The small circle around the street stadium slowly broke apart after my second battle. A few wandered toward other corners of the street where more matches were happening, but the three who had been watching me closely stayed behind.
The taller blader — the one with the crimson speed-type — studied me for a long moment before speaking. "You've got good reflexes. But your launch and your bey both need work if you want to face stronger opponents."
I glanced down at Snake resting in my hand. "What do you mean?"
The spiky-haired blader from my first match stepped closer, spinning his navy-blue bey between his fingers. "Servicing," he said simply. "Your tip's got faint scuffs, your track's a little loose, and your launcher… well, it's fine for now, but it's not tuned to you yet."
The shorter kid in the red cap nodded in agreement. "Most bladers here don't go into a big battle without checking their gear first. Even one small slip — like a slightly worn tip or a launch with less tension — can cost you the round."
I unclipped my launcher and turned it in my hands. It still looked solid, barely showing wear. But I realized I hadn't actually done anything to check its internal tension or prong grip since I got it. Back home, I never thought about that kind of thing.
"Street bladers here treat their gear like weapons," the taller blader added. "You don't just battle with it. You keep it in peak condition. Clean the tip, re-balance the wheel, make sure the launcher fires smooth every time. If you don't, someone else will take advantage of it."
I closed Snake's case, but my thumb lingered on the metal Fusion Wheel. The idea of someone else handling it made me uneasy — this was more than just a bey to me. Still, I couldn't ignore what they were saying. I'd already seen how fast battles here could be decided.
The spiky-haired blader jerked his head toward the west. "There's a repair shop down West Street. WBBA-recognized. They service launchers, replace worn parts, tune everything so you get the most out of your setup. The owner's been doing it longer than most of us have been battling."
"Some people are already lining up to get their stuff serviced for the tournament," the kid in the red cap added. "Five hundred BP entry, right? Anyone aiming for it wants their gear perfect before stepping in the arena."
I didn't respond right away. My mind was already on the image of Snake in battle — how sharp its movements felt when we were connected, how I could almost hear its rhythm in my head. If a bad launch or a worn tip could dull that link, I wasn't willing to risk it.
The taller blader seemed to pick up on my hesitation. "Servicing doesn't change your bey. It just makes sure it can perform at its best when it matters."
That line settled it for me. I slung the case under my arm. "West Street?"
He nodded. "Big WBBA sign above the door."
I gave them a short nod of thanks and started down the main road. The lamps pooled gold along the cobbles, and the scent of oil and polished metal drifted faintly in the air.
And before I launched again, I was going to make sure Snake was ready.
West Street ran on a practical rhythm — repair shops with half-rolled shutters, scooter mechanics packing up trays of sockets, and stalls hawking grip wraps, cloth sleeves, and cheap tip cleaners. A couple of kids practiced launch stances on a chalk circle, counting beats and pulling empty throws to train form. A faded poster near a utility pole showed last season's bracket, names crossed out and scribbled with BP totals; someone had underlined the entry fee twice like a dare.
The streets grew quieter as I walked west, leaving behind the clang of metal and the shouts from the street matches. The tournament's five-hundred BP entry requirement felt like a wall I couldn't yet climb, but I wasn't going to stop.
A green-painted signboard came into view ahead, the WBBA emblem printed cleanly across its surface. The shop's wide front window glowed warmly under a hanging lamp, revealing neat rows of parts, racks of launchers, and a well-lit workbench lined with tools.
I pushed the door open. A bell chimed above me, and a faint smell of machine oil and fresh plastic drifted through the air. Behind the counter stood a girl about my age, brown hair tied into two side ponytails, safety goggles resting on her head. She was cleaning a performance tip with quick, practiced motions, but she looked up as I stepped inside.
"Repairs or parts?" she asked.
"Repairs," I said, setting Snake's case on the counter. I flipped the latch to reveal the silver-and-black bey, then unclipped my launcher and placed it beside it.
She leaned in, eyes scanning Snake's Fusion Wheel before picking it up. "Not a standard shop build,"she said under her breath. She rotated it slowly in her hands, checking the balance and wear. "Tip's got micro-scuffs. Track's a little loose. You'll lose stamina if you keep battling like this."
