The hit rattled through the stadium, the vibration carrying up my legs into the platform. Snake slid half a rotation back from the impact, its spin still steady. Riku's balance type wasted no time pressing the advantage, shifting from side attacks into a tighter orbit, hunting for an opening to destabilize me.
His style was disciplined—each approach came from a slightly different angle, just enough to keep me from locking into a single defense pattern. He was patient, clearly trying to wear my spin down before going for the knockout. Against most opponents, it would have worked.
But I didn't plan to let this drag on.
The moment Snake dipped into the inside lane of the stadium, the rhythm clicked—the heartbeat between us syncing sharper than before. My breath came out slow, controlled.
"Abyssal Vortex."
It wasn't a shout this time, just a steady command, the kind of voice you'd use to tell a coiled predator to strike.
Snake answered instantly. Its rotation surged, the Fusion Wheel catching light as though it burned from within. Dust and loose debris on the stadium floor began pulling inward, swirling along an invisible spiral. The air itself felt heavier, as though the pull was real and not just a trick of the spin.
Riku's eyes widened. His balance type's orbit faltered for a split second, momentum dragged inward by Snake's aggressive movement. It wasn't true suction, but the shift in spin forced his Beyblade into a path it didn't want—off-balance and vulnerable.
The collision was hard and clean. Snake slammed into his Beyblade from below, catching the underside of the Fusion Wheel. The sound was sharp, a single crack cutting through the noise of the crowd.
Riku's Beyblade launched upward, spinning wildly off-axis before smashing into the stadium wall. It bounced once, then flipped over the ridge entirely.
Gasps broke out, followed by an eruption of cheers.
The match ended barely two seconds after I'd called the move.
Snake slowed in the center of the stadium, its metallic hum fading. I crouched to retrieve it, the warm metal pulsing faintly under my palm in that same heartbeat rhythm.
Riku stepped forward to collect his Beyblade from the floor outside the stadium. His expression was tight—not angry, but frustrated in the way you get when a match ends before you've had a chance to adapt.
"Winner: Ethan Kael!" the referee called, though the crowd was already shouting over him.
I didn't celebrate. I walked back to my platform's edge, Snake resting in my hand, the last traces of the vortex's spin fading away. Quick wins were satisfying, but they also painted a target. Anyone watching now would be looking for ways to break that move.
The tournament wasn't going to get easier from here.
The stadium's automated camera arm swung overhead, lens locking onto me. The big screen replayed the knockout in slow motion, the spiral and impact clear from every angle. From the floor, I caught glimpses of the crowd—some leaning over rails, some miming the vortex motion, others reenacting the hit. Lips formed the same words: "Did you see that?" "So fast."
Snake felt heavier now, the cool metal losing its heat. I slipped it into its case, locking the latch. The camera followed that too.
As I climbed back toward the competitor seating, I spotted them.
Kenta was two rows ahead, elbows on his knees, his easy smile replaced by a sharp, calculating look. His gaze tracked Snake, already running angles in his head.
A few seats over, Gideon Voss sat perfectly still, arms folded, eyes fixed on me. No hostility—just quiet assessment, the look of someone who'd already decided I was a threat.
On the far side, Taro "Rush" Inoue grinned, spinning his Beyblade in his palm. When our eyes met, he nodded and mouthed something I couldn't hear, but his expression said it clearly enough: I like this game.
And near the back row, Kaiya Mizuno rested her hands on the railing, watching me descend. Her face didn't change, but her focus followed me the entire way.
The crowd's cheers spiked again as the next match began on Platform Two, but I could still feel the weight of eyes on me as I reached my seat.
Attention in a tournament like this was a double-edged sword. The Abyssal Vortex had been decisive, but it wouldn't stay a surprise for long.
I leaned back, letting the sound of the matches fill the background. The next rounds were going to get harder.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
***
The giant bracket board on the far wall updated with a metallic chime. My name shifted into the Quarterfinals column, bold against the deep blue: Ethan Kael – Advance.
Quarterfinals. Just like that, I was in the top eight.
Kenta's name was the first to appear in the Quarterfinal column on the left half of the bracket—his earlier match had wrapped up minutes ago with Sagittario holding the center until his opponent's spin faded to nothing. Taro followed with another aggressive ring-out, his style still reckless but effective. Gideon's grind match ended with his opponent spinning to a halt dead center. Kaiya's Leviathan advanced exactly as before—calm, surgical, decisive.
My Quarterfinal opponent hadn't been decided yet, but I already knew the mindset I needed.
One round. No mistakes.
Snake's case sat heavy in my lap, not from the metal, but from what we'd built together. The Vortex had gotten us this far. The rest would come down to adapting before anyone could shut it down.