Truth potion

The tortured howls from inside David's house echoed well into the night—pitiful, drawn-out cries of a man who had seen too much, eaten too much, and flushed way, way too much.

By now, Tom had just finished eating the last of the memory toast.

Well, most of it.

There was still a depressing little pile left on the table, and David, ever the scholar, had been nibbling on a few slices himself, if only to check if there were "any gaps" in the memory transfer process.

After all, how could he, the mastermind of this entire ordeal, allow Tom to be better informed than him?

But Tom... oh, poor Tom.

He emerged from the bathroom like a haunted ghost. One hand gripped the wall for dear life, the other held a roll of toilet paper like a war medal. His face had gone from pale white to a rich shade of swamp green, like he'd been dipped in radioactive pesto.

The man looked like he'd survived a blender accident.

"Bro..." Tom croaked, wobbling like a loose shopping cart wheel, "how many times was that...?"

David looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully, as if he were calculating how many jellybeans fit in a truck.

"Uhhh... maybe seventeen? Eighteen?" he replied cheerfully.

Tom blinked slowly, like a man processing the stages of grief.

That was, indeed, how many times he'd sprinted to the bathroom. After all, memory toast wasn't just bread with knowledge—it was dense, borderline illegal information compressed into each slice. And Tom had eaten nearly the whole box.

There was no other way to fit that much data into one mortal digestive system.

David had developed a rhythm. Every time Tom looked like he might pass out from sheer brain overload, he'd casually slide over one of his infamous "Flush Bomb" laxatives and point him back toward the bathroom like a coach sending his player back into the ring.

Eat six or seven slices? Poop them out. Rinse. Repeat. Like some horrifying academic cleanse program.

Seventeen or eighteen rotations later, Tom had finally hit the finish line.

There were only two slices of toast left sitting innocently in front of David, glistening under the kitchen light like they hadn't just ruined a man's colon.

David eyed Tom with mild curiosity.

He was actually surprised.

Originally, he figured Tom could take a few pieces home. Memory toast wasn't meant to be eaten all at once. Like vitamins or Taylor Swift albums, it was best digested slowly. But no—Tom had doubled down like it was a Black Friday sale.

After about the third bathroom sprint, David had thought, Huh, maybe he's built different?

By the seventh sprint, he wondered if the system had enhanced the toast's properties.

By the twelfth, he just wanted to see what would happen if he kept pushing it.

And by the seventeenth?

David was already calculating whether this experience could be turned into a business model.

But Tom?

Tom was broken.

He collapsed onto the sofa like a used mop, his soul clearly hovering somewhere above his head.

He stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed, trembling, a man who had gazed into the abyss—and found it clogged.

"If I could do it all over again," Tom whispered, voice cracked and full of emotional shrapnel, "I swear to God, I'd study. I'd really study."

His eyes glistened with tears. He wasn't even being dramatic anymore. This was genuine remorse, forged in the fires of digestive destruction.

David nodded solemnly and patted him on the shoulder. "It's okay, Tom. Really. Look—there are just two slices left. Take them home. Eat them for breakfast tomorrow."

He handed over the last two slices like a priest handing out holy bread. "You earned it, man."

Tom blinked.

He stared at the toast.

Then back at David.

A slow realization dawned.

"Wait a minute... I could've taken it home?"

David tilted his head. "Yeah, why not?"

Tom froze.

His face slackened. The toast in his hands might as well have been nuclear weapons.

"I... could've... taken it home?" he repeated slowly, like each word was stabbing him in the stomach one last time.

Then, with no warning, he lunged and grabbed David by the collar with both hands.

"You—YOU COULD'VE TOLD ME THIS EARLIER!!!" he roared, shaking David like a vending machine that ate his last coin.

[+100 Negative Emotion Value from Tom]

[+100 Negative Emotion Value from Tom]

[+100 Negative Emotion Value from Tom]

David pried Tom's hands off with a sheepish grin. "I just... I dunno... figured you liked it that way?"

Tom stared at him, stunned.

"...YOU THINK I LIKED IT?!"

His voice cracked.

"I've been on the toilet more times than I've blinked today! I'm out of tears! Out of fluids! My organs are staging a rebellion! You think I ENJOYED THAT?!"

