The big screen above the main platform flashed with bold white letters: ROUND OF 32 – COMPLETE. The crowd noise dipped for a moment as the results scrolled down in neat, glowing columns. Names dropped away line by line, replaced by those who had advanced.
Sixteen bladers were left.
I leaned forward in my seat, elbows resting on my knees, eyes scanning for familiar names. A few I recognized from earlier matches, but most were new to me. Still, some jumped off the screen.
Kaiya Mizuno — her name sat near the top of the bracket. I'd watched her match from across the arena. Stamina type, but with a twist: her Sea Mirage Leviathan never seemed rushed. It moved slow, deceptively slow, and then out of nowhere, it would snap into a counter-hook that made attackers lose their footing. The way she controlled the stadium was surgical.
Kenta Yumiya — this one surprised me. He couldn't be older than eleven, with short green hair and a quick, bright smile. His Flame Sagittario had stamina and upper attack built into its arcs, and he'd handled his opponent like it was nothing. I'd noticed how steady his hands were during the launch. Not many kids could control a shot that clean.
Gideon Voss — tall, thin, the kind of person who didn't waste words. His match had been a grind—slow, deliberate hits that wore his opponent's spin down over time. It wasn't flashy, but it was efficient. Watching him felt like seeing a blade cut through ice—no wasted motion, just a clean result.
Taro "Rush" Inoue — his name fit him. The guy launched with so much force that his Bey practically leapt into the stadium. His style was pure aggression, darting in and smashing with relentless speed. Flashy, loud, but you couldn't deny the power behind it.
I sat back, letting the names sink in. These weren't just random bladers—they were the ones people would remember after the tournament. And they were the kind of opponents I wanted to face.
The announcer's voice crackled over the PA. "Congratulations to our Top 16 competitors! Round of 16 matches will begin in ten minutes!"
Ten minutes. That was barely enough time to breathe, but it kept the energy high. Competitors were already standing, stretching, checking their parts. Across the seating area, Kaiya was quietly adjusting her launcher's grip. Kenta was chatting with another blader, though his eyes kept flicking toward the stadium like he couldn't wait to get back in. Gideon sat alone, eyes closed, his hands folded over his knees. Taro was leaning against the rail, laughing with a couple of guys, his Bey spinning lazily in his palm.
I let my gaze sweep over the rest of the crowd. The Top 16 was a mix—some calm, some hyped, some hiding their nerves behind forced smiles. But every one of them had the same thought: one loss, and it's over.
That was the nature of this tournament. Single elimination. One round per match. No second chances.
Snake rested in my case beside me, the faint metallic gleam catching a bit of the overhead light. I could almost feel the thrum of our connection, steady and ready. The Abyss Vortex had gotten us here, but I knew I'd need more than one move to handle players like these.
Ten minutes. That was all the time I had to clear my head. Somewhere in this arena was my next opponent. I was ready to meet them—out there, in the stadium.
"Next match on Platform Three—Ethan Kael versus Riku Asahara!"
My name echoed for a second before the crowd's noise swallowed it up. I stood, sliding Snake's case under my arm, and made my way toward the stairs leading down to the platform area.
Riku was already waiting on the opposite side. He looked about fourteen—short black hair trimmed close at the sides, a sharp, angular face that made him seem older than he was. His eyes were a deep brown, almost black, and they tracked me with the kind of focus that didn't waver. His lips curled into a thin smirk, not arrogant, but confident. He knew what he was capable of.
His launcher hung at his side, fingers tapping against it like he was itching to get started. A faded red wristband wrapped his right arm, frayed at the edges from long use. The Beyblade clutched in his other hand had a silver-and-blue Fusion Wheel, smooth enough to glide but edged with subtle ridges for striking. The Spin Track sat at a mid-height—good for stability, but still able to meet attacks head-on. Definitely a balance type, the kind that could pivot between offense and defense without warning.
We locked eyes as I stepped into my spot. No words exchanged. I could feel the tension between us—an unspoken agreement that talking was pointless.
The announcer's voice was replaced by the referee's firm call. "Bladers, ready!"
I unclipped Snake from its case, the weight fitting naturally into my palm. The faint hum of our link settled into place, not loud, but present. My right hand gripped the launcher, fingers adjusting to the familiar grooves. Across from me, Riku raised his launcher, his stance wide and solid.
We both angled our launchers toward the stadium floor. The sunlight from above caught the edge of Riku's Beyblade, sending a brief glint my way. I didn't look away.
"Three!"
The thrum of Snake's readiness synced with my heartbeat.
"Two!"
Riku's smirk faded into a tighter, more controlled expression. His left foot edged forward—a burst pattern stance.
"One!"
Riku drew a slow, deliberate breath, while I locked my shoulders for recoil control.
Our ripcords tore free in unison.
"Let it rip!"
Snake shot from the launcher with a heavy metallic roar, the launch sharper than anything I'd used back in the early street matches. Riku's Beyblade burst forward at almost the same speed, its entry angle clean, calculated to meet me at the center.
The collision was immediate, the sound ringing across the platform like a hammer striking an anvil. Sparks flared from the contact point, scattering against the stadium wall. Both Beyblades recoiled slightly, but neither lost much spin.
Riku's eyes narrowed. His grip on the launcher tightened, knuckles pale. His balance type immediately shifted into a lateral sweep, trying to circle and cut in at my flank.
I kept my breathing slow, letting Snake's movements flow through the link. The next impact came a split second later, metal scraping on metal.
The match was underway, and neither of us was holding back.