The day before had passed without a single battle against another blader. I'd spent it in the quiet corners of the city, running launch after launch, drilling the Abyss Vortex until my wrists ached. No distractions, no detours—just the sound of Snake hitting the stadium and the faint vibration in my palm when we were in sync. By the time I'd packed up last night, I'd felt sharper than I had since arriving in this world.
Now, the real day had come.
The moment I stepped outside that morning, I could tell the city was different. The streets near the arena district were already alive, even though it was barely nine. Tournament banners fluttered between lamp posts, each one marked with the WBBA crest. Vendors had rolled out early, their stalls packed with snacks, bottled drinks, and miniature Beyblade souvenirs. The scent of grilled meat mixed with the sharper smell of fried dough from a nearby cart, riding on the cool morning air.
Everywhere I looked, bladers were moving with purpose. Some wore team jackets and carried their gear in flashy cases; others, like me, traveled light, their launchers clipped to their belts and their eyes scanning the crowd. Even people who weren't competing seemed caught up in the energy, chatting excitedly about who might win this year.
I kept my pace steady, resisting the urge to rush. There was no need. My match wasn't until 10:40, and I had planned my morning down to the minute. Still, my heartbeat felt quicker than usual—not from nerves alone, but from the realization that this was it. My first real tournament.
By the time I reached the WBBA Main Arena entrance, the plaza out front was already crowded. Groups clustered around the big digital bracket board, pointing at names and tracing possible matchups with their fingers. The building itself loomed above them, its glass front reflecting the banners and the movement of the crowd.
A stall selling skewers caught my attention. The vendor turned skewers of roasted bell peppers, zucchini, and mushrooms over an open grill, the charred, smoky aroma pulling me closer. I bought two, along with a cup of steaming tomato soup, and ate as I walked. The food was simple, but it grounded me—something about the routine of chewing, swallowing, and tossing the skewer sticks into a bin felt like a small anchor against the flood of anticipation building in my chest.
I stepped inside and was hit by a wall of sound. The muffled buzz from outside became a full-bodied roar in here—commentators' voices echoing over the loudspeakers, cheers from spectators, the metallic ring of Beyblades colliding on multiple platforms.
The check-in desk for competitors was just ahead. I scanned my BP card at the terminal, and a staff member handed me a slip with my bracket position and match time printed in clear, bold letters: 10:40 AM, Platform Two.
I checked the time. 9:40 AM on the dot. Perfect—right on schedule. I had exactly one hour to watch, adapt, and get my head in the match.
As I moved away from the desk, I took a slow breath. This was going to be a big day. My first tournament match, my first time stepping into a stadium with this many eyes on me. My stomach twisted once—nervous, yeah—but the excitement running under it was stronger.
Snake's case felt warm in my hand, heavier than usual. I didn't know if it was my imagination or the weight of the moment, but it didn't matter. I'd trained for this.
Today, we take the first step.
The tournament floor stretched out in front of me like a maze of platforms and flashing scoreboards. Each stadium had its own space, separated just enough so the noise of one match blended into the next without overpowering it. Official WBBA referees in crisp black-and-red stood at the edges, ready to call the results with practiced precision, clipboards in hand. Bladers tightened grips on their launchers, eyes locked on spinning metal in the arena.
I found my assigned platform easily—Platform Two sat near the center-left of the hall, with a row of seats set aside for competitors waiting for their turn. The metal benches were simple and hard, but the view was perfect. From here, I could see not just my platform, but two others nearby, which meant I could watch how the matches played out and maybe catch a glimpse of different strategies.
The match currently running on my platform was brutal. Two attack types slammed into each other over and over, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the air. One blader—a stocky guy with spiky brown hair—was grinning even as his Beyblade lost ground. The other, a tall, calm blader, didn't smile once, just kept launching precise, punishing hits until his opponent's spin slowed to nothing.
The referee raised his arm. "Outspin! Winner: Keisuke Mori!"
The crowd gave a polite round of applause before the two shook hands and cleared the stage. I leaned back, absorbing the rhythm of the match. Keisuke hadn't rushed. He'd waited for the right moments and struck hard when his opponent's guard was low.
I kept watching as match after match rolled by. The variety was wide—some bladers went for explosive knockouts within seconds, while others dragged their matches into drawn-out stamina wars. I paid attention to the launch angles, the way they read the stadium ridges, and the subtle shifts in their positioning before pulling the ripcord.
Somewhere in between watching and thinking, the hour ticked away without me noticing—exactly how I'd planned it. My focus snapped back when the commentator's voice boomed over the speakers:
"Next up, Platform Two—Haruto Senzaki versus Ethan Kael!"
My name echoed in the air, and a ripple of curiosity ran through the small group of spectators near my platform. Some craned their necks, maybe trying to put a face to the name. I stood slowly, taking one last deep breath before walking toward the stadium.
The platform felt different now—bigger, heavier somehow—though I knew it was the same size as all the others. My footsteps sounded loud against the floor, each one bringing me closer to the circle where all eyes would be on us.
Haruto was already there, standing with his arms folded. His expression was tense, jaw set like he'd been holding back words. He had the look of someone who took matches personally, the kind who didn't just want to win, but to prove something.
I didn't speak yet. No reason to. I just stepped into my position, setting Snake's case on the small table beside me. The weight of the moment pressed in—but instead of shaking my focus, it set my thoughts into a clean, sharp line.
The commentator gave a quick recap for the crowd, but I didn't listen to the words. My attention was on the feel of Snake in my hands, the smooth curve of the Fusion Wheel, and the solid click as I mounted it onto my launcher.
This was it—no more watching from the sidelines. My turn had come.
I stood in my spot at Platform Two, launcher in hand, Snake already mounted and balanced from the moment I'd left my seat. Across from me, Haruto Senzaki mirrored the stance—shoulders squared, knees slightly bent, launcher arm locked in line with the stadium floor.
He looked around seventeen, maybe two years older than me, but carried himself with the stillness of someone who'd been through more matches than he could count. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharp, studying me without a flicker of a smile.
His Beyblade was built for punishment. The Fusion Wheel gleamed dark chrome under the lights, jagged edges shaped for heavy impact. A crimson wolf's head glared from the Face Bolt, and his Spin Track sat slightly taller than normal—a choice that could give him unusual attack angles at the cost of stability. Against Snake's lower, tighter build, it meant his hits could come from angles I'd have to read fast.
I kept my breathing even, letting my fingers rest lightly on Snake's Fusion Wheel for one last grounding touch. The faint thrum of our link was already there, steady and waiting.
"Platform Two—Haruto Senzaki versus Ethan Kael!" the commentator's voice boomed again, drawing a ripple of reaction from the crowd. Some leaned forward, others murmured, maybe placing silent bets on who would last longer.
The referee's voice cut in. "Bladers, ready!"
We both angled our launchers down toward the stadium floor.
"Three…"
Snake's rhythm began syncing with my heartbeat, the connection locking in.
"Two…"
Haruto's grip shifted subtly—just enough for me to catch it. He was tightening for a burst attack.
"One…"
Our ripcords ripped free in unison.
"Let it rip!"
The collision was instant—Snake and Haruto's wolf slamming together at center ring with a hard, metallic crack. Sparks spat under the lights as both rebounded, only to snap back into another strike.
Through the link, I felt the tension in his style. His hits were strong but over-committed, forcing momentum instead of flowing with it. Each clash told me more: his speed, his recovery lag, the way his Beyblade leaned into contact.
I didn't glance at him once. His Beyblade was telling me everything I needed to know.
The match had only just started, but already, the outcome was beginning to take shape in my mind.