The sheer injustice overwhelmed him.

And right then, something inside Tom snapped.

The big guy—nearly two meters tall—fell face-first onto the couch and let out a long, shuddering sob.

"WAAAAAHHHH!!!"

Tears streamed down his cheeks like someone had opened a faucet. David stood there, still holding the empty toast plate, watching the breakdown unfold like a National Geographic documentary.

Tom grabbed the last two slices without a word and stormed out of the house like a betrayed war veteran, staggering into the night with toast in hand.

Outside, the old man next door was sitting on a lawn chair, enjoying the cool evening air. He looked up as Tom stumbled past, green-faced, broken, but weirdly determined.

He sighed and shook his head slowly.

"Ah," he muttered. "Kids these days… The world's really gone downhill."

Inside David's bedroom, Pikachu and Ralts were feeling incredibly lucky to still be alive.

From the other side of the house, they could hear the anguished, guttural screams of Tom echoing through the walls like a horror movie soundtrack. It was the kind of sound that made you question life choices—and breakfast.

The two Pokémon froze.

They knew exactly what was going on.

David, their seemingly chill, occasionally lazy trainer… had snapped. He had unleashed some kind of digestive apocalypse on poor Tom, and the results were loud, wet, and deeply unsettling.

Pikachu and Ralts exchanged a long, terrified look. No words needed. Just wide eyes filled with dread and the mutual understanding that if this could happen to Tom, it could happen to anyone.

What if one day they stepped out of line? Would they be the next victims of the Toast Trials?

Pikachu gulped audibly and, without hesitation, dove into his hamster wheel like a caffeine-fueled athlete at the Olympics. Sparks flew from his feet as he spun it with the intensity of someone fleeing death.

Meanwhile, Ralts, normally the picture of nap-loving serenity, sprang into action like a nervous hotel maid. He whipped out a duster, a broom, and God knows what else, and began frantically cleaning the room. In minutes, David's usually "creative mess" was transformed into a pristine sanctuary that Martha Stewart would weep over.

Just then, the bedroom door creaked open.

David walked in, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp, looking mildly puzzled.

He paused, looking around.

"…Why are you two working so hard today? Did I… miss a holiday or something?"

He scratched his head but didn't overthink it. After all, two suddenly hyper-productive Pokémon? Not his problem.

He washed up, climbed into bed, and fell asleep—snuggled peacefully between the two most traumatized creatures in the house.

****

The next morning, David strolled into school like a man who'd just woken up from a war dream—which, to be fair, wasn't far off. He had spent half the night listening to Tom's suffering echo through the walls like the soundtrack of gastrointestinal horror. But hey, the important thing was, he got some decent sleep.

Unfortunately, the moment he stepped into the classroom, the real danger began.

Standing at the front of the room was Melissa—the teacher, the terror, and the unfortunate crush of half the boys in class. She was dressed in her usual sharp teaching uniform, with legs so long and posture so upright, she could've moonlighted as a runway model. Unfortunately, she was also holding a stack of thick test papers with the kind of expression usually reserved for tax audits and public executions.

David froze mid-step.

His eyes locked onto her like she was a rare shiny Pokémon, and Melissa, of course, noticed. Her brow twitched. She clenched her teeth just hard enough to look furious but not enough to crack enamel, and somehow—despite her icy tone—there was the faintest hint of pink across her cheeks.

"David," she snapped. "Late. Again."

David blinked, pretending to be surprised. "What? Nooo. I was helping an old lady cross the road! She had a walker and a Psyduck with coordination issues."

"Sit. Down." Her voice was flat.

"Right! On it!" David slipped into his seat like a pro burglar avoiding laser tripwires. Classic survival instincts.

The rest of the class didn't even look up. They were too used to this routine. David being late was as regular as Tom having indigestion and Luna sighing loudly at both of them.

Melissa moved on without further fanfare. She held up the stack of papers like it was a sacred relic. "Alright, listen up. This is your final mock exam before the practicals."

That got David's attention.

