The first light of morning slipped through the cracks between the bridge supports, cutting pale gold lines across the ground. I was already awake. Sleep had been shallow anyway — my head full of BP numbers, one-round matches, and the tournament clock ticking down.
I zipped Snake's case shut and slung it over my shoulder. The air still held the night's coolness, sharp enough to wake my senses as I climbed the steps back up to street level. Metal City's morning voice was louder than usual, the energy already tightening. Bladers weren't sleeping in.
A few blocks in, I saw pairs setting up impromptu street matches, their stadium plates clanging softly as they locked into stands. BP scanners were propped against trash cans, ready to record quick wins. Some bladers were leaning over handheld notebooks, sketching launch angles. Others swapped tips and tracks like they were trading secrets worth gold.
The WBBA countdown screens were impossible to miss, shedding another day overnight. Beneath the ticking clock, bold white letters pulsed: Entry Requirement — 500 BP. Every time those numbers blinked, the air seemed to thrum with pressure, like static before a storm. You could feel it on every street corner.
I stopped in front of one of the big displays. BP: 100. That was my number now. Four hundred more to climb in a city where every blader was chasing the same target and every match ended in a heartbeat. Here, you didn't get the luxury of recovering mid-fight. One slip in timing, one poor angle, and your points bled away before you could blink.
I shifted Snake's case from one hand to the other. The weight had become second nature, part of my stride. My fingers brushed the latch without opening it. Snake's polished wheel and sharpened tip had held up well so far, but relying on raw defense and the occasional counter wouldn't be enough for what lay ahead.
No — I needed something sharper. A move that could flip a match instantly, tearing an opponent's rhythm apart before they realized they were caught.
I kept walking, the chatter of bladers and the clang of test launches fading in and out with each street corner. The tournament was coming, the city waking up to it in full. I had BP to earn, but another plan had started taking shape — one that meant I wouldn't just scrape into the brackets. I'd arrive armed.
The plaza leading to the WBBA registration hall was already swelling with bladers queuing for early matches. The obvious move was to join them, fight, and start stacking BP like everyone else.
But my gut pushed me in another direction.
Four hundred points in sudden-death battles was a climb with no soft holds. Wins against sharper, faster opponents wouldn't come from playing safe. If I hesitated or mistimed even once, I'd watch Snake tip into defeat instead of holding the center.
I turned away from the plaza and took the narrow side street running behind the arena district. This wasn't retreat — it was groundwork. If I wanted a real shot, I needed a move that could end a match outright.
The alley twisted between shuttered shops and humming vending machines still lit from the night before. A stray plastic bag drifted past my legs before vanishing into a drain. My pace slowed as the buildings opened into a forgotten pocket of the city — a fenced-in rooftop with a rusted stairwell curling up one side. I'd passed it before without looking twice. The "Closed for Maintenance" sign hung weathered on the gate, but the chain was loose enough to push aside.
The rooftop was bigger than I expected. At its center sat a battered stadium plate, paint dulled to flat gray from years of sun, its edges dented from hundreds of hits. This wasn't an official bay — no cameras, no referees. Just wind humming over the railings and a view across the rooftops. Perfect.
I unclipped Snake's case and set it on the stadium lip. My eyes mapped every scuff and chip, each a story of past battles. Maybe this place had seen special moves years ago, when bladers fought for pride instead of point counters.
Snake rested in my palm, heavy and still. Since arriving in the city, it had responded in ways I couldn't fully explain — as if some pulse ran between us. That connection was rare, but not enough on its own. Not for what I had in mind.
A memory pulled me back home — late nights watching the old V-Force battles, the screen flickering as beys clashed with impossible bursts of speed and power. The kind of moves that twisted impossible fights into sudden wins. My grip on Snake's wheel tightened. Those matches were fiction, sure, but maybe I could force a fragment of that reality here.
The name came as soon as the image formed: Abyssal Vortex.
I pictured Snake spinning so fast it warped the air around it, dragging the opponent inward like a whirlpool. The tighter they were drawn, the more violent the disruption — breaking their spin rhythm, tipping them, maybe even throwing them out in one burst.
In my head, the vortex took shape: a dark spiral with faint, shadow-like tendrils reaching out, the serpent's scales flashing in jagged pulses as it coiled tighter, feeding the pull.
I could hear it — the crowd's roar, the scrape of an enemy bey fighting the drag, the sudden shock as it tipped over the edge.
My grip on the launcher firmed. I hadn't come up here just to imagine it. I'd come to make it real.