My opponent's smirk deepened as I stepped into the stadium platform opposite him.
"Tatsu," he said, tilting his head. "Two hundred and eighty BP. You?"
I tapped my new BP card against the scanner. The number 0 flashed above my name for everyone to see. A ripple of laughter passed through the knot of onlookers gathered around Stadium Four.
"Figures," Tatsu said, shaking his head. "Don't blink, rookie. This will be over before you realize it's started."
The referee raised his arm. "Three… two… one…"
Both of us yanked our launcher strings.
"Let it rip!"
The sound hit first — Snake's launch, heavier and sharper than any plastic-era launch, meeting the higher-pitched whine of Tatsu's attack type. The two beys shot into the stadium, Snake coiling in a wide circle while Tatsu's red blur cut a direct path toward center.
I felt it instantly — that connection again. A quiet thrum in my chest, matching Snake's rotations. Every shift in its path echoed faintly in my awareness, like I was seeing from inside the stadium itself.
Tatsu wasted no time, sending his Bey into a tight assault pattern. The first hit rattled Snake hard enough to draw gasps from the spectators. My knees bent slightly, instinctively, as if bracing.
Hold, I thought, the word unspoken but somehow sent across that strange link. Snake widened its coil instead of charging back, letting Tatsu chase.
But Tatsu's Bey was faster than anything I'd faced. Each impact shaved precious spin from Snake, the metallic clink growing sharper as the collisions stacked.
Not yet, I urged. Snake hugged the stadium wall, then shifted inward just enough to make Tatsu adjust his angle. The connection between us was a steady heartbeat — mine and Snake's blurring together.
Another strike came, but this time I nudged the thought forward: Now.
Snake cut across the stadium in a sudden diagonal, clipping the lower rim of Tatsu's Bey. The crowd reacted with a sharp "Ooh!" as Tatsu's spin wobbled for a fraction of a second before stabilizing. Not enough.
Tatsu grinned. "Nice try. You'll need more than—"
Again.
Snake feinted left, then darted right with a quick, aggressive hook. This time the contact sent Tatsu's Bey off its center track entirely. Its spin faltered, the rotation losing rhythm as the balance shifted.
I felt the change through the link — a faint slackness in that shared heartbeat. Snake didn't need telling; it closed in, delivering smaller, sharper nudges that bled what was left of Tatsu's momentum.
The last rotation of his Bey was slow enough that I could hear the tip scraping the stadium floor before it fell still.
"Outspin!" the referee called, raising a hand toward me. "Winner: Ethan Kael!"
The scoreboard updated: BP: 0 → BP: 100.
For a moment, I stared at Snake, breathing heavier than I realized. My hands were trembling, not from fear, but from the surge of something deeper — the certainty that Snake wasn't just reacting to launch angles and stadium slopes. It had listened.
Tatsu picked up his Bey without meeting my eyes. "Beginner's luck," he muttered before walking off.
Maybe that's what it looked like to him. But I knew better.
The crowd began to drift away, attention shifting to the next names on the bracket board. A few glances still came my way — some curious, some dismissive — but none lingered long.
I stepped down from the platform, Snake resting in my palm. The metal was warmer than it should've been, almost like it still carried the pulse from our shared rhythm in the match. My thumb traced along the edge of the Fusion Wheel, not checking for damage so much as feeling that weight again — the one that had moved in sync with me.
That link was real. I wasn't imagining it. Snake had shifted exactly when I needed, almost before I consciously thought of it. No one else could have felt that.
Still, the win didn't make me overconfident. Tatsu had pressed me harder than I'd expected. If his Bey had landed a cleaner strike early on, I might've been the one wobbling at the end. This was just the rookie bracket — and there were players here with BP numbers I couldn't even picture myself reaching yet.
I glanced up toward the balcony as I made my way to the exit. My eyes found Ryo for just a moment. He wasn't smiling, but there was something in his expression — interest, maybe, or calculation. He didn't wave, didn't nod, just watched until I looked away.
The truth settled in my mind with the same weight as Snake in my hand: connection alone wouldn't carry me. The heartbeat we shared was powerful, but raw. My launch, my timing, my reading of the stadium — all of it needed to sharpen if I wanted to climb.
And the only way to do that was to throw myself into more battles. Not just official ones, but street matches, practice rounds, anything that could push me past my limits.
Outside, the sun was dipping lower, its light catching the arena's glass front in a way that made it shine gold. My BP card felt heavier in my pocket, the new number on it a small but solid step forward.
We're just getting started.