Right—this wasn't just another paper-pushing test. In this world, the Pokémon college entrance exam wasn't just some multiple-choice boredom-fest. It was two parts: written and practical. And after this mock exam, the real preparation would begin. No more classes. Just months of training, battling, and desperately trying not to get electrocuted by your own Pikachu.

David nodded in sudden seriousness. Then he turned and gave a gentle nudge to the human-shaped bag of trauma slumped beside him.

"Hey, Tom. You good? Feeling confident?"

Tom raised his head slowly, like a zombie in a romance movie. He was no longer ghost-white, but his face still had a very noticeable leafy green tint—like someone who had licked a moldy toaster and lived to regret it.

"I'm alive," he croaked, "but I don't know if I'm happy about it."

Fair enough.

Melissa began calling names and moving people around the room to prevent any "creative teamwork." Then she handed out the tests like a judge passing sentences.

The questions themselves weren't too difficult if you'd studied… or, you know, if you'd force-fed yourself a box of magical memory toast and cleared your digestive tract eighteen times in a row like a soldier in a war of attrition.

David breezed through it. Tom surprisingly did too—though his pencil grip looked shaky, and he might have hallucinated part of the last question.

One long, exam-riddled morning later—

"RIIIIINGGGG!"

The blessed sound of freedom echoed through the halls as the school bell rang.

David yawned, stretching over his desk. He had finished early and spent the last fifteen minutes drawing sunglasses on a doodle of Pikachu. Beside him, Tom emerged from his post-test coma and blinked at the world like someone seeing sunlight for the first time.

As Melissa collected the papers, Tom suddenly grabbed David's hands with an intensity that made David flinch.

"David. Brother. You are my real brother from another mother."

David raised an eyebrow. "I mean… thanks?"

"That toast," Tom whispered, shaking his hand solemnly. "Changed. My. Life."

Thanks to the memory toast, the once-monstrous test paper looked to Tom like a third-grade spelling quiz. For the first time in his academically disastrous life, he finished a test in half an hour and spent the rest of the time catching up on sleep.

The greenish hue was fading from his face. The trauma was still fresh, but there was hope now. Tom looked reborn—well, reborn and slightly twitchy.

David grinned. "So, what do you think? Top ten?"

Tom shook his head. "No, no. I think I can get second place this time!"

"Why not first?"

Tom gave him a look. "Because you exist, genius."

"Fair," David smirked. "But I'll allow you second place. It's generous of me."

Tom nodded seriously, scanning through the test in his mind. "There were a couple questions that tripped me up, but overall? I crushed it."

Meanwhile, from the next row, Luna Ling—the class's calm, composed, and perpetually unimpressed star student—glanced over at the duo.

One was a disaster who coasted through life with casual brilliance. The other was a human stomachache in pants. And yet, here they were, talking about top exam scores like two prodigies swapping study tips.

Luna sighed and returned to packing her things. There was no point trying to understand these two.

From across the classroom, Jake—resident smug-face and full-time antagonist—overheard Tom's bold declaration about coming second in the exam and couldn't resist waddling over like a nosy pelican sensing drama.

"Well, well," Jake said, arching an eyebrow and crossing his arms. "Look who's talking big. Planning to race for second-to-last this time instead of your usual gold medal in failure?"

Tom didn't even flinch. He cracked his knuckles with exaggerated flair and leaned back like he was some retired mob boss being disrespected in his own restaurant.

"Oh look," he said with mock delight. "If it isn't Little Jakey—the guy my brother made cry during battle like a toddler who dropped his ice cream."

David, watching this from his desk, blinked innocently. "I don't recall any tears… but there was a suspicious amount of sniffling."

Jake's face twitched, the way someone's might when you bring up that time they peed their pants in first grade. "That was allergies," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Deciding to preserve the last few fragments of his ego, Jake turned his attention squarely to David.

"David," he said, voice rising with dramatic flair, "don't get too comfortable. The entrance exams aren't just about who can memorize more Poké-history dates or recite the evolutionary chart backwards. There's actual combat, too. Let's see how many points you get there."

With that, Jake spun around like he was storming off a reality TV set and stomped dramatically out of the classroom.

David stared after him. "You think he practices that walk in the mirror?"

"Absolutely," Tom replied, nodding. "He probably has a whole playlist for it."

