The moment the first collision ended, Haruto's wolf lunged again, driving forward with a burst of raw aggression, aiming to smash Snake before I could recover position. His attacks came fast, each strike hammering in from a slightly different angle, the jagged edges of his Fusion Wheel scraping hard against Snake's armor with sharp, metallic screeches.
Through our link, I felt every impact ripple back to me--not just the force, but the intent. Haruto was gunning for a quick knockout, betting everything on overwhelming me before I could settle into a rhythm. It was the same relentless energy I'd read in his stance before launch, now given form in motion.
But I didn't rush to answer back. Instead, Snake shifted with small, precise movements, letting each hit glance off instead of landing square. The adjustments were subtle—tiny shifts in angle and spin track position that shaved away a fraction of the wolf's force with every strike.
The crowd leaned forward as the two Beyblades clashed again at center stadium. Sparks flashed from the collision, and Haruto's wolf spun wide before curving back in, trying to herd Snake toward the stadium ridge.
Not happening.
Snake cut away just before hitting the ridge, coiling into a tighter orbit around the center circle. Haruto's wolf followed, but the closer the chase, the easier it became to read his next move.
"Go, Snake," I murmured, my voice low enough to be swallowed by the grinding metal.
Snake lunged one sharp, snapping hook delivered at exactly the right moment. The coiled momentum in its spin exploded outward in a single burst, the strike catching the wolf dead-on and flipping its balance completely.
Gasps broke out as Haruto's Beyblade tipped mid-rotation, its spin faltering. The tilt knocked it off course, sending it skidding toward the stadium wall. One bounce, and it rode the curve before leaping clean over the edge.
Clack. It landed outside the stadium, spinning weakly on the platform floor before wobbling to a stop.
"Ring out finish! Winner: Ethan Kael!" the referee's voice rang out.
I let out a slow breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The match had been quick, but every moment was sharp and deliberate. I bent to pick Snake up from the stadium floor, feeling the warmth in its metal and the steady thrum of our connection still alive beneath the surface.
Haruto crouched to retrieve his Beyblade, jaw tight. He didn't speak just gave a curt nod before walking off the platform.
I stepped back to my side, the scoreboard flashing my updated BP total. A clean win—but I wasn't letting it go to my head. Matches here could be over in a heartbeat; mine had just happened to tilt my way.
Sliding Snake back into its case, I turned toward the competitor seats. The crowd's focus was already shifting to the next bladers stepping up, and that was fine by me. I didn't need the spotlight just more wins.
From here on, every match was one step closer to the top. And if today had proven anything, it was that Snake and I could take those steps together and take them fast.
The roar of the crowd was already dimming by the time I stepped off the platform. Here, matches moved fast—one round, no retries so the next two bladers were already in place, the referee signaling them to get ready. My role in this match was done; there was no reason to linger.
I headed back to the competitor seats, Snake's case warm in my palm. The metal still carried heat from the battle—a faint reminder of the short but decisive fight we'd just fought. Sliding it back into the foam-lined slot inside the case, I let my hand rest there for a moment longer. The link between us was steady now, quiet, like a heartbeat slowing after a sprint.
I picked a seat halfway down the row, far enough from the stairs to avoid the shuffle of other competitors coming and going. The hard bench pressed cold through my jacket, grounding me and keeping my head clear.
The noise around me was a blend of voices and the metallic ring of Beyblade clashes. Some bladers muttered under their breath, replaying mistakes and close calls. Others leaned forward, eyes locked on the stadiums, whispering quick takes on launches and part choices.
I settled in, turning my attention back to Platform Two. The current match was a stamina-versus-attack type—always a coin flip if the attacker couldn't land clean hits early. Sparks flew as the two Beyblades circled and clashed, the attacker relentless while the stamina type absorbed blow after blow, its spin refusing to fade.
I watched for more than entertainment. Every launch angle, every adjustment, every recovery path went into my mental notes. I studied how the stamina type claimed the center, forcing the attacker to burn through its own spin. I tracked how the attacker shifted arcs after each failed knockout attempt.
The cheers came when the stamina type finally claimed the outspin. The referee announced the win, and the next two competitors stepped up.
I glanced at my BP card—now sitting at 150. It had dropped to 50 after the entry fee and the BP exchange, but this win had nudged it back into safer territory.
The total was growing, but the number mattered less than the rhythm. Win, learn, prepare.
Part of me wanted to sit here all day, soaking in every match like a lesson. But the part that had drilled the Abyss Vortex into instinct reminded me: watching wasn't enough. If I wanted to keep moving, I'd have to step into that stadium again soon.
For now, I leaned back, eyes locked on the match in front of me. The tournament wasn't slowing down for anyone. Snake rested in its case, but I could feel the faint pulse through the foam—quiet, steady, and waiting for my signal.
When the call came again, we'd be ready.