The WBBA registration desk sat at the far end of the main hall, past the practice bays and the row of merchandise counters. Even from a distance, I could see the small cluster of bladers lined up, bracket cards clutched in their hands. Most looked like they'd been waiting for this all week—sharp eyes, launchers hanging ready at their belts, and BP cards peeking from their pockets like status badges.
I walked straight there from the match platform, the buzz from my win over Ryoji still echoing faintly in my chest. Snake's weight in my pocket was a quiet, steady reminder that the real challenge hadn't even started yet.
The woman at the registration counter glanced up as I stepped forward. "Here for the Metal City Tournament?"
"Yeah," I said, sliding my BP card across the counter.
She tapped it to the reader. The overhead display flashed my balance: 600 BP. Her hand hovered over the keypad for a moment before looking back at me. "Entry fee's five hundred. You sure you're ready to stake that much?"
Her tone wasn't mocking, but it carried the same quiet warning I'd heard before from older bladers. The kind that meant if you're not ready, this will chew you up.
"I'm ready," I said simply.
The transaction beeped, and just like that, my balance dropped to 100 BP. It was a heavier feeling than I'd expected—like a physical weight settling in my chest. That was most of my points gone, in exchange for one shot at proving myself.
She slid a laminated bracket card across the counter to me. My name, Ethan Kael, sat on one of the lower slots in the tournament chart, with my first match time printed neatly in the corner: Day After Tomorrow – 10:40 AM.
"You'll need to check in an hour before your match," she added. "Lose once, and you're out. All matches are one-round only."
I nodded and stepped aside, holding the bracket card loosely between my fingers. The big roster board to my right caught my attention—a towering screen listing the names of every confirmed entrant. My eyes skimmed through the rows, stopping here and there.
Some I'd heard in passing around the city:
Gideon Voss – rumored to run a defense build so heavy it could outlast almost anything.
Kaiya Mizuno – stamina and counter specialist, the kind who could win without ever going on the offensive.
Taro "Rush" Inoue – speed-type blader who burned opponents out in under fifteen seconds.
These weren't rookies hoping for a lucky win—they were players who had their style locked in, parts tuned to perfection, and battle instincts honed from hundreds of matches.
I thought of the Abyss Vortex. It had worked against Ryoji, but that didn't mean it would work here. A single round meant no second chance—one slip, and it was over.
I tucked the bracket card into my pocket and rested my hand on Snake's case. The weight felt the same as it always did, but my grip tightened anyway. The Vortex got me here. Now I have two days to make sure it can keep me here.
With that thought set in stone, I turned away from the counter and toward the observation stands. There was no point leaving yet—not when I could see the kind of bladers I'd be facing firsthand.
The main arena was divided into four separate platforms, each with its own stadium and crowd. From the stands above, I could see all of them at once, matches playing out in rapid succession.
I found an open seat halfway up and settled in, my eyes flicking from one battle to the next. Every launch, every collision, every movement of the Beyblades told a story—if you knew how to read it.
One platform featured a defensive tank of a build, a thick Fusion Wheel paired with a wide track, just absorbing hit after hit from a reckless attacker. Each time the attacker bounced off, you could almost feel their frustration mounting until their stamina finally bled away. The defender didn't just win; it waited them into defeat.
Another platform had two balance-types circling each other in measured arcs. Neither rushed, both waiting for the tiniest slip to commit. Those matches were slower, quieter—but every clash sounded sharper, like it carried more weight than the flurries I was used to seeing.
I started noting down mental cues—launch angles, how bladers adjusted mid-match, the way they'd subtly shift their grip on the launcher for control.
Then, on the far-right platform, my attention locked on a single match. A slender girl with short black hair stood behind her launcher, expression unreadable. Her Beyblade—a sea-green and silver design—slid into the stadium with a launch so smooth it looked effortless. The announcer called her name: Kaiya Mizuno.
Her opponent was an aggressive attack-type user. He went for a direct rush straight out of the launch, slamming his Bey into hers. Normally, that kind of hit would force a stamina-type onto the back foot immediately.
But Kaiya's Bey—Sea Mirage Leviathan 145WD—didn't get pushed back. Instead, it shifted just enough to absorb the blow, then resumed its slow, deliberate orbit as if nothing had happened.
It was almost eerie. Leviathan's movement wasn't about chasing or dodging—it was about control. Every time the attacker charged, it would adjust its path slightly, letting the impact glance off while keeping its spin steady. And then, out of nowhere, it struck back—a sudden, sharp counter-hook that clipped the attacker's side at just the right angle to destabilize it.
The crowd reacted with a mix of surprise and appreciation. This wasn't flashy, but it was lethal. Within seconds of that first counter, the attacker's Bey was wobbling, its speed bleeding away, and then it was out of the stadium.
Kaiya didn't celebrate. She just picked up her Beyblade, gave it a quick check, and walked off without a glance at the crowd.
I leaned back in my seat, my mind already running through scenarios. Against a Bey like that, charging in headfirst would be suicide. The Vortex could work—if I could pull it off before she caught the rhythm of my attacks—but a single mistake would hand her the win instantly.
My grip tightened around Snake's case. I wasn't facing her today. Maybe not even tomorrow. But if her name came up in my bracket, I'd need to be ready.