Midnight — Pier 7
The coordinates led to the old industrial waterfront.
I could taste the salt before I saw the water. Thick, briny air that stuck in the back of my throat. The sound of waves slapping concrete pilings—rhythmic, hollow, like something breathing in the dark.
Rusted shipping containers stacked three stories high. Paint peeling in strips. Sodium lights from distant streets barely reached this far, leaving everything half-formed. Shadows on shadows.
Black Dranzer pulsed in my pocket.
Not a warning. Not approval.
Recognition.
Like a compass needle swinging toward magnetic north. It wanted to be here.
I passed through a gap in the chain-link fence someone had cut years ago. The "CONDEMNED" sign hung crooked, bullet holes rusting through the metal.
The warehouse ahead wasn't dark. Light bled through cracks in the walls—harsh, industrial white. And beneath it, a sound. Not voices. Deeper than that. The mechanical hum of generators. The screech of metal on concrete. The bass-heavy pulse of something happening.
I approached the main entrance.
A figure stepped into view.
Tall. Mid-twenties. Leather jacket worn smooth at the elbows. A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw—thin, surgical, pale against dark skin.
He didn't speak. Just looked at me with flat, professional eyes.
I pulled out the black card.
He took it. Examined it under a small flashlight. Three seconds. Then handed it back.
"Don't bleed on the concrete," he said. "Stains."
He stepped aside.
Inside
The warehouse was like a cave.
High ceiling lost in shadows. Exposed I-beams crossing overhead like ribs. The lights were industrial floods—harsh, white, casting everything in stark relief or deep black. No in-between.
The floor was concrete. Cracked. Stained with oil and rust and things I didn't want to identify. Spray-painted circles marked fight zones—crude, uneven, some overlapping where the paint had run.
No stadiums. No barriers. No walls.
Just space and violence.
A match was ending near the entrance.
Two bladers. Both older than me. One had blood running down his forearm from a gash near his elbow. The other was grinning.
Their beyblades were still spinning—one wobbling badly, the other circling like a shark.
The wobbling bey crossed outside the painted line.
Done.
The winner retrieved his beyblade. The loser pressed his hand against the cut, trying to stop the bleeding. No one helped him. He walked toward the exit alone, leaving a trail of red drops on grey concrete.
I kept walking.
Another circle. Larger. Two women battling with modified attack types—fusion wheels filed down to razors, spin tracks reinforced with what looked like bolted scrap metal.
When they collided, the sound was wrong. Not the clean clang of tournament beys.
Shriek. Metal tearing. Sparks and smoke.
One bey's fusion wheel fractured. Visible crack spreading like lightning.
Its blader didn't recall it. Kept launching attacks even as pieces started falling off.
The other bey finally hit the weak point dead-on.
The fusion wheel shattered.
Fragments scattered across concrete. The loser stared at the pieces for five seconds.
Then walked away.
Black Dranzer pulsed again.
This is where we belong.
"First timer?"
I turned.
A woman leaned against a support column. Early twenties. Short hair, dark. Piercings in both eyebrows. Her knuckles were scarred—old burns, healed rough.
She held a beyblade. Blood red fusion wheel. Black spin track.
"Does it show?" I asked.
"You're not limping." She grinned without warmth. "Yet."
I didn't respond.
She pushed off the column. Circled me slowly. "Saw you at the tournament. The one who made Busujima cry."
Word traveled.
"You fight here?" I asked.
"Three nights a week." She stopped circling. Studied me with cold calculation. "Good money. If your bey doesn't break. If you don't break."
She gestured toward a figure sitting alone near the far wall. Young. Maybe nineteen. Staring at an empty launcher with hollow eyes.
"He won eight straight. Got confident." She paused. "Then someone shattered his bey. Everything he'd saved for three months—dust. Now he sits there every night. Too broke to buy a replacement. Too scared to try."
I looked at the hollow-eyed blader. He hadn't moved. Just stared at nothing.
"Oh, and one more thing," she added. "You lose here, you pay. Winner's choice—cash, repairs, whatever they want. But veterans?" She smiled coldly. "They charge beypoints. Direct WBBA transfer."