She picked up my launcher next, gave the prongs a quick check, and eased the string guide out a notch to test the return. "Spring tension's weak. You're losing launch speed. In a one-round battle, that's all it takes for your opponent to take center."
I stayed quiet, listening. She had the tone of someone who wasn't guessing — she knew.
"Give me about ten minutes," she said, carrying both items to the workbench.
While she worked, I looked around. The walls were covered in neatly labeled pegboards filled with tips, spin tracks, and tools. A glass case near the side displayed completed beys, each mounted with a card showing weight, spin type, and parts list. In one corner, a boy was having his bey weighed and balanced, while another blader compared launchers with a younger clerk.
The workbench itself was a map of the craft: a tiny torque driver set, a digital caliper, a pocket scale with a balancing cone, spare springs in labeled tins, and a row of cotton swabs dipped in clear polish. A small fan kept dust away from the open launcher shell while a flexible lamp threw a clean circle of light over the parts.
She moved with speed and precision — polishing Snake's tip until it caught the light, tightening the track, brushing dust from the wheel. The launcher she opened carefully, adjusting the spring and cleaning the prongs before snapping it back together.
When she returned, she placed Snake and the launcher neatly on the counter. "Tip's polished, track's secure, launcher's recalibrated. You'll get a cleaner spin and a sharper release now."
I picked Snake up first. The Fusion Wheel felt cooler, balanced in a way I hadn't noticed before. I clipped the launcher to my belt and tested the prongs — they locked with a firm, satisfying snap.
"How much?" I asked.
She shook her head. "First one's free. Just make sure you take care of your gear. Around here, bad maintenance will cost you matches as fast as bad judgment."
I nodded. "Thanks."
"Anytime," she said, already moving to help the next customer.
The bell above the shop door gave one soft chime as I stepped out into the cool night. The streets were quieter now — most of the street matches had either ended or moved deeper into the alleys where fewer eyes would interfere. The lamp glow stretched and thinned along the stones, Snake's case swinging lightly in my hand.
I unclipped the launcher and held it, feeling the weight of it. The recalibration had changed something subtle. The prongs gripped firmer, the tension in the spring felt tighter. Even without launching, I could sense it — every pull from now on would have more bite.
BP still sat at one hundred, a small number against the five hundred I needed for the tournament. But after tonight, it didn't feel impossible. I'd seen the difference just two battles could make, how quickly points could change hands. The problem was that every other blader in the city was chasing the same thing, and none of them were looking to give points away.
I thought back to Tatsu's strikes, the way his bey had hammered Snake again and again until I'd found the opening. Without that connection — that strange heartbeat that let Snake move as if it understood me — I wouldn't have stood a chance. But connection alone wasn't enough. If my launch was weak or my tip dulled, I'd lose before the bey even had the chance to listen.
I passed by a narrow alley where two younger kids were battling on a worn metal plate. Their beys clashed with a sharp clang, sparks flashing in the dark. They didn't notice me, too focused on their own match. I slowed just enough to watch one launch — sloppy grip, uneven angle. No wonder his bey kept getting knocked toward the wall.
That used to be me. Back home, I'd thought Beyblade was just about picking a strong top and letting it rip. Here, it was different. Launches were calculated, tips were polished, tracks were tightened. It wasn't a toy — it was a weaponized spin.
The road curved back toward the busier streets, where the sounds of distant matches still echoed. Somewhere in that noise, I could hear the next steps — more battles, more practice, more BP. Every opponent would be sharper now, every round harder to take. But that was fine. I didn't come here for easy wins.
I tightened my grip on Snake's case. There was no one waiting for me at home. No family, no one to answer to. Just me, this bey, and whatever battles I chose to fight. Maybe that was why the connection felt so strong — Snake was the only thing in this world that moved with me, that reacted like we were a single unit.
A group of older bladers passed me on the opposite side of the street, laughing and comparing BP numbers. One of them mentioned the tournament again, the words carried on the night air: "Five hundred BP just to enter."
I clipped the launcher back to my belt, feeling the solid click as it locked into place. Snake's polished tip and tightened track meant the next battle wouldn't be the same as the last. If I was going to climb to five hundred, it would be one fight at a time — no coasting, no holding back.
The city might not know my name yet, but that would change.
Tonight was just the start.