Night Wolf, having escaped the rangers' pursuit, was now making his way miserably through a dense jungle.
The gray-green camouflage uniform on his body had been slashed in several places by the wind blades unleashed by the other side's Pidgeot. The wound on his left arm, grazed by Meganium's Razor Leaf, had been roughly treated and wrapped in bandages, yet faint traces of blood still seeped through.
His face was smeared with dirt and dried grass, and a shallow scrape marked his forehead. He looked as though he had just rolled through a patch of mud.
Yet his steps remained steady, and his gaze was as sharp as ever.
As an old hand who had survived in the wild for more than a decade, he had long grown used to being hunted.
The rangers were troublesome, but once he entered the forest, catching Night Wolf would not be so easy.
He stopped before a massive banyan tree, took a deep breath to steady his slightly hurried breathing, then raised a hand to his mouth.
"Pidgey—Pidgey—Pidgey—"
Three short calls and one long one, followed closely by two short cries. It was the call of a Pidgey, a sound common anywhere in Fortree City.
A few seconds later, a response came from the bushes not far away—the same call of a Pidgey, though with a slightly different rhythm.
Night Wolf's taut body visibly relaxed.
The bushes were pushed aside, and a middle-aged man stepped out.
He wore a dark gray explorer's outfit and had an ordinary face, the sort that would disappear into a crowd without anyone noticing.
But his eyes were exceptionally sharp, gleaming with vigilance amid the dim forest.
He sized Night Wolf up and down, his gaze falling on the bloodstain on his left arm, the camouflage uniform torn