The streets of Metal City had a different rhythm after dark. The crowds thinned, but the energy didn't fade. Shop lights glowed warmer, casting long streaks across the stone roads, and the air carried the mix of grilled food, metal polish, and faint engine oil from nearby repair shops.
I didn't head back to the riverside right away. My feet carried me aimlessly, my mind still replaying the rookie match in sharp detail — the timing of Tatsu's hits, the exact moment Snake had turned the tide, the way the connection between us had felt like a pulse threading through the noise.
Then I heard it: the unmistakable sound of a Beyblade hitting a stadium wall. Not the deep thud of metal on metal like in the big arenas, but a sharper clack from a smaller, portable stadium.
I turned down a narrow side street and saw them — a small circle of kids and teens gathered around a waist-high plastic arena balanced on two crates. Their launchers were worn from use, paint chipped, grips wrapped in cloth or tape. No official uniforms. No referees. Just bladers, their eyes locked on the spinning metal inside the dish.
It wasn't polished like the WBBA matches I'd just seen. The stadium didn't have guard rails, so every hit near the edge risked sending a bey flying out onto the cobblestones. And yet, the battles had a raw intensity. Each blader moved with sharp, practiced motions, their calls short and to the point.
I lingered at the edge of the group, watching. One blader baited his opponent by slowing his bey's movement to the wall, then snapping it into the center for a surprise collision. Another managed to ride the curved slope just enough to dodge three direct hits in a row. These were tactics I'd never seen in the V-Force days back home.
Two boys near me were whispering between matches.
"Five hundred BP just to enter? That's crazy," one said.
"Yeah, but it's the Metal City Tournament. Winner takes a thousand BP and gear upgrades. You can skip half the ladder if you place in the top three."
The number stuck in my head instantly. 500 BP just to enter. My BP card sat in my pocket at a measly 100. That meant I'd need four more rookie bracket wins just to qualify, assuming I didn't lose a match along the way. And that was without factoring in the skill gap between me and whoever was aiming for that prize pool.
The group cheered as the current match ended with a sudden wall hit, sending a bey clattering onto the pavement. The blader scooped it up with a laugh and reset his launcher.
One of the older kids glanced my way, eyes narrowing slightly like he was measuring something. Then he looked at the case in my hand. "You just gonna watch, or you got one too?"
I glanced at Snake's case, then back at the stadium. The air smelled faintly of burnt rubber from performance tips grinding on plastic. My fingers tightened on the latch.
Maybe this was exactly the kind of place I needed to be.
The older blader who'd called out to me stepped forward, his launcher hanging loose in one hand. He looked about sixteen, with short, spiked hair and a jacket that had frayed cuffs from years of wear. Two others stood just behind him — a short kid with a backwards red cap and a mischievous grin, and another my height with a calm, steady look that seemed to size me up without saying a word.
"You new around here?" the spiky-haired one asked.
"Something like that," I replied, shifting Snake's case under my arm.
The kid in the cap leaned forward a little, eyes on the latch. "You've got a WBBA case… but you don't look like one of the rookies I've seen before."
I flipped the lid open just enough for the silver-and-black of Snake's Fusion Wheel to catch the glow from the streetlamps. The younger kid's grin widened instantly, but the tall one just tilted his head.
"Never seen that model before," he said evenly. "Custom job?"
"Not exactly," I said. "It's mine."
The spiky-haired blader's smirk returned. "Alright then. Only one way to find out what it can do. One round, no BP — just bragging rights."
I set the case down, unclipped Ryo's metal-era string launcher from my belt, and fixed Snake into place with a solid click. The kid in the cap whistled. "Nice launcher. But I've still never seen that bey before."
The spiky-haired blader took position on the other side of the makeshift arena, which was propped up on two old crates. His bey was a deep navy blue with a metallic Fusion Wheel — a balance type built for stability, the kind that could switch from defense to attack without losing too much spin.
The taller blader stepped up beside us, raising his voice enough for the little crowd to hear. "Alright — one round. Ready?"
