That day was weirdly lucky.
Like, too lucky — the kind of luck that makes you nervous for no reason, as if the world is smiling a bit too wide.
Zevion didn't think much of it at first.
He wasn't superstitious or anything; he just believed in the quiet rhythm of life.
You wake up, do your thing, eat something decent, maybe laugh at a meme before bed — nothing extraordinary.
But life, apparently, had other plans.
He was walking to grab some pastries that morning, earbuds in, playlist on shuffle.
The day was perfect — clear sky, light breeze, the kind of weather that makes even a cynic hum under his breath.
Then a delivery truck, about four meters away, suddenly swerved to avoid a stray dog.
Tires screeched.
The smell of burnt rubber clawed at the air.
Someone shouted.
Zevion froze mid-step, blinking as the truck spun, fishtailed, and somehow stopped without flipping over.
The driver sat there shaking while the dog trotted off, tail wagging like nothing happened.
"Damn," Zevion muttered.
"That dog's got plot armor. Looks like another protagonist was missed today."
He smirked faintly, tugged his earbud back in, and kept walking.
He didn't feel scared.
Just… mildly impressed.
Like he'd witnessed someone else's dramatic scene by accident.
The café down the street smelled like cinnamon and roasted beans.
Cozy, warm, safe.
He ordered a coffee and a croissant, found a corner seat, and relaxed.
Before he could take the first sip, a sharp pop cracked through the air — a plug behind the counter sparked like a firework.
The barista yelped, yanked the cord out, and everyone laughed awkwardly.
The manager handed out free drink coupons as compensation.
Zevion accepted his with a shrug, scrolling through his phone.
"That's two," he muttered.
"Guess the universe's bored today."
He didn't believe in omens, but still… two near-disasters before noon was stretching "coincidence."
Back at his apartment, the weird luck continued.
The lights flickered, the fridge hummed wrong, and the Wi-Fi kept cutting out.
Then half the building went dark, followed by a chorus of annoyed neighbors.
The super went down to reset the main breaker. When the lights came back on, everyone clapped like it was some heroic comeback.
Zevion?
He just wanted his pastries and peace.
He dropped his shoes, tossed his jacket, and flopped onto the couch like a man reuniting with his soulmate.
The couch greeted him with open arms — soft, forgiving, perfectly molded to his shape after years of lazy afternoons.
He kicked his feet up, opened his bag, and took a bite of a flaky pastry that flaked too much.
Crumbs everywhere.
Whatever.
He'd vacuum later.
Probably.
He scrolled through some old Beyblade G-Revolution clips on his phone.
The nostalgia hit hard.
The crowd is cheering.
The clash of blades.
Tyson was yelling like his lungs were trying to escape.
"Man," he chuckled, "those guys had way too much energy."
Though he started to get bored with it, as he was planning to watch a new anime series from tomorrow onward.
He yawned, stretched, and thought vaguely about ordering takeout later.
He didn't know it yet, but the next few minutes would make him a legend — just not in the way anyone would want.
A loud laugh echoed from the hallway.
The kid next door — maybe eight, always running around with toys — dashed past Zevion's door.
Something clattered.
When Zevion looked, there it was — a cheap plastic Beyblade, one of those mass-produced knockoffs that came in cereal boxes or bargain toy packs.
And yes, his door was open to get more ventilation for his rooms, as it was still a day, not a night.
He smiled.
"Guess the next generation still spins."
He stood up and walked towards it.
As he leaned down to pick it up.
At that exact moment, another truck outside slammed its brakes.
The vibration crawled up through the pavement, rattling his window just enough to nudge the glass of orange juice he'd set down earlier.
It tilted.
Wobbled.
Spilled.
A bright orange river crept slowly across the table toward the rug.
He didn't notice.
He was too busy reaching for the toy.
His fingers brushed plastic.
His slipper brushed juice.
The world tilted.
For a second, time slowed.
He didn't even have time to curse before the edge of the coffee table met the back of his head with a clean, dull thunk.
Everything flashed white.
Then black.
The phone on the table buzzed — Bladers still shouting, let it rip.
His hand was still half-curled around the toy.
Then the lamp wobbled, teetered, and crashed onto the wet carpet.
The bulb was still on.
Electricity meets juice.
A single, cruel spark — then a hiss, and silence.
Later, people would say he died instantly.
The paramedics tried for almost two hours, but there wasn't much to save.
Blunt force.
Electrocution.
Simple, clinical.
The truck.
The café.
The flickering lights.
The juice.
The toy.
Each one is harmless on its own.
...Ok, maybe except the truck...
But together?
It felt like fate had been stacking dominoes all day, waiting for him to take that last lazy step.
And when he did… it gave him one final gift — the luck to be remembered, not for how he lived, but for how spectacularly he didn't.
...
The first thing he remembered was the color blue.
Not the deep, infinite kind that swallows the sky — something gentler.
Softer.
Like sunlight bleeding through thin curtains onto a wooden floor that creaked softly beneath the hum of a ceiling fan.
The air smelled faintly of detergent and dust.
Somewhere outside, birds were chirping — cheerfully, insistently — like they hadn't yet realized mornings weren't supposed to be that happy.
He blinked up at the ceiling.
Unfamiliar.
Plain.
