The last match of the Round of 16 ended with a crushing smash that sent one Bey spinning high before crashing out of the stadium. The crowd erupted, cheers rolling like a wave across the arena. Above the central stage, the giant digital bracket pulsed with light before the names began to rearrange. One by one, the winners' names slid into the quarterfinal slots, each movement marked by a metallic chime that echoed through the air.
I leaned forward in my seat as the final eight locked in:
Kenta Yumiya — I'd spotted him earlier. Impossible to miss the green hair, the confident posture, or the precision in the way his Sagittario drained an opponent's spin to nothing. He couldn't have been more than eleven, but he battled like he'd been honing his craft for years.
Taro "Rush" Inoue — pure speed and aggression. I'd seen him flatten an opponent in under thirty seconds earlier today. His style was loud, risky, and bordering on reckless—but it worked.
Kaiya Mizuno — calm, deliberate, and dangerous. Her Sea Mirage Leviathan didn't just compete; it dictated the battle's pace. A stamina type built to control the center and punish anyone foolish enough to overextend.
Gideon Voss — quiet, but not from shyness. It was the quiet of absolute confidence. His defense game was airtight; opponents wore themselves out before they could land a decisive blow.
The other four were no less dangerous:
Riku Asahara, a balance-type tactician who could switch strategies mid-match without hesitation.
Daisuke Hayami, whose opening attacks were so brutal that his matches were often decided before the first minute was over.
Ryo Kanzaki, a defensive wall who could shrug off strike after strike without budging.
Shun Arata, who launched at strange, unpredictable angles that somehow always paid off.
Then the big screen flashed again, bracket lines snapping into place:
Match 1: Ethan Kael vs Kaiya Mizuno
Match 2: Kenta Yumiya vs Taro Inoue
Match 3: Gideon Voss vs Riku Asahara
Match 4: Daisuke Hayami vs Ryo Kanzaki
The crowd reacted instantly. Murmurs rippled around me—some predicting Kaiya's victory, others whispering about "the new guy" with the black serpent Bey. I didn't need to ask who they meant.
Across the seating area, I caught Kaiya watching me. No smile. No frown. Just a steady, unreadable gaze. I met it head-on, keeping my own expression calm. This was the match where the tournament stopped being simple. She wouldn't crumble under raw power or flashy aggression. I'd have to fight for every inch.
"Quarterfinals will begin at five p.m. sharp!" the announcer's voice boomed. "Spectators, you don't want to miss these battles—each one could be a final!"
The crowd roared again, the atmosphere shifting as spectators moved—some heading for food stalls, others staying put to talk strategy.
I leaned back, eyes fixed on the glowing bracket. Four hours until I faced Kaiya Mizuno. Four hours to make sure I walked into that stadium with more than just confidence. My heartbeat stayed steady, but underneath, there was that quiet thrum of anticipation.
This wasn't just another opponent—this was someone who could push Snake and me to see exactly what we were capable of.
Breakfast felt like it had been a lifetime ago. Watching the rest of the morning matches, wandering the arena, and riding the adrenaline from my own victory had burned through whatever energy I'd started with. My stomach growled, reminding me that I wasn't about to face Kaiya Mizuno on an empty tank.
I slipped out of the seating area and headed for the main street. The moment I stepped through the glass doors, the air shifted—cooler, fresher, and thick with the scent of cooking. Dozens of vendors lined the road, each shouting over the next about why their food was "the best in Metal City."
The smell of sizzling vegetables and hot vegetable soup pulled me toward a small ramen cart wedged between two larger stalls. Steam curled from a wide pot, carrying the earthy scent of simmering greens and herbs. A hand-painted sign propped against the counter read: Vegetable Ramen – Fresh & Hot.
"Bowl of vegetable," I said. The vendor nodded, already ladling steaming vegetable soup into a ceramic bowl. He added noodles, then topped them with stir-fried vegetables—thin carrot slices, mushrooms, and bok choy glistening in the light.
I paid, sat on one of the low stools, and took my first mouthful. The heat stung my tongue, but I didn't care. The flavor was deep and earthy, carrying a faint sweetness that lingered after each sip.
But my mind didn't stay on the food. I replayed Kaiya's last match in my head: Sea Mirage Leviathan 145WD. I'd clocked her setup instantly—Wide Defense tip for stability, 145 height for balance. She locked the center like it belonged to her, barely moving until the perfect moment to counter. Those sudden hook strikes could flip or destabilize an attacker in an instant.
Against Snake, her game plan was obvious: hold the middle, drain my spin, and wait for my first mistake. If I used Abyssal Vortex too soon, she'd counter. Too late, and I'd already be losing. Timing was everything.
I ate slowly, letting the steam hit my face as I ran through launch angles and counter-paths in my head. Snake wasn't just a blunt-force attacker—its coil patterns could be unpredictable. The key would be making her move first, breaking that serene rhythm she relied on.
The vendor poured me a small cup of tea. "You're one of the bladers, right?" he asked, nodding toward my BP card.
"Quarterfinals," I said, taking the cup.
He smiled. "Then fuel up. Energy first, victory second."
I finished the ramen, drained the tea, and stood. My body felt warmer, my steps lighter. The solid weight in my stomach was a welcome change from the earlier hollow ache.
As I returned to the arena, the noise hit me before I even stepped through the doors—crowd cheers, the clash of Beyblades, the grind of metal. Highlights from earlier matches played on the big screens. I slipped back into my seat, Snake resting cool and solid in my palm.
Four hours until I stepped onto the stadium floor . I wasn't just full now—I was ready.
The hours crawled by. I stayed in my seat, half-watching the other matches, half running through every possible scenario in my head. Launch patterns, spin paths, counter-timings—each possibility turning over like gears in motion.
By the time the announcer's voice boomed again, my shoulders ached from sitting still so long.
"First quarterfinal match—Ethan Kael versus Kaiya Mizuno! Competitors, please report to Stadium Two."
The crowd swelled with noise. I rose, Snake in hand, and walked down the steps toward the stadium. This was the first quarterfinal—every camera lens would be locked on us.
Kaiya was already waiting when I stepped up, Leviathan loose in her hand, launcher clipped to her belt. She didn't look tense—just sharply focused. Our eyes met briefly before she spoke, her voice steady.
"I've seen your last few matches. You're not like the usual rookies who show up here."
A faint smile tugged at my lips. "And you're not like the usual opponents I've faced here."
Her mouth curved slightly—whether in amusement or challenge, I couldn't tell.
We clipped in, the metallic clicks sharp in the hush that settled over the floor. My hands moved by instinct—checking Snake's track, fitting it into the launcher, settling into the grip.
"Bladers ready?" the referee called.
We nodded.
"Three…"
I bent my knees, eyes fixed on the stadium floor, breathing steady. The crowd faded until all I could feel was Snake's familiar pulse.
"Two…"
Kaiya's stance barely shifted—still calm, still unreadable.
"One…"
I tightened my grip on the ripcord.
"Let it rip!"
Snake tore into the stadium with a metallic grind, launching in a clean arc. Leviathan hit almost at the same moment, both of us aiming dead-center. The first clash was instant—metal on metal, sparks flying from the impact.
Snake recoiled, sliding into a wide coil pattern. Leviathan held the center, pressing forward with steady, deliberate pressure. I could feel it in the vibrations through my launcher—her patient rhythm, forcing me to burn spin if I wanted to break her hold.
But this time, I wasn't letting her dictate the flow.