We both crouched into launch position.
"Three… two… one…"
Both of us yanked our launcher strings.
"Let it rip!"
Snake hit the stadium first, hugging the outer slope in a tight arc. The navy-blue bey kept closer to the center, steady and controlled. The first hit was a glancing clash that rang with the sharp metallic note of Fusion Wheels meeting.
I felt it again — that pulse in my chest, synced perfectly with Snake's spin. Every slight change in its movement was there in my mind, like the bey was an extension of my own body.
The balance type slowed a fraction, baiting me to cut inward. I didn't. Wait. Snake kept its wide pattern, making the other blader adjust his angle.
The second hit landed harder. Snake wobbled briefly but held its rotation, while the other bey's spin slowed just enough for me to sense the opening.
Now.
Snake darted in at a sharp diagonal, clipping the balance type's side and sending it sliding toward the rim. My opponent tried to recover, but the spin loss was obvious now.
Two sharp nudges from Snake, and the navy-blue bey tipped, scraping the stadium floor before coming to a stop.
"Winner — the new guy," the tall blader announced.
The spiky-haired blader gave a short nod. "Not bad."
The kid in the cap grinned. "Guess you're not just here to watch."
I picked Snake up, feeling the warmth in the metal again. This wasn't for BP, but it felt like a real win.
I had barely clipped Snake back into its case when the taller blader — the one who'd acted as match caller — stepped forward.
"You handled balance pretty well," he said. "Let's see how you deal with raw speed."
The spiky-haired blader chuckled. "He's not gonna go easy on you."
The taller one reached into the side pocket of his sling bag and pulled out a crimson-and-silver Beyblade. Its tip glinted under the streetlamp, flatter than any I'd seen so far. That meant one thing — extreme mobility.
"Same rules," he said simply. "One round. Ready?"
I nodded, unclipping my launcher from my belt and locking Snake in with a familiar click. The crimson bey looked built to fly across the stadium in bursts, not waste a second on slow rotations.
We faced each other across the plastic dish. The spiky-haired blader stepped in to call the count.
"Three… two… one—"
The launcher strings snapped back in unison.
"Let it rip!"
The crimson bey shot forward instantly, a blur that zipped from the rim straight toward Snake's arc. The first impact slammed into Snake's side so hard it skidded halfway across the slope. Gasps went up from the knot of kids.
I felt it in my chest — the pulse between us stuttering under the sudden force.
Hold.
Snake steadied, keeping its coil wide, but the crimson bey was already circling back, its speed making it hard to predict. Another hit rattled Snake, shaving off precious spin.
Too fast to trap head-on… My thoughts ran parallel with Snake's movement. If I tried to match its pace, I'd lose control. But if I could catch it coming off a turn—
The crimson bey took the curve wide, momentum pulling it outward just slightly.
Now.
Snake cut inward like a striking coil, clipping its opponent's side at just the right moment. The hit wasn't a full knockout, but it broke the speed pattern, sending the crimson bey into a slight wobble.
The taller blader immediately forced it back into motion, but the rhythm was off. Snake kept close this time, delivering smaller, targeted bumps — not enough to risk its own stability, but enough to bleed momentum.
The pulse in my chest evened out again. Each nudge was like an exhale, pushing just a little more from the crimson bey's spin.
A final, glancing tap sealed it. The crimson bey slowed visibly, scraping along the slope before it tipped and stopped.
The spiky-haired blader slapped his knee. "No way… he actually outspun you."
The taller one bent to pick up his bey, studying me for a moment before giving a slow nod. "You've got timing," he said. "Not a lot of rookies can adapt that quick."
I picked the Snake from the ground stadium, feeling the familiar warmth in the Fusion Wheel. My arm ached slightly — that launch had taken more out of me than I'd expected. Street matches didn't give you the big stadium's room to breathe; every movement, every collision was amplified in this smaller dish.
The kid in the cap grinned. "Man… if you keep that up, you might actually stand a chance at the Metal City Tournament.''
"Guess we'll find out," I said, slipping Snake back into its case.