Too clean to be his.
He turned his head.
A small shelf stood by the window, lined with neatly arranged toys.
The floor was scattered with spinning tops — bright reds, blues, golds — each one catching slivers of sunlight.
Everything looked new.
Untouched.
Like it had been placed there for someone else to live in.
And yet, for reasons he couldn't explain, every inch of it felt… his.
He didn't remember moving in.
Didn't remember buying anything.
Didn't even remember yesterday.
That was how his early years passed — quiet, mechanical, and oddly hollow.
He laughed when others laughed.
Cried when he fell.
Spoke when spoken to.
Ate when told.
Slept when tired.
It was like watching life through fogged glass — his body moving, his mouth speaking, but the self behind it all simply… watching.
No awareness.
No spark.
Just the steady rhythm of existing.
Until the day everything snapped into focus.
He was five.
It was one of those lazy spring afternoons — the kind that smelled of grass, sunscreen, and childhood.
He sat cross-legged in the park, spinning a cheap plastic Beyblade across the dirt.
It wobbled, clattered twice, and stopped pathetically after a few seconds.
Something about that failure offended him.
"I could've launched that better," he muttered.
The voice startled him — not because it came from his mouth, but because it didn't sound like a child's.
It was firm.
Steady.
Older.
And just like that, the fog shattered.
The sound of screeching tires.
The smell of burnt rubber.
Orange juice is spreading across a table.
Cinnamon from a café.
A spark.
A fall.
Then pain — sharp, bright, and final.
He gasped, clutching his chest.
The park spun around him in dizzying color until, slowly, the world settled again.
But the memories didn't fade.
His name.
His anime.
His laziness.
His playlists.
His sarcasm.
And most importantly, the search history he didn't get the chance to delete.
Every tiny fragment of the person once called Zevion came rushing back, raw and unfiltered.
He looked down at his small hands, trembling.
The Beyblade lay there in his palm — dented, scratched, completely ordinary.
"…I died," he whispered.
Then, a pause.
"…Did I just get isekaied?"
He wanted to laugh, but it came out shaky.
This couldn't be real.
But reality has a way of not caring what you believe.
The park buzzed with life — children shouting, running, laughing.
Their voices blurred until a few words cut through the noise.
"Tobi! Nene! Show us your new Beyblades!"
That word — Beyblade — hit harder than it should have.
Zevion turned instinctively.
The kids were launching tops from sleek, modern-looking launchers.
The designs were nothing like the ones he remembered — bulkier, metallic, glowing faintly under sunlight.
When the two collided, one exploded into three pieces.
Zevion blinked.
What the hell?
In his world, that would've triggered lawsuits and safety bans before lunch.
While many would demand a refund for poor quality.
Some kids would get slaughtered by their parents for breaking their new toys.
Here, the kids cheered like fireworks had gone off.
Then they casually fit the pieces back together.
He sat there, silent, half in awe and half disturbed by how normal it all was.
Weeks turned into months as he watched from the sidelines.
He listened.
He observed.
He acted like a normal kid, all while quietly mapping the rules of this strange, spinning world.
And slowly, things began to make sense — or as much sense as they could.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't the afterlife.
This was the world of Beyblade.
But not the one he knew.
No Tyson.
No Kai.
No Dragoon or Bit-Beasts roaring from blades.
Even the essence of Beyblade itself had changed — no mystical spirits or ancient legends, just high-tech tops bursting apart on impact, guided by skill and physics.
Now there are only avatars in holographic representation.
It was… practical.
And kind of boring.
This was a new generation — one that treated Beyblade less like destiny and more like a competitive sport.
He didn't know why he was here.
There was no Goddess or Random Omnipotent Being.
No glowing system interface.
No divine voice whispering purpose.
Not even a little bit of cheats.
Just another life.
His parents, apparently, had gone missing years ago but left behind an inheritance that handled everything — the house, the finances, the paperwork.
No orphanage.
No pity.
Just quiet independence.
Which will last a few more years, even if he becomes an adult in this world.
For Zevion, that was paradise.
He tried "investigating" for a while, half-heartedly between naps.
Maybe, he thought, he could use his old-world knowledge to get rich — predict metas, design parts, exploit trends.
That plan lasted three days.
In this world, nothing looked the same.
There are different companies, different history, different physics, different everything.
Not worth the headache.
So he quit.
The years rolled by like lazy Sundays strung together.
He grew into a quiet, unbothered kid — neither awkward nor ambitious, perfectly content in the background.
Sometimes he'd watch Beyblade tournaments on TV, the commentators yelling like generals at war.
Crowds roared.
Sparks flew.
Avatars burst across holographic arenas.
And Zevion sat cross-legged on his couch, munching chips, muttering.
"Man, they're still just spinning tops."
He'd long stopped caring.
After all, in his last life, he died because of one.
A Beyblade.
A plastic toy at that.
The stupid punchline to fate's cruel joke.
So no — he had zero intention of touching one again.
No tournaments.
No rivalries.
No speeches about hearts spinning as one.
He was done.
He'd live quietly, enjoy his lazy afternoons, and let this ridiculous world spin without him.
At least, that was the plan.
Because even when he refused to move, fate had already started spinning his Beyblade again — and this time, it wasn't planning to stop.