David sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by loot like a gremlin in a cave. Pokéballs, weird powders, mysterious props—it was like a bargain bin at a magician's garage sale.
"Alright, let's see what we got…" he muttered, organizing his haul with the seriousness of a man folding socks before tax season.
Once he'd sorted the chaos into neat little piles, David pulled up his system panel with a dramatic finger tap, like a hacker in a spy movie. Numbers blinked into view.
"Ugh."
He frowned.
The negative emotion points he'd gathered were… not bad, but also not great. Certainly not jackpot levels.
Sure, he'd stirred up plenty of chaos recently. But nothing had topped that glorious, chaotic day with Inspector Nakamura—the day he'd singlehandedly triggered enough emotional trauma to power a mid-sized city.
"If I hadn't tattled on that sketchy salon," David muttered, "no way Nakamura would've shown up and let me farm all those juicy negative vibes."
Of course, that day had also nearly ended with David getting pulverized by a very large, very angry men.
He winced.
Yeah, small detail.
If it hadn't been for the official inspector being there, those "big bro" probably would've used him as a piñata.
So yeah… not exactly a sustainable farming method.
David flopped back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, arms sprawled like a starfish. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling like a man trying to mentally file taxes using an abacus.
"Ughh, how am I supposed to keep harvesting negative emotion points safely?"
He twisted left. Then right. Then rolled halfway off the couch and stared at the floor as if it held the answer.
"Maybe I should… I dunno, go find another shady shampoo salon?" he mumbled, half-serious.
The thought lingered.
After all, last time he got a solid haul just by exposing some shady dealings.
Plus, he had Pikachu with him now—his tiny yellow bodyguard of zappy justice.
But…
David sat up, face suddenly pale.
"What if the cops call Melissa again?"
He shuddered.
No thank you. One more angry phone call from her and he was going to end up tied to a rocket and launched into orbit.
The last time she was mad at him, he could still feel the grudge .
"Nope. Nope. Change of plan!" he yelped, shaking his head like a wet dog.
That idea was officially canceled.
Brainstorming time.
He glanced around the room, eyes landing on a stack of unused props and dusty emotional residue from earlier events.
His brain clicked.
"Wait a second…"
He smacked his forehead so hard it echoed. "Why am I overthinking this?! I've got literal tools of chaos just sitting here! All I need is the right setup!"
His eyes lit up with mischief.
"If I can pull this off…"
A slow, evil grin spread across his face.
"Ehehehe…"
In the kitchen, Pikachu peeked around the corner. He saw that grin—the one that meant trouble, disaster, and at least one minor explosion.
He sighed deeply, ears drooping.
Every time David made that face, Pikachu knew one thing:
He was about to get dragged into something stupid. Again.
After nearly being assassinated by Ralts' "home-cooked horror" earlier, David had come to a very solid scientific conclusion:
Delicious Powder = Magic.
Seriously. That stuff was a culinary cheat code. You could sprinkle it on a burnt flip-flop and it'd probably taste like gourmet roast beef.
Which gave David a dangerously stupid idea.
"If Delicious Powder makes even evil food taste good," he muttered to himself, "and I have that negative emotion juice sitting around…"
His eyes lit up.
"Then why not combine them?"
A grin crept onto his face. Yes. Yes! This was it. The perfect scam—ahem—business opportunity.
Delicious Powder + Negative Emotion Collection Water = Profit.
Step 1: Add Delicious Powder to food.
Step 2: Watch people and Pokémon stuff their faces.
Step 3: Collect all the sweet, sweet negative emotions from whatever side effects came after.
It was genius.
Flawless.
Elegant.
There was just one small hiccup.
David sat up on the couch, grimacing.
"Crap. What exactly do I sell?"
Snacks? Meh. Street vendors these days had it rough. No stall permit, no license, no food safety paperwork—one wrong move and his whole operation would get steamrolled by the local food inspector in a neon vest.
And he knew exactly how that'd go:
"Excuse me, sir, do you have a permit for this 'Suspicious Looking Fishball Delight' truck?"
"…Please don't take my cart. I still owe Pikachu a meal."
Nope. Too risky. And worse—expensive.
David hated high-risk, high-cost schemes. His wallet had the structural integrity of wet cardboard. One flop and he'd be broke and emotionally bankrupt.
Scamming—sorry, entrepreneurship—was much more his style when the costs were low and the chaos was free.
He flopped back on the couch dramatically and stared at the ceiling.
There had to be a better way.
Then he glanced at Pikachu, who was flopped beside him like a furry, overworked intern.