Truth be told, Jake wasn't entirely wrong. He had accepted that beating David in written exams was about as likely as catching a Mewtwo in a cardboard box. But the practical portion of the entrance exam? That was his shot. That was where he believed he could claw back some respect—maybe even first place.

His biggest hurdle, though? His team.

While David had a Ralts with a psychic arsenal and a deeply concerning bond with Tom, Jake was stuck with a Pikachu—cute, sure, but nowhere near the competitive level of a proper Royal Starter Pokémon. In terms of growth potential, Pikachu was like bringing a balloon animal to a sword fight.

And Ralts? From what Jake had seen, it was still technically in its adorable baby-phase… but baby or not, it had already wiped the floor with his team more than once.

Later that afternoon, the results of the written exam were posted outside the classroom. Students crowded around the notice board like moths to a glowing trash fire.

At the very top of the list—no surprise—was David.

Right below him, however, was a name that sent shockwaves through the hallway.

Second place: Tom.

People double-checked. Then triple-checked. Then checked the school calendar to see if it was April Fool's Day. It wasn't.

Back in the classroom, Tom was holding the results like they were a Grammy award, spinning around with the giddiness of a man who just found out he wasn't adopted.

"Brother!" he yelled at David, nearly crying again—but this time with joy. "You absolute legend! We actually pulled it off! Second place! SECOND!"

From her desk, Luna Ling lifted her head, brows furrowed in confusion.

Wait—Tom? Second?

She stood up and hurried over to double-check the results herself. Yep. There it was. In official print. Second place.

She whipped around to face Tom, eyes wide in disbelief. "Tom?! You actually came second?!"

Tom smoothed his hair like he was suddenly the most eligible bachelor in the region. "That's right. The one and only."

Luna's eyes narrowed. Her instincts kicked in. Something was off. This wasn't a 'studied hard and got lucky' kind of result. This was a 'sold my soul to the devil and aced it' type of deal.

Then she remembered the earlier conversation between David and Tom. Something about memory toast?

Her gaze turned laser-sharp. "Wait a second… Is memory toast real?"

Tom puffed out his chest proudly, but before he could make a fool of himself, David swooped in with the grace of a practiced liar.

"Memory toast? Come on. That's not real," David said with a snort. "Nah, I just sat down with Tom yesterday. We had a serious talk. Then I had Ralts tell him: if he doesn't come second in the exam, he's never allowed to see Ralts again."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"Wait—what?!" Luna blinked.

Tom's soul visibly left his body for a second.

"YOU SAID WHAT TO RALTS?!"

The mental image was clear as day. Ralts, with a tiny clipboard and deadpan expression, relaying the news like a disappointed parole officer: Sorry, Tom. No second place, no cuddles.

Luna stared at David. "That's… that's the dumbest motivational tactic I've ever heard."

"And yet—" David pointed at the score sheet. "It worked."

Tom, now processing the memory, shivered. "I really thought I'd never see her again… I had to fight for my life out there…"

Luna didn't know what to believe anymore. It sounded insane. But this was Tom—the man whose love for Gardevoir had already crossed the threshold of normal into legally questionable territory.

Maybe it was enough motivation. Maybe the panic of losing Ralts had turned his brain into a memory sponge.

She still wasn't fully convinced, but a part of her—deep, deep inside—was starting to believe this unholy tale might be real.

"Besides," David added with a straight face, "didn't you notice how green his face was this morning? That wasn't food poisoning. That was pure, unfiltered academic panic."

Tom, hands on his hips, nodded solemnly. "My body gave up, but my heart didn't. I studied all night like a man possessed."

David placed a hand on his shoulder. "We call it the Ralts Effect."

***

Just as things were starting to settle down in the classroom, someone couldn't resist stirring the pot.

From the back came a loud, theatrical sigh, followed by a voice dripping with envy and sarcasm.

"Ohhh, wow! Some people really got lucky, huh?" the voice rang out. "Bottom of the barrel last time, now suddenly top-tier. Must be nice to wake up with a new brain!"

It was Jake—loudmouth, round-bellied, and incapable of subtlety even if his life depended on it. He sauntered toward Tom like he was making an entrance in a soap opera, each footstep exaggerated just enough to make you want to trip him.

