The ground slammed back into me before I even had time to brace. My knees hit hard, and the shock ran up into my hips. I caught myself with one hand, the other clutched tight around Primordial Abyss Snake.
Only… it wasn't the same.
The rough, scuffed plastic I'd known for years was gone. In its place was a weightier, colder shape — the metallic chill biting into my skin. My gaze snapped down.
Emerald-green light caught on polished edges. The clear wheel wasn't cloudy anymore; it shone like tinted glass, every ridge crisp and sharp. The black Fusion Wheel beneath it was pure metal, its curved snake-head edges gleaming like obsidian. In the center, the Face Bolt bore a serpent emblem I'd never put there — jade eyes glinting, fangs bared.
My breath hitched.
I staggered to my feet, head snapping up to take in my surroundings — and froze again.
This wasn't the park. Or anywhere I'd been before.
Steel and glass towers rose on every side, their windows flashing with huge WBBA logos and animated adverts for Beyblade tournaments. The air buzzed with the hum of machinery and the faint whir of spinning metal from somewhere nearby.
Crowds moved along the wide street — kids and teens carrying launchers on their belts, some with custom grips, others with ornate cases strapped across their backs. Every few seconds, a burst of cheers or groans would echo from one of the open-air stadiums built right into the sidewalk.
A huge holographic sign rotated slowly above the nearest intersection. Bold white letters blazed across its surface:
WELCOME TO METAL CITY — HOME OF THE WBBA STADIUM
Metal City… I'd never heard of it before. Not in V-Force, not anywhere. But if the sign was right, that's where I was standing.
"Hey, move it!" someone barked as they brushed past me, their launcher swinging at their side.
I stepped aside, still gripping Primordial Abyss Snake like it might vanish if I let go. My pulse pounded too fast, my mind scrambling for something — anything — that made sense.
Two boys ran past, one shouting, "Hurry up, West Block match is starting!"
The crowd's noise swelled again from somewhere down the street. My fingers tightened around the Bey. It felt solid, real. And for the first time since I'd landed here, I realized I wasn't dreaming.
Whatever had just happened, I was in a place where Beyblade was real. And my own was nothing like anything I'd ever seen before.
If this city ran on battles, there was only one test that mattered—would it still launch for me?
I stepped aside from the flow of people and, out of habit, set Primordial Abyss Snake into my launcher.
Or… I tried to.
The prongs wouldn't lock. I twisted the Bey, trying to angle it in like I'd done a thousand times before with my plastic one, but the teeth wouldn't seat in the grooves. The clear wheel's edge was just slightly too narrow, and the Face Bolt sat deeper than my launcher's grips could reach.
"What the…?" I muttered, pulling it back out.
I flipped it over, running my thumb along the smooth underside of the Spin Track. The connection points were different — tighter, more precise. My old launcher suddenly felt like a cheap imitation, and the Bey in my palm… didn't.
Around me, kids clipped similar-looking Beys into launchers with wide grips and extra attachments. Many of them also had slim, card-sized devices hanging from their belts, glowing faintly with numbers.
One boy passing by caught me staring and grinned. "What's your Bey Point total?"
I hesitated. "Bey what?"
His grin faltered. "Bey Points. You know, for ranking up? If you're battling in Metal City, you need a BP Card. Official battles give you points, and if you lose too much, your rank drops. No card, no official matches."
He jogged off before I could ask more, disappearing into the stream of people heading down the street.
I slipped Primordial Abyss Snake into my pocket, keeping the launcher in hand even though it was useless now. Not only did I not have the right gear to launch this Bey, I didn't even have whatever counted as an entry ticket in this world.
A burst of cheers erupted ahead. Two boys sprinted past, one shouting, "Hurry up, West Block match is starting! Big points on the line!"
I followed the crowd.
The deeper we went, the more the city opened up — shop windows lined with gleaming metal parts, WBBA posters plastered on walls, and cases displaying Fusion Wheels with price tags that made me swallow hard. Next to some of the stadium entrances, I saw BP terminals where bladers scanned their cards before stepping inside.
The street widened into a plaza, and the sound hit me first — a sharp metallic CLANG! followed by the roar of spectators.
The West Block Stadium dominated the far side. Its walls rose high, but massive holo-screens above it streamed every hit from a top-down view. Two Beys slammed into each other in slow motion, sparks scattering, their names and BP totals flashing beside them.
I stepped closer, drawn in.
Up close, the place vibrated with energy — not just from the battles, but from the stakes. Every clash wasn't just about pride; it was about climbing a visible number that the entire crowd could see.
And here I was, with a Bey that didn't fit my launcher, no BP Card, and no rank at all.