My stomach tightened. "How much?"
"Depends on who you face. Some take a few hundred. Others..." She shrugged. "Well, that kid over there? He's at zero. Back to the start.She smiled. "And down here? We bet everything."
I looked at the hollow-eyed blader.
"All your points?"
"All your points." She walked past me. "Welcome to the real game, tournament kid."
***
Zone3
The registration table was a folding desk with a laptop and a bored man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Name."
"Kai."
He typed without looking up. "Zone 3. Opponent is Tetsuo." He gestured vaguely. "Over there."
I walked to Zone 3.
Medium circle. Maybe four meters across. The concrete inside was spider-webbed with cracks. A metal drainage grate ran through the center—industrial, heavy, bolted into the floor.
A crowd was forming. Larger than the previous matches.
Money changed hands. Voices low, urgent:
"—tournament kid—"
"—Tetsuo's going to eat him alive—"
"—easy money—"
Tetsuo was already waiting.
Late twenties. Lean. Wiry muscle under a worn jacket. His arms were exposed—covered in burn scars. Not fresh. Old. Layered like sediment. A history written in damaged skin.
His eyes were flat. Empty. Professional.
He held his beyblade loosely. Crimson fusion wheel. Black edges. Something welded to the spin track—dull metal that didn't catch the light.
He looked at me.
Didn't speak.
Just raised his launcher.
I did the same.
Someone in the crowd shouted. "Three!"
The warehouse noise didn't stop. Generators still hummed. Metal still scraped. But the circle went quiet.
"Two!"
Black Dranzer pulsed once.
Ready.
"One!"
"Let it rip"
***
We launched.
Crimson Gorgon hit the concrete and screamed.
Not the smooth hum of a tournament bey. A high-pitched shriek—metal on stone, wrong and violent.
It didn't position. Didn't circle.
It charged.
Black Dranzer barely had time to stabilize before impact.
The collision wasn't a hit. It was a grapple.
Tetsuo's bey latched on. The modification on his spin track—magnetic, I realized—locked both beys together. Metal grinding against metal. Rotation draining through forced contact.
I tried to break free. Adjust angle. Use leverage.
Tetsuo was faster.
Crimson Gorgon detached. Shot backward. Repositioned.
"Your stance is too wide," Tetsuo said. Flat voice. Clinical. "You're broadcasting your launches."
He charged again.
This time I was ready. Black Dranzer dodged—not fully, but enough.
Glancing contact. We separated.
Fifteen seconds gone.
Tetsuo attacked again. And again. Methodical. Efficient. Each strike designed to test, to probe, to learn.
I blocked. Countered. Kept Black Dranzer moving.
But he wasn't getting tired. Wasn't making mistakes.
I was.
Thirty seconds.
My launcher hand ached. Not from strain. From the pressure. Every collision between our beys sent feedback up through the connection—phantom impacts I felt in my wrist, my elbow, my shoulder.
Forty-five seconds.
Tetsuo stopped talking.
His eyes stayed flat. Empty.
But his attacks got harder.
Crimson Gorgon shifted to the center of the zone. Positioned directly over the metal grate.
The magnetic modification activated fully.
Clunk.
The sound of metal locking to metal.
Tetsuo's bey stopped moving. Anchored. The entire grate reinforcing its stability.
Rotation steady. Unmovable.
"Come on then," Tetsuo said quietly.
Not a taunt. An instruction.
He's forcing me to attack a fortress.
One minute.
I had to move. Had to break the anchor or lose on time.
Black Dranzer charged.
The magnetic field grabbed it mid-approach. Pulled trajectory off-angle.
My bey hit the grate badly. Scraped. Lost rotation.
I tried again.
Same result.
The crowd noise shifted. Someone laughed.
"He's done."
"Tetsuo's got him."
"Tournament brat."
One minute fifteen.
Black Dranzer's rotation was dropping. Not critical yet. But noticeably.
I sent it in again. Desperate.
Tetsuo didn't flinch. Didn't adjust.
His bey just sat there. Anchored. Waiting.
Contact.