His voice wasn't just loud—it was amplified. It bounced off every wall of the classroom like he had a personal PA system installed in his windpipe. Within seconds, all eyes turned to Tom.

Because, let's be honest—Tom's leap from dead last to second place was about as believable as a Magikarp winning a boxing match.

Tom blinked. "What did you just say?"

See, Tom wasn't the type to take insults sitting down. He was tall. Broad. Basically a walking vending machine. And right now, that vending machine was shaking. His eyes locked on Jake like a predator sizing up a meatball. His sleeves were halfway rolled before anyone had time to intervene.

He was ready to beat Jake into next Tuesday. Because in Tom's world, cheating? No. Toast-powered miracle learning? Yes. And how dare anyone question the sacred bond between a man and his memory-toast?

But before Tom could go full WWE, David stepped in.

"Whoa, whoa—easy there, Raging Tomato," David said, slipping between them like a referee who didn't want to get hit. "Let's not rearrange his face just yet."

Honestly, David felt kinda bad. The toast that helped Tom score second place? Yeah, that was David's doing—well, technically his system's doing. He'd handed Tom a magical slice of bread that turned revision into superpowered absorption.

But it wasn't like Jake could prove anything. That toast was from his mysterious system. It wasn't exactly on the syllabus.

So David cleared his throat and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Jake, dude, we're all classmates here. Maybe don't shout like a jealous drama queen next time? You act like you'd automatically be second if Tom didn't show up."

He gave Jake a casual smirk, the kind that said you're not special, bro.

Jake's face twitched. His eyes narrowed like he was trying to squint out a comeback. It didn't work. He just looked constipated.

Now the entire class was watching the drama unfold. The whispers started like wildfire.

"Did Tom really cheat?"

"Nah, maybe he just… studied for once?"

"Are we sure he didn't just absorb the answers through sheer willpower and toast?"

And Jake—oh boy—Jake looked like a boiled lobster about to explode. He didn't even like David, but now he hated him with a new level of intensity.

David's internal system dinged with notifications.

[Jake's negative emotion value +100…]

[Jake's negative emotion value +110…]

[Jake's negative emotion value +120…]

David smirked slightly. He didn't even need to try anymore. Jake was practically a walking resentment factory.

Jake shot a glare toward Tom, then to David, but didn't say anything else. Probably because he didn't want to get folded like a lawn chair by Tom's meat hammer fists.

Instead, he spun on his heel and waddled toward the classroom door with the determination of a man who was 100% planning to snitch.

Tom leaned over and tugged at David's sleeve, eyes wide and voice nervous.

"Bro… Jake's gonna tell the teacher! I just tasted what academic success feels like—I don't wanna go back to being the class disappointment again!"

David, meanwhile, had already thought of a solution. In fact, his system had handed him a perfect little tool for just this kind of emergency.

The Truth Potion.

He'd drawn it earlier and had been waiting for the right moment to use it. And here was Jake—sour, suspicious, and stomping his way to justice like he was on some righteous mission. Perfect.

David opened his system panel and selected the potion.

[Ding! Truth Potion successfully used. Target: Jake.]

David grinned.

"Oh, Jake?" he called out, all casual-like, just as the walking meatball reached the door. "Quick question—what do you really think of everyone in this classroom?"

Jake froze. Turned. And then—without hesitation, without a single filter, without even the faintest hint of awareness—he unleashed verbal hell.

"Bunch of clowns, the lot of 'em!" he barked. "Always yapping about me snitching like they're innocent angels! Please. Half of them score so low, I've seen pigs take mock exams and do better!"

His voice echoed like a fire alarm.

The classroom fell into dead silence. Jaws dropped. Pencils rolled off desks. Somewhere, a Pidgey outside the window stopped mid-flap.

Tom's eyes bugged out like he'd seen a ghost punch a baby. "He did not just say that."

Oh, but he did.

Every student now looked at Jake like he had just peed in the principal's coffee.

David stood there, calm as ever, hands in his pockets, while chaos simmered around him. His grin widened.

Boom.

Classroom nuked. Social standing: annihilated.

And Jake? He didn't even realize yet what he'd done. But when he did… oh boy.