The first thing I heard was the river. A soft, steady rush against the banks, the kind of sound that made it hard to tell where dreaming ended and waking began.
I opened my eyes slowly. Thin slats of sunlight cut through the space beneath the bridge, laying warm stripes across my face. The air carried that damp, cool freshness that only mornings could manage, mixed with the faint scent of wet grass. My back ached from the hard ground, but the ache was almost comforting — a reminder that yesterday hadn't been some hallucination. I was still here. Still in Metal City.
The city above was waking, too. Muffled footsteps thudded along the bridge, voices called back and forth, a cart wheel creaked somewhere in the distance. I sat up, brushing bits of grass off my shirt, and checked my bag. Snake was still there, resting inside its small case. I picked it up without thinking, holding it in my palm like a reflex.
Yesterday, it had answered me. Not just in movement, but in… something else. Something I felt more than saw. The way it had shifted exactly when I needed it to, as if it had been listening.
I stood and slung the bag over my shoulder, climbing the embankment to street level. The cool air bit at my cheeks as I walked toward a public fountain I'd spotted last night. It was little more than a stone basin with a spout, but the water was cold and clear. I splashed my face, rinsing away the lingering heaviness of sleep.
By the time I found a street stall selling skewers, the city was fully alive. Merchants were calling out prices, the clink of metal tools rang from an open repair shop, and somewhere nearby the muffled roar of a battle crowd rolled in from a side street. I dug into my pocket and pulled out my last coin — change from last night's stall. Enough for a single skewer and a paper cup of tea.
Leaning against the stall's wooden counter, I ate slowly, letting the smoky flavor of grilled meat settle my stomach. My mind was already moving ahead.
Today was the rookie bracket at the WBBA East Arena.
Ryo had mentioned it like it was no big deal, but the way the crowd had reacted yesterday made me suspect it wasn't just some casual meetup. It was official. BP on the line. The real rankings.
And this wasn't V-Force. There were no "best of three" safety nets for rookies here — at least, not in the first bracket. From what I'd overheard, it was one round per match. Win, and you advance. Lose, and you're out.
No retries.
No second chances.
That meant my first official battle here could also be my last if I messed up. The thought should have made me nervous, but it didn't. Not entirely.
Because I had Snake.
Not just as a Beyblade, but as… something I was connected to in a way no one else seemed to be. Yesterday, we'd moved together — not just reading the stadium, but reading each other. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to prove to me that I could fight here.
I tossed the empty cup into a bin, wiped my hands on my pants, and tightened my grip on Snake's case.
If the one-round format meant anything, it meant I had to fight like there was no tomorrow. And for me, in this world, there really wasn't anything else waiting.
Today, I'd either start my climb…
…or stay a zero forever.
The streets got louder the closer I got to the heart of Metal City. The narrow residential lanes gave way to wider roads lined with shops, food stalls, and signs plastered with the WBBA logo. I passed groups of kids carrying launchers over their shoulders, their Beyblades clipped to belt hooks like badges of honor. Some were laughing, some were trading parts, and some… just had that sharp, competitive focus in their eyes.
The sound reached me before the sight did — a deep, rhythmic roar of voices, punctuated by the metallic clink of impacts echoing through speakers. My pace quickened until I turned a corner and saw it: the WBBA East Arena.
It was massive. A wide, multi-level structure with glass panels that caught the morning sun, making it look like it was glowing. The main entrance sat under a giant electronic screen cycling through match highlights from the day before — bursts of sparks, beys slamming against stadium walls, freeze-frames of winners raising their launchers in victory.
People poured in and out of the building in streams. Families with younger kids. Rookies like me, gripping their gear tight. Bladers in sharp, custom jackets, probably here to scout. The air felt charged, like the hum before a storm.
Inside, the space opened into a central hall, and my eyes darted everywhere at once. Rows of stadiums were set up, some for free play, others roped off for official matches. Elevated stands held the bigger battle stages, each with an announcer and live camera feeds broadcasting to wall-mounted screens.
Near the far wall, a long counter was marked Rookie Bracket Registration in bold letters. I joined the line, which moved faster than expected. While I waited, I glanced around, trying to take in as much as possible.
I spotted BP scanners — sleek, black terminals where bladers tapped their cards to check their current points. Above each terminal, glowing boards displayed the bracket and rankings in real time. The lowest names on the list still had more than zero. That fact pressed against the back of my mind.
"Next," the clerk called.
I stepped forward. She typed my name, a printer chirped, and she slid over a slim black BP card with my name engraved.
"You're in the rookie bracket. One round, single elimination. Stadium Four," she said without looking up from her tablet.
I tapped the card to the terminal. The screen lit up with my details:
Ethan Kael — BP: 0
A couple of kids behind me snickered. One muttered something about "another zero-pointer trying to be a hero." I ignored it, keeping my eyes on the screen before slipping the card into my pocket and stepping away.
As I scanned the hall again, movement caught my eye.
Up on one of the balcony railings, Ryo leaned with his arms crossed, watching a match below. He wasn't in his flashy battle stance now — just casual, expression unreadable. But when his eyes shifted and met mine for a split second, I felt that same faint pressure I'd felt during our match yesterday.
Then he looked away, like I wasn't worth more than that glance.
I exhaled, tightened my grip on Snake's case, and followed the signs toward Stadium Four.
The path took me past more battles in progress. Sparks flying. Bladers shouting attack calls. Crowds leaning in as beys clashed hard enough to rattle the stadium walls.
My stomach knotted. Not from fear — but from the raw need to step into that space, to hear my own bey's collisions echo through the speakers.
When I reached Stadium Four, the current match had just ended. A referee waved me over to the waiting zone. My opponent was already there, leaning back on the bench with a smirk. His launcher gleamed like it had been polished that morning, and his Beyblade — resting on his palm — had the aggressive look of an attack type.
The referee glanced at both of us. "One round. Winner advances. Loser's out."
One chance.
Snake's weight in my hand felt steady, like it understood exactly what was coming.