Black Dranzer ricocheted off the magnetic field. Hit concrete. Scraped again.
One minute thirty.
I'm losing.
***
I felt it before I understood it.
Pain.
Every time Black Dranzer scraped concrete, I felt the friction. Not metaphorically. Physically. A burning sensation across my palm. Up my forearm. Into my shoulder.
The bey wasn't just spinning. It was hurting.
And I was feeling it.
One minute forty-five.
Another attack. Another scrape.
The pain flared. Sharp. Real.
My hand clenched around the launcher.
What is this—
Black Dranzer pulsed.
Not communication. Not strategy.
Rage.
Pure. Bottomless.
It was tired of losing. Tired of being crushed by a magnetic anchor and a blader who didn't care. Tired of scraping concrete while the crowd laughed.
And that rage—
—was bleeding into me.
Two minutes.
I attacked again.
Harder this time. Faster.
The pain when Black Dranzer hit the field was worse. Felt like my palm was pressed against hot metal.
But beneath the pain—
Anger.
Not mine.
His.
black dranzer's.
Two minutes fifteen.
Another attack. Another failure.
The pain was constant now. Every rotation scraped against my nerves. Every impact felt like it was happening to my body.
And the anger kept building.
Building.
Building.
The crowd was louder. Jeering. Betting against me. Dismissing me.
Tournament brat.
Doesn't belong here.
Easy money.
My vision narrowed.
The warehouse sounds pulled away. Generators. Voices. Metal scraping.
All of it fading.
Leaving only—
Rage.
Two minutes thirty.
Black Dranzer's rotation was critical.
One more failed attack and it would stop.
I would lose.
Tetsuo stood across from me. Expressionless. Professional.
Already counting his winnings.
My hand burned. My shoulder ached. My teeth hurt from clenching.
And Black Dranzer—
Black Dranzer was screaming.
Not in sound.
In my head.
Let me out.
Let me BURN.
"No," I whispered.
Then we both die here.
The rotation dropped further.
Five seconds left. Maybe.
You want to prove you're strong?
You want to stand against legends?
Then TAKE what you need.
My hand moved before I decided.
Stance shifted.
"Break it," I said.
And I meant it.
***
The cold started at the base of my spine.
Not power. Nothing. A hole opening in my chest where warmth used to be.
The warehouse sounds died. Complete silence. I could see mouths moving, generators running, beyblades spinning. Couldn't hear any of it.
Just my heartbeat. Thump. And Black Dranzer's rotation. Thump.
The lights bled purple-grey. Bruised.
Tetsuo saw it. His flat eyes narrowed. Calculating. He'd seen dangerous bladers before.
But this—
His jaw tightened. Knuckles white on the launcher.
"Iron Requiem."
Cold. Controlled.
Crimson Gorgon's magnetic field roared. The air hummed—bass-frequency vibration that rattled teeth. The metal grate started smoking, friction heating iron as the magnetic force intensified beyond limits.
Above Crimson Gorgon—itappeared.
Translucent. Massive. A serpent coiled around the anchor—body segmented like ancient armor, multiple heads rising from a single neck, eyes burning cold and metallic.
A gorgon forged from magnetism and will of tetsuo. The avatar of a man who'd survived by turning defense into absolute dominance.
The crowd gasped.
Tetsuo looked at me. No words. Just determination hardening in those flat eyes.
He wasn't running.
"Volcano Emission," I whispered.
Black fire erupted. Not bright. Dark. Oily flames that consumed light. Shadows spreading like spilled ink. The space around Black Dranzer dimmed until it looked like a wound in reality.
And behind me—
Pressure. Massive. Wrong. Making breathing difficult.
The Phoenix.
Not translucent. Not clean. Incomplete. Ash and smoke and jagged edges. Wings half-formed, feathers like shattered glass. Beak curved too sharp. Eyes—burning coals in a face that hadn't finished manifesting.
Tearing through. Ripping reality. Clawing into existence with desperate, hungry fury.
The silhouette turned its head. Looked at Tetsuo. At the iron gorgon.
At prey.
Someone whispered: "What the fuck is that?"
