The last thing Aarav remembered was Tyson's Dragoon spinning on his phone screen.
He was walking home, earphones in, watching Tyson's final battle like he had a hundred times before. To him, Beyblade ended with Tyson. Those wild battles, raw clashes, and chaotic counter-attacks—that was the real Beyblade. The rest never mattered.
He had spent hours on a simulator game, creating his own Phoenix Beyblade. He wasn't interested in flashy attacks or gimmicks. He set the spin stats to "infinite." Made his game avatar "immortal." A joke, really. A quiet laugh to himself as he saved the settings.
"I'll never lose spin. I'll never fall." That was his last thought before everything turned black.
No accident impact. No drama. Just a sudden void.
When he opened his eyes, the sky was blue.
Aarav lay on cold concrete, the hum of distant voices echoing around him. Above, neon billboards flickered, and the walls of narrow alleys were lined with rusted pipes. The air felt heavier. Sharper.
He sat up slowly.
No panic. No confusion. He scanned his surroundings with calm eyes.
Next to him lay a Beyblade.
It wasn't plastic. It wasn't a toy. It was real.
Crimson wings folded into sharp metallic layers, a faint ember glow beneath its surface. The Phoenix. His Phoenix.
He picked it up. It was heavier than he imagined—cold, perfect.
No system pop-up. No tutorial. Just him and Phoenix.
His launcher was strapped to his waist like it had always been there. His outfit was sleek black with red trims, fingerless gloves bearing a Phoenix emblem. He flexed his hands. Everything was real.
He stood up and muttered, "If this is a dream, I'll battle before I wake up."
Metal City was alive.
He walked through streets flooded with Bladers. Neon signs shouted tournament ads. Shops sold launcher grips and spin boosters. Battle arenas glowed in side streets. Sparks flew as Bladers customized their gear.
Aarav didn't stand out. He walked naturally, eyes sharp, observing.
Two kids were battling in a cracked alley stadium. Their launches were wild. One overextended, the other misfired. Aarav didn't interfere. He simply watched, filed their mistakes in his mind, and moved on.
His game settings came back to him.
He had set his avatar to be immortal. Phoenix's spin to be infinite. But this world didn't hand him those settings as cheat codes.
He wasn't invincible. He felt every step, every breath. Phoenix wouldn't win by default.
"I won't lose spin unless I lose focus. That's how this world works," he thought.
At the far end of the district, he found it.
An old arcade battle zone. Faded signs. Cracked stadiums. Forgotten by the city.
Perfect.
He stepped inside. The air was dusty, the lights weak. He climbed to a control room above, where he found a small desk overlooking the stadium floor. He placed Phoenix down gently, then walked down to the launch deck.
He loaded Phoenix into his launcher.
No shouting. No pose. Just a clean, sharp rip.
Phoenix shot out, spinning smoothly, embers trailing in faint arcs. The stadium was uneven, but Phoenix absorbed every bump, adjusting its spin without losing control.
Aarav crouched at the stadium's edge, watching silently. Testing. Every shift, every rotation, was information.
"This isn't power. It's rhythm. If I lose that, I lose," he thought.
He tapped the stadium's side lightly. Phoenix responded, redirecting its path. Perfect.
As he stood, he sensed it.
A presence. Watching.
From the upper walkway, someone's gaze locked onto him. Aarav didn't look up.
He stopped Phoenix with his palm and spoke flatly, "If you're going to challenge me, bring a launcher."
The presence faded away, but he knew this city wouldn't leave him alone for long.
He returned to the control room, sitting on the desk's edge. His launcher rested on his lap.
No team. No crowd. Just him.
"If this is my world now," he said, eyes locked on Phoenix, "I'll battle in silence."
Phoenix spun once more on the desk, its rhythm echoing in the empty arcade. And for Aarav, that was enough.