The chatter on the arena floor shifted as the massive overhead display screens went dark in unison, the WBBA logo bursting into view in sharp red-and-white. The noise level dropped instantly—bladers froze mid-prep, spectators cut conversations short, and even referees turned toward the central podium.
A tall WBBA representative in a crisp jacket stepped forward, microphone in hand. His voice carried with the weight of authority, steady and clear through the sound system.
"Attention, all bladers and spectators. The Metal City Tournament roster is now confirmed. From this point forward, only registered participants will compete in the main bracket."
The massive roster board on the far wall shifted, hundreds of qualifier names collapsing into a clean, narrow 32-slot single-elimination bracket. My chest tightened—not from fear, but from focus. Around me, the arena dropped into an undercurrent of murmurs.
"The format," the official continued, "will be sudden death. Each match will be one round only. There will be no second chances. Every launch, every movement, must count from the start."
Scattered reactions rippled through the stands—some sharp with excitement, others low with tension. One round meant zero warm-ups. One misread, and you were out.
The screen behind him changed again, displaying a rotating 3D model of stadiums: flat standard designs for balance, ridged surfaces for high aggression, steep slopes to punish stamina builds, and hybrids combining all three.
"Your stadium type will be assigned at random before your match begins."
The murmur rose. Random assignments meant unpredictability. For me, it meant the Abyss Vortex might behave differently every time—ridged walls could jar the coil, slopes could throw the pull off-balance. I'd need to prepare for every surface.
The official waited for the noise to die. "The champion will earn one thousand BP and a guaranteed spot in the regional WBBA bracket."
That hit differently. 1000 BP meant more than parts—it meant freedom to travel, to challenge higher tiers without worrying about fees. And the regional bracket? That's where reputations were carved into WBBA history.
Heads turned toward the board. Some scanned for rivals. Others locked on the prize like it was already theirs.
"All matches will be held here in the WBBA Metal City Main Arena. Spectators are welcome free of charge. Prepare yourselves—because in two days, every launch could be your last in this tournament."
The screens flickered back to match feeds, but the atmosphere had changed. Conversations were shorter, glances sharper. Everyone had been reminded—hesitation here was the same as losing.
I stayed seated for a moment, scanning the bracket board. Names and matchups lined up in my head, each one carrying its own weight. Snake's case on my hip felt heavier than ever.
Two days. That was all I had to make the Vortex more than a trick. It needed to be a weapon—one that didn't care about stadium type or opponent.
Leaving the stands, I headed down the central hall. A long counter marked BP Exchange Booth stood to my left, the short line proof that most bladers hated parting with their points.
When it was my turn, the man scanned my BP card. "Current balance: one hundred. How much you looking to cash out?"
"Fifty."
He nodded, fingers flying across the keypad. "Exchange rate today is one BP to five credits. That's two-fifty."
The envelope was light, but the bills inside meant food and supplies—two things I couldn't risk skipping before the tournament. My BP card now read 50. Barely enough for a low-stakes match, but cash meant I wouldn't go hungry.
I left the booth, heading into a quieter side street lined with repair shops and second-hand stalls. A rack of rubber tips caught my eye. They might improve Snake's grip… but not yet. BP first, upgrades later.
Street matches tempted me for training, but one unlucky loss could cost half my safety net. Instead, I decided to train alone—no crowd, no distractions—until every launch was identical and the Vortex was instinct.
By late afternoon, I'd eaten a quick meal from a corner stall and found an empty patch of concrete behind a shuttered store. I set up my portable stadium, dropped Snake in, and practiced until my wrists ached and the rhythm of the coil felt like breathing.
As the sun sank below the skyline, the city lights rose to take its place.The arena district glowed in the distance, all neon signs and looping promos, while my steps carried me toward my usual night spot between two unused warehouses.
The ground was still warm as I spread my jacket and sat. My mind replayed the day—the bracket card, the names, Kaiya's Leviathan moving like it was reading its opponent's mind.
I opened Snake's case. The metallic glint caught the faint light, and for a moment, I just stared at it. The same Bey that pulled me into this world. The same one I'd built the Vortex with.
Lying back, I let the night cool my skin. Above me, the stars cut sharp lines across the black. Then I saw it—a curve, a coil, a long arcing form. Not perfect, but close enough to steal my breath. The Primordial Abyss Snake, drawn in constellations.
I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched, letting the silence sink in. Whether real or imagined didn't matter. It felt like the universe was telling me I was exactly where I belonged.
My eyes grew heavy. I shifted onto my side, my pack a pillow, the distant hum of the arena fading to nothing.
Tomorrow, I'd keep training. The day after, the tournament began.
For tonight, there was only the coiling serpent in the sky—a silent promise that Snake and I were far from done.