Tetsuo's hand shook. Once. Barely.
He saw it. Understood it. Still didn't step back.
"Come on then," he said quietly.
Both beys charged.
The iron gorgon coiled tighter. Metallic scales hardening. Magnetic field compressed into dense barrier.
Defense perfected.
The black phoenix spread its incomplete wings. Screamed.
Not sound. Pressure. The air recoiled.
Black Dranzer hit the magnetic field—and it collapsed. Unraveled like torn fabric. The magnetic force just stoppedexisting.
The iron gorgon's heads reared back. Scales fracturing. Eyes dimming.
Black fire met crimson iron.
Implosion. Air pressure dropped. Ears popped. Metal screamed—high-pitched, agonized. Concrete cracked. The grate buckled deeper, twisting.
The phoenix wrapped around the gorgon. Not attacking. Consuming.
The iron serpent shattered. All at once. Like glass hit by a hammer.
The avatar dissolved into translucent shards.
Beneath it—Crimson Gorgon disintegrated. Fusion wheel exploded into red dust. Spin track twisted. Performance tip snapped clean off.
The magnetic field died. The iron gorgon vanished.
Black Dranzer stood alone. Still spinning. Wreathed in fading black flames.
The phoenix silhouette lingered—wings spread, eyes locked on Tetsuo—then vanished. Pulled back through the tear it had made.
The black fire faded. Purple-grey haze retreated. Lights returned to harsh white.
The warehouse was just a warehouse again.
Black Dranzer glided to my palm. Burning hot. I barely felt it.
***
Aftermath
Tetsuo stared at the red dust. Five seconds. Ten.
Then looked up. At me. Not anger. Not fear. Understanding.
"You don't even know what you're becoming," he said quietly.
My pointer buzzed. BEYPOINT TRANSFER: +4,500. CURRENT TOTAL: 9,500
Tetsuo's pointer buzzed too. He looked at the screen. At the dust in his palm.
"Three months. Gone." He closed his fist. Red powder sifted between his fingers. "You should leave. Before this place turns you into dust too."
He walked away.
The crowd erupted.
"—what the fuck—"
"—his eyes—"
"—there was a fucking phoenix—"
"—I'm not fighting that—"
Some fled. Others stayed, eyes locked on me. Calculating. Hungry.
The woman from earlier appeared. "Half want to beat you. The other half want to use you." She looked at Black Dranzer. At the faint smoke. "Three nights from now, they'll come for you. All of them."
She walked away.
I stood alone in Zone 3. Concrete cracked. Grate buckled. Red dust floating.
Black Dranzer pulsed. Satisfied. Not tired. Hungry. Already looking for the next fight.
And beneath that—my own thought.
"I want to do that again"
***
Above — The Watchtower
Doji stood in the shadows, pale eyes reflecting nothing. He'd watched the entire match through a handheld device—thermal imaging, resonance detector, spiritual frequency analyzer.
The readings were clear.
ANOMALOUS RESONANCE DETECTED
BIT-BEAST: CONFIRMED
STABILITY: CRITICAL
POTENTIAL: EXTREME
He lowered the device. Adjusted his glasses.
Below, the crowd dispersed. The boy—Kai Hiwatari—stood alone. Still holding his beyblade.
Doji pulled out his phone. Typed a message.
Subject identified. Black beyblade. Bit-beast confirmed. Unstable resonance. High cultivation potential.
Recommend: Observation. Pressure testing. Do not engage directly yet.
He sent it.
Waited.
The reply came thirty seconds later.
Approved. Monitor progress. Report weekly. —R
Doji pocketed the phone.
Looked down at Kai one more time.
The boy was leaving now. Walking toward the exit. Limping slightly.
Good.
Pain was useful. It meant the resonance was physical. Real. Exploitable.
Doji descended the ladder without sound.
By the time anyone looked up, he was already gone.
End Chapter 8
A/N: first of all sorry for late chapter.
Please tell me what do you think about this chapter. I understand if it's not what you wanted.
If you're enjoying the story, please leave a review. It helps more than you'd think, and honestly, knowing what's landing (or not landing) helps me write better chapters.