An idea flickered.
"…Energy cubes?"
David scratched his chin, hesitant. Energy cubes were those little nutrient-packed bricks that Trainers gave their Pokémon—basically protein bars, but less tasty and more pastel.
The good news?
They were easy to make. Materials were cheap. He already had most of them lying around.
And if he slipped in a little negative emotion collection water… he could gather emotional points every time a Pokémon ate one.
Genius.
The perfect low-effort passive income.
Except—
David sighed.
"I've never actually made an energy cube before…"
Minor detail.
Also, there was another catch: No one to sell them to.
Because let's face it—most real Trainers didn't pinch pennies. They bought the premium stuff. They weren't going to gamble their Pokemon's digestive system on some sketchy cube from a guy named David selling things out of a duffel bag behind the PokéMart.
And if something did go wrong?
Oh boy.
That wasn't just a refund—it was a lawsuit with a side of rage.
David shuddered at the thought.
"…Yeah, that'd backfire fast."
He slumped further into the couch.
Brilliant plan… now needed an even more brilliant workaround.
David stared at his bank balance like it had personally insulted him.
It was grim. The kind of number that made you consider eating instant noodles for the rest of the year… or maybe just seasoning cardboard and pretending it was steak.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and mentally compared the two business options:
Option A: Become a snack vendor and risk everything.
Option B: Make energy cubes in his kitchen like a bootleg Poké-Chef.
After weighing the costs—and more importantly, the zero risk of getting chased off the street by an angry city inspector—David nodded firmly to himself.
"Yup. I'm going with the poor man's option. I love free money—I mean, low-cost business models."
He shot up from the couch like he had a purpose in life (for once) and marched over to his bag of berries.
"Time to cook up some emotional trauma."
David dumped the berries on the table, rolled up his sleeves with the confidence of a man who had watched half a YouTube tutorial, and began the sacred art of cube-crafting.
Thankfully, low-level energy cubes weren't rocket science. The internet had enough recipes floating around, mostly on shady forums with names like PokéProfitsNow.biz. Intermediate cubes, on the other hand, were a whole different beast. You either had to be a real Breeder or bribe one to give you the recipe. David was neither rich nor charming enough for either of those things.
But basic cubes? He could manage.
Armed with memories from his previous life and a healthy disrespect for quality control, David got to work.
One failed blob.
One semi-melted cube.
And then… success!
He actually made a halfway decent-looking energy cube. Maybe a little lopsided. Possibly a bit sticky. But still technically edible. Probably.
At that moment, Ralts and Pikachu wandered over, curious expressions on their faces.
David held up his creation like it was the Ark of the Covenant.
"Behold, my cube of power!" he said dramatically. "Try it! Taste the future!"
He handed each of them a cube, then popped one into his own mouth with zero hesitation.
Instant regret.
It hit like a punch to the taste buds. First came the sour. A level of sour that made lemons seem apologetic. Then came the bitterness, a flavor so deep and lasting it could've been used as an emotional metaphor in a bad breakup song.
Ralts took one bite and froze. Pikachu looked like he'd licked a car battery.
Both of them immediately spat it out like it was poison. Honestly, it probably was.
David's face twisted like a wrung-out dishrag, tears welling in his eyes. "Why… why does it taste like my childhood regrets?!"
Then came the pinging sound in his head:
[Negative emotion collected from Pikachu: +30]
[Negative emotion collected from Ralts: +20]
[Negative emotion collected from Pikachu: +30]
[Negative emotion collected from Ralts: +20]
David froze mid-sob, then smiled through the pain.
"Well," he choked out, "it may taste like garbage… but it's emotionally profitable garbage."
***
Even David, who once proudly ate instant noodles with ketchup for a week, refused to take a second bite.
He didn't just spit the energy cube out—he launched it into the trash can with the force of someone trying to exorcise a demon. The cube hit the side with a wet thunk, leaving a suspicious stain that might never come out.
Still, he wiped his mouth with exaggerated drama and muttered, "Step one: complete."
Sure, it tasted like betrayal mixed with foot fungus, but technically he had made an energy cube. That counted as progress, right?
Now came the hard part: figuring out how to improve the formula before he accidentally caused a local Pokémon rebellion.
David rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain. He already had a plan brewing. Low-level energy cubes? Worthless. Nobody cared about those. The average Trainer wouldn't waste time or money on something their Pokémon would rather bury in the backyard.
If he wanted to really reel in customers, he needed to level up—mid-grade energy cubes. That's where the market was.
