The glow of an old CRT television flickered across the dimly lit room. The world outside had long since quieted, but in here, the storm raged on—on-screen, at least. Two figures clashed inside a vortex of wind and lightning. Tyson Granger, cap pulled back, face locked in a fearless grin, was locked in a duel against Brooklyn. Dragoon's howling spirit coiled through the stadium, clashing against the overwhelming presence of Zeus.
Seated on the floor, legs crossed and leaning slightly forward, Aarav Sen watched with sharp golden eyes, his expression unreadable. Sixteen years old, with a defiant edge in his features that spoke of someone who never bowed to trends, Aarav had seen this battle countless times. And yet, every single time, it sparked something inside him.
"This," he murmured, voice low, "is real Beyblade. No gimmicks. No flashing circuits or glowing hair. Just willpower and bonds."
He reclined back on his palms, glancing sideways at the aged Dragoon S Beyblade resting on his shelf. It was worn—stickers faded, plastic chipped from battles that happened years ago. Yet to Aarav, it gleamed brighter than any new release from those "Metal Fusion" series kids kept yapping about.
Metal Fusion. He'd heard the name, seen glimpses of spiky-haired kids and metallic tops spinning with flashy effects. But it wasn't Beyblade to him. He never watched it. For Aarav, Beyblade began and ended with Tyson, Kai, Ray, and Max.
Standing up, Aarav stretched his arms high above his head. His room wasn't much—four walls plastered with old anime posters, a rickety fan spinning lazily, and shelves crammed with relics from a childhood that refused to fade. Somewhere in the distance, his mother's prayers still lingered in the air, the faint scent of incense threading through the space.
But tonight, the air was different. He felt it.
Aarav paused. His eyes flicked to the television. Tyson was mid-spin, Dragoon soaring towards Zeus, the climax moments away. But something was wrong.
The screen flickered, the image distorted, and suddenly, the storm was gone.
In its place hovered a single, glowing shard, suspended in black. It shimmered like an ember, its shape resembling a Phoenix's feather—cracked, fragile, but alive with a pulsing, golden-red glow.
Aarav frowned. "The hell is this?"
The shard pulsed, the glow intensifying, and without warning, the walls of his room fractured. No sound, no tremor—just a quiet, devastating crack, like the universe had splintered along a seam no one knew existed.
The floor vanished beneath him. The ceiling folded inwards. Yet Aarav didn't fall. He simply… existed, suspended in a vast expanse of black where time, space, and logic had no dominion.
It was neither cold nor warm. He couldn't tell if he was breathing. The only anchor in that void was the shard, floating mere inches before him, pulsing like the heartbeat of something ancient.
Then came the voice.
"The world broke. A flame fell. Reforge it."
It wasn't human. It wasn't divine. It was a system's voice—clinical, detached, delivering lines from a script that hadn't been read in eons.
Aarav's heart remained steady. He should've been panicking, but all he felt was a strange clarity. It wasn't fear. It wasn't confusion. It was like his soul knew this was inevitable.
The shard pulsed once more and lunged towards him.
It struck his chest—not as a blade, but as a spark.
There was no pain. Only heat.
Not the kind that scalded or burned. This was deeper. It filled his veins, sank into his bones, ignited something within that had long slumbered. His body felt like it was being melted down and reforged, not destroyed, but rebuilt into something purer.
All around him, holographic panels snapped into existence, floating in the void. Lines of codes, ancient scripts, and cascading symbols blurred past his vision, yet somewhere within, he understood them.
At the center, one line pulsed, bold and golden:
[PHOENIX IMMORTAL BODY — INHERITANCE PROTOCOL INITIATED]
His fingers twitched. His breathing slowed. His pulse was a drumbeat of fire.
He wasn't given a choice. This wasn't an offer. This was a declaration.
And Aarav accepted.
Another ripple passed through the void, and an object materialized before him.
A Beyblade core—not plastic, not polished metal, but a raw, obsidian disk riddled with glowing golden fissures. It was ancient, wounded, yet it radiated a presence so fierce it eclipsed anything Aarav had ever known. In its center, a faint Phoenix symbol shimmered beneath the cracks, as if it had been imprisoned and forgotten.
Aarav's hand, moving as if guided by instinct, reached out and wrapped around the Beyblade's cold, battle-scarred surface.
The moment his skin touched the metal, a surge of heat coiled up his arm, lodging itself into his heart. It wasn't power. It wasn't magic. It was will.
An unyielding, relentless will that refused to die.
The system voice echoed one last time, this time softer, almost fading:
"You are not chosen. You are forged. The Phoenix doesn't need fate. Survive. Reignite."
The panels blinked out, collapsing into fragments of light.
The void around him twisted, folding upon itself as though the entire dimension was being shredded into threads of flame and embers. The glow enveloped him, drowning everything in a blinding, golden-red vortex.
Aarav closed his eyes, not in fear, but in quiet defiance.
When he opened them next, the world would be different.
He would be different.
The Phoenix had found its host.