adjusted to the bright light did he follow the man inside.
To the man, Sato was a troublesome customer. Though Sato had brought a letter of introduction from Joe Kondo, a long-time client of Team Rocket, the man still harbored suspicion.
The reason was simple. Having dealt with countless League trainers over the years, the man could smell that particular "stench" of righteousness that those self-proclaimed just and kind League trainers always carried—and he sensed a trace of it on Sato.
And yet, everything Sato had done since entering—from the house to the secret passage—displayed a ruthless and seasoned demeanor. It made the man uncertain whether Sato truly was an undercover League agent.
Just now, when he had intentionally stopped, the murderous intent he felt from Sato was unmistakable. There was a real sense of danger.
At that moment, Sato was no different from the fugitives and criminals the man normally dealt with—people who operated in the gray and black worlds, who trusted only in their fists when it came down to it.
Would a self-righteous League trainer ever act like that?
In the man's opinion, absolutely not. Those League trainers, born into privilege, would never do the things desperate men were forced to do.
After all, from the moment they were born, their parents had already arranged everything that desperate people would have to gamble their lives for. There was no need for them to take risks.
Could he be a League dog, perhaps? The thought passed briefly through the man's mind. In the end, he dismissed it. Whether Sato was or wasn't, it no longer mattered.
What mattered was that Sato now possessed the power to threaten his life. That was enough.
When strength was roughly equal, identities became meaningless. In that moment, it was impossible to tell who was the hunter and who the prey.
The man had no personal grudge against Sato. If Sato had shown the slightest weakness along the way, he would've had his Gengar kill him and take his valuables without hesitation.
To the man, who had suffered under the League's oppression for years, weak League lackeys deserved only death—no exceptions.
Although Sato had kept a respectful distance from his shadow throughout the trip, in such a dark, confined space, Gengar could've easily bypassed it. Killing Sato wouldn't have been difficult.
But Sato's intimidating presence had changed the man's mind. He had a sudden, absurd premonition: if he attacked, Sato might survive—but he definitely would not.
And so, he dropped the question of whether Sato was an undercover agent or not. It was no longer the right time to ask.
Strength, after all, was the only qualification that mattered in the gray and black worlds. That was one of their eternal rules.
When Sato entered the basement, what appeared before him was something akin to an art museum. But instead of priceless artifacts, it was filled with Ghost-type Pokémon.
Each one of these Pokémon—so terrifying in the eyes of ordinary people—was now locked inside a sealed glass case like a work of art.
Looking around, Sato estimated that there were at least a hundred Ghost-types in the man's collection. Excluding Legendary and Ultra Beasts, the full range of Ghost-type species was represented here.
And according to the system scan, none of these Pokémon were subpar. Their average aptitude was in the purple-grade tier.
Among them, Sato spotted several Ghost-types with golden-grade potential.
There was no doubt: the man was a highly capable Ghost-type Pokémon hunter—and one who had clearly mastered several methods of restraining and capturing them.
The Ghost-types in this basement were just like those in haunted mansions: other than the occasional eye movement, they were completely still, as if they were genuine "artifacts" (lifeless objects) quietly waiting in their glass prisons.
"Welcome to my museum. Spectacular, isn't it? All the Ghost-types here are premium stock. A few of them I captured in cursed zones—almost lost my life there, you know."
The man clearly had a few screws loose. Once inside the underground museum, he became hyperactive, transforming instantly from a silent man to a chatterbox.
He was showing off to Sato, acting like each and every Ghost-type Pokémon here was a treasured possession. With fanatical excitement, he launched into an explanation of how he caught each one.
"This guy is insane. Just how obsessed with Ghost-types is he? It's almost perverse. Damn it, that Joe Kondo really set me up—what kind of person did he introduce me to?"
Though Sato maintained a calm exterior and played the role of a polite listener, deep down, he was cursing Joe a dozen times over.
Judging by this man's deranged obsession with Ghost-types, it was hard to say whether he would actually sell any of them to Sato.