Unfortunately, mid-level cubes required real talent. Breeders spent ages refining them, using Pokémon's unique abilities and a suspicious amount of fruit science. It wasn't just about nutrition—it was also about flavor. Because if a Pokémon hated the taste, not only would it refuse to eat the cube, it might actively lose affection for its Trainer.
David had seen it happen once. A poor guy in his school fed his Growlithe some off-brand training treats. The Growlithe refused to look at him for two weeks. It was brutal.
But David? He had a cheat code.
He pulled out a tiny container of glittery pink powder and grinned like he'd just drawn Exodia in a card duel.
"Behold... delicious powder."
This magical substance could make anything taste incredible. Even a cube made from gym socks and despair. With this in his arsenal, flavor wasn't even an issue anymore.
That meant he could focus entirely on the real problem: nutrition.
Energy cubes had to be healthy. That was the point. They were like Pokémon vitamins disguised as candy. The more beneficial they were, the better they'd sell. And now that he didn't need to worry about taste, David could go full mad scientist mode.
He started jotting down combinations—berries known for their nutrients but infamous for tasting like sadness. Normally, these would be a hard sell. But with delicious powder? He could turn this bitter mess into five-star dining.
"Time to give my Berry Blender a workout," he said, cracking his knuckles with flair.
He got to work, tossing ingredients into the blender like he was competing on Pokémon's Worst Chef. Some mixes turned out looking suspiciously like Play-Doh. Others glowed faintly, which was probably not a great sign. But David was undeterred.
One by one, he tested each batch, tweaking the formula just a little every time—less of this, more of that, a pinch of not-killing-your-customer.
He wasn't just making cubes anymore.
He was crafting legendary snacks.
David spent five hours in full working mode
By the time he looked up, the sun had gone down, his room was covered in berry pulp, and he'd somehow gotten apricot paste in his hair. The moon outside looked like it was judging him—thin, pale, and disappointed, like a ghostly version of his homeroom teacher.
But David didn't care.
Because in his palm sat a small, unassuming cube.
White, squishy, and vaguely ominous.
"I did it…" he breathed, eyes wide with glee. "SUCCESS!"
He stood up triumphantly, holding the cube aloft like it was the Holy Grail. Pikachu and Ralts, who had been hiding behind the couch since Experiment #17 started glowing, peeked out with concern.
What David had created—against all odds, taste buds, and common decency—was a mid-level energy cube. Upgraded from the low-level garbage he'd been tossing earlier, this cube was something else.
Now, was it the best cube in the world?
No.
But was it good?
Also… no.
But it was functional!
This new cube wasn't tailored to any one type of Pokémon. It was a jack-of-all-trades snack, designed to be fed to any Pokémon regardless of type, shape, size, or grudge level.
The effect? Consistent and beneficial.
The downside? Oh boy.
David had dumped so many expensive ingredients into this thing that the cost had nearly doubled compared to a standard cube. If energy cubes were cars, his was a duct-taped luxury minivan with no wheels and a solid gold engine.
It completely abandoned flavor. Like, flavor was not invited to the party. Nutrition was the only guest here, and it showed up with a protein shake and a smug attitude.
To any self-respecting Pokémon Breeder, this cube was probably a masterpiece. Nutritious, effective, and versatile. A top-tier mid-level energy cube.
But.
And it was a big but.
If anyone actually fed this thing to their Pokémon without mixing in David's special sauce—also known as "delicious powder"—there was a non-zero chance the Pokémon would file for emancipation.
David still hadn't recovered from the cube he tried earlier. His tongue had gone on strike and was demanding hazard pay. The aftertaste had lingered so long, he was convinced it was now renting space in his mouth.
And this one? This new cube?
Ten. Times. Worse.
He wouldn't touch it unless he was bribed. Or blackmailed. Or unconscious.
So, without hesitation, David activated his usual strategy: cheat mode.
He pulled out a vial of delicious powder, grinned like a man possessed, and sprinkled it generously onto the cube like he was seasoning doom.
Then he added a few drops of the negative emotion collection water—because why waste a perfectly bad moment?
David stared at the sparkling golden cube in his hand like it was the One Ring. It glowed faintly. It shimmered seductively. It practically whispered, "Eat me, David. What's the worst that could happen?"
He licked his lips.
Fortunately, David had just enough self-control left to resist the urge. Barely. The last cube had sent his taste buds to therapy—he wasn't about to fall for the same trap twice.
Instead, he turned to his two loyal companions-slash-test-subjects, who were currently lounging nearby, oblivious to the culinary betrayal about to occur.
