I set Snake gently into the launcher, feeling the prongs click into place. The rooftop wind tugged at my jacket, carrying the faint scent of machine oil from somewhere in the city below. My feet shifted into a launch stance without thinking—left foot forward, knees soft, shoulders loose.
In my head, I replayed the image until it felt like more than a picture. I could see the motion frame by frame: Snake exploding from the launcher into a tight, controlled spiral, coiling so fast the air around it twisted into a funnel. The Abyssal Vortex wouldn't be a reckless spin pattern—it would be precise. Each loop would tighten, the pull growing stronger with every rotation, until the opponent had no choice but to be dragged in.
I thought about what that would mean in an actual battle. Attack types would rush in, expecting to score an early hit—only to find themselves bent into Snake's rhythm. Defense types would hold center, thinking they were safe—until the vacuum tugged at their stability, tilting them into the perfect angle for a knockout. Stamina types wouldn't last; the extra friction from resisting the pull would bleed their spin dry.
The visuals sharpened in my mind. Snake's fusion wheel flashing dark silver in the sunlight, the clear wheel almost black from the speed blur. Around it, tendrils of shadow—thin at first, then thickening as the vortex tightened. The image was so strong that for a moment I almost forgot I hadn't done it yet.
I took a slow breath, feeling the launcher settle into my grip. The teeth of the ripcord brushed against my knuckles as I hooked my fingers around it.
"One…" The word steadied my stance.
"Two…" My back foot slid half an inch to lock in my balance.
"Three…" The rooftop seemed quieter than before, as if the city below was holding its breath.
"Let it rip!"
The ripcord tore through the launcher with a clean, high-pitched whine. Snake shot forward, metal flashing, hitting the stadium floor with a sharp, ringing note. I watched it take its initial loop, the pulse between us flickering alive. The connection was there, but the vortex wasn't—Snake's pattern was still wide, casual, lacking the gravity I'd pictured.
I let it run, tracking its movement through my chest as much as my eyes. The pull wasn't enough.
Reset. Snake came back warm against my palm. I clipped it in again, adjusted my angle lower, and took another breath.
"One… two… three… Let it rip!"
This time Snake tightened its loop earlier, the coils forming faster. For a second I thought I had it—the edges of the stadium seemed to shimmer in the heat from its speed—but the rhythm broke halfway, the spin bleeding out too soon.
I closed my eyes, letting the sound fade. I knew exactly what was wrong. My head was crowded with too much—BP numbers, tournament deadlines, the faces of opponents I hadn't met yet. All of it was noise between me and Snake.
When I opened my eyes again, there was only the stadium, the launcher, and the shared rhythm in my grip. Nothing else mattered.
"One… two… three…" The pull was smