Pokemon: The Legacy of Dragons

Yet what Logan found himself calculating most… was just how long it would take Mewtwo to completely tear apart this two-hundred-thousand-ton luxury cruise ship.

His conclusion?

If Mewtwo really felt like it, probably not more than a few blows would reduce all this steel into useless scrap.

Once on board, Logan ignored the other passengers entirely and headed straight for his private suite.

One of fewer than ten first-class cabins on the entire ship, it was enormous—over 300 square meters of living space, plus a sunlit balcony of more than a hundred square meters. Every piece of furniture, every fixture, was the most luxurious that money could buy.

And it wasn't just about money: even at over four million yen per ticket, you couldn't simply buy your way in. You needed status—someone at least like Misty, a Gym Leader, to even qualify.

Logan was thoroughly satisfied. For once, it felt like four million well spent.

With no luggage to unpack, he simply stepped onto the balcony, quietly waiting as the horn sounded. Once the enormous ship finally began to move, Logan left his suite, heading for the highest deck on the vessel: the trainers' battle arena.

There was no need to rush investigating the missing Pokémon. Night would be the better time to do that.

And since he was on the St. Anne… it would be foolish not to enjoy it.

Red probably felt the same way—accepting this "mission" just gave him the perfect excuse to board the ship.

Compared to the reckless, hot-headed protagonist Logan remembered from the anime, the real Red was sharp, thoughtful, and far from a fool. He was passionate, yes—but never blindly so.

Before Logan even reached the battle arena, the noise of excited voices reached his ears.

Of course—in this world, Pokémon always took center stage. Whether it was socialites or trainers, all followed the allure of Pokémon.

Stepping into the grand hall, Logan realized this wasn't just a battle arena—it was also a glittering casino, like a ballroom of gold and crystal.

Elegant croupiers dealt cards at velvet tables; men and women in formalwear—some obviously seasoned trainers—gambled and chatted, while others watched in polite amusement.

In this world, trainers held the ultimate strength.

Corporate giants might hire average trainers to serve them—but truly powerful trainers didn't care for money. Winning their favor meant building bonds, not writing checks.

And scenes like this—lavish gatherings on the St. Anne—were perfect for the wealthy and influential to befriend tomorrow's stars before they rose too high.

Social rules didn't change, no matter the world—only the hierarchy did.

Unless you planned to wipe out humanity itself, you couldn't completely ignore social dance.

When Logan, with Dratini by his side, appeared in the casino, a dozen eyes immediately lit up.

People in expensive suits and dresses—some clearly high up in the Pokémon League, some from Silph Co. in Kanto, others from Devon Corp. in Hoenn, and even descendants of old noble families—approached with polite smiles and raised glasses.

Some had young daughters at their side, dressed demurely in fine gowns, clearly brought here to charm promising young trainers.

A few polite conversations, a few refused private invitations—and Logan felt no guilt.

His worth came from one place only: strength.

Become strong enough—become the strongest—and status, connections, and wealth would follow. There was no need to waste time chasing them.

After a leisurely stroll through the casino, Logan spotted Red registering for a battle match.

He waved; Red grinned back.

An idea struck Logan—and he headed for the betting desk to place a bet on Red's victory.

If it were the anime's version of Red, Logan might have bet against him.

But this Red? Smart, capable, and driven? Betting on him to win was an easy choice.

With time to spare, Logan cashed in several hundred thousand yen for chips—he might as well have some fun.

After all, he literally couldn't lose.

"White number 9…"

Logan lounged in his chair, legs crossed. Dratini curled happily on the table, eyes crescented in delight, occasionally nuzzling Logan's hand for another scratch.

As the spinning ball slowed on the roulette wheel, Logan nudged a 100,000 yen chip with his cane, sending it clinking onto white number 9.

The croupier's face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead. When the ball finally dropped, he sighed, defeated:

"…White 9. You win again, sir."

"Wow—!"

A crowd had long gathered around, and after a brief gasp, they burst into applause.

To them, Logan looked every bit a gambling prodigy.

Logan barely understood most casino games—but this simple "pick a number and bet" suited him perfectly.

With Mewtwo's psychic power subtly nudging the ball, he literally couldn't lose.

Casinos usually relied on the fact that you had to release your Pokémon from its ball to use abilities—and nobody expected a Pokémon strong enough to affect reality while staying inside its ball.

Fewer still could imagine a Pokémon capable of such precise, split-second control.

To onlookers, it just looked like Logan had insane skill.

Ever since he'd started, Logan bet modestly—only around 100,000 yen each time. But he won every single spin.

Other gamblers, emboldened by his streak, tried following his bets.

But the moment they bet too much alongside him, Logan had Mewtwo ensure they lost—sometimes wiping out over-eager gamblers in minutes.

He had no patience for gamblers who risked their entire lives.

For him, it was light amusement—but for them, it was obsession. If they ruined themselves, that was on them.

It wasn't long before Logan had quietly won over twenty million yen.

And everyone could tell—if he truly wanted, he could walk away with billions.

But to him? Money meant nothing.

If Logan wanted, he had endless ways to earn it.

Nearby, Red had just won his own match, and the crowd cheered as he raised his hand in triumph.

Logan smiled faintly.

A quick calculation told him he'd made over twenty million yen in just this short while—and with that, he'd had enough.

Better not be too greedy; even the St. Anne's casino deserved a little mercy.

"He's using psychic powers to gamble!"

At the other end of the casino, a noble young woman stood trembling, her eyes locked on Logan.

Her golden hair shimmered under the chandeliers, and she practically ran toward him, heart racing.

"Miss, please—wait!"

The elderly butler trailing behind her hurried to catch up, sighing helplessly.

He himself was a skilled trainer—powerful enough to stand on his own, but here, serving as her bodyguard made perfect sense.

After all, when a trainer hires another trainer, it's not a sign of weakness—it's strategy.

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