"Pikachu, Ralts!" David chirped sweetly, putting on his best 'trust me, I'm not evil' face. "Come try this new energy cube! It's totally not poison this time!"
The moment he finished speaking, both Pokémon vanished.
Poof.
They weren't just gone—they had teleported behind the sofa. Instinctively. As if the phrase "try this" was code for "prepare to suffer."
"Pika pi!" came Pikachu's muffled protest.
"Laaaaruuu," Ralts added, peeking out with the kind of look you'd give a man who once fed you napalm and called it a protein bar.
David, thoroughly unbothered, strolled toward the sofa like a kid offering candy. "C'mon now. Don't be like that. It'll be delicious this time. For real."
The energy cube still smelled oddly pleasant—thanks to the delicious powder cheat code—and Pikachu, always the food risk-taker of the pair, cautiously sniffed it. His eyes widened.
Then, with the resignation of someone who knew this would end badly but was still curious, Pikachu grabbed the cube from David's hand and popped it into his mouth.
Ralts blinked. Pikachu didn't die?
Not to be outdone by his spark-happy buddy, Ralts snatched the second cube and munched it too.
Then paused.
And frowned.
It tasted... eerily familiar. Like... like the burnt sludge she usually cooked then it changed flavors after the salt seasoning. Was this plagiarism? Was David stealing his "recipes"? Could that even be considered theft if no one wanted the original?
Before Ralts could spiral too deep into culinary betrayal, David's system chimed in:
[Negative emotion collected from Pikachu: +100]
[Negative emotion collected from Ralts: +50]
David's grin split across his face like a mad scientist watching the lightning strike his monster.
"Ohhh yes," he murmured, savoring the sound of digital misery. "That's the good stuff."
The negative emotion collection water worked like a charm.
One cube, two Pokémon, nearly 150 emotion points. And this was just the beginning. Even though the emotion water was single-use, the payout was totally worth it.
Pikachu alone had pumped out almost 100 points in one go. Multiply that by a few dozen cubes, and David could practically swim in emotional anguish.
Delicious.
With both test subjects still alive—if grumpy—David casually grabbed the rest of the golden cubes and stuffed them into a sealable bag like they were endangered species. No way was he letting any of these go to waste.
The grind had officially begun.
Just to be safe—and by safe, we mean not responsible for an adorable electric rat explosion—David cautiously leaned toward Pikachu and asked:
"So... buddy... how are you feeling physically?"
"Pika pi?" Pikachu blinked up at him, clearly confused.
The little guy scratched his head with a stubby paw, tilting his head like David had just asked if he could recite Shakespeare. Physically? What was that supposed to mean? It was an energy cube. You eat it. You don't feel it.
Right?
But just as Pikachu started to brush it off, his expression froze.
His stomach let out a sound. A terrifying, watery gurgle. The kind that no creature—Pokémon or human—could hear and still pretend everything was okay.
Bloop bloop bloop...
"...Pika?" Pikachu muttered, panic creeping into his eyes.
Then the pain hit.
His face crumpled.
"PIKA PIKA!!" he screamed, clutching his belly with both paws. His ears shot straight up like lightning rods. "(YOU POISONED ME!!)"
David raised his hands in faux innocence, wearing a nervous grin that said, Yes, but also, please don't Thunderbolt me into a toaster strudel.
"Okay, okay—listen—it wasn't poison. Technically. It was just... a little... laxative," he said, trying to make it sound like a reasonable kitchen ingredient. "Well, more than a little. Like... a million dots of it."
Pikachu's glare could've melted diamonds.
David coughed into his sleeve, mumbling, "It was for science."
See, this wasn't just about collecting a few emotional scraps through the usual route. David had goals. Ambitions. He wanted to maximize utility. Get that real high-volume harvest.
So when he was whipping up his new and improved energy cube formula, he had an idea.
A terrible, devious, high-fiber idea.
Why just trigger mild regret when you could add... digestive urgency?
So he dropped in the laxatives.
Not a pinch. Not a dash. No, no. He committed. The amount he added could probably clear out a Snorlax who'd just eaten Thanksgiving dinner. Twice.
He even bragged to himself while mixing: "If a Legendary Pokémon eats this... they're gonna be on the toilet for hours."
Looking at Pikachu now, that prophecy was coming true.
David probably should've felt guilty.
But instead, he was mentally rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain. Negative emotions were pouring in. Pikachu's distress was his profit.
The best kind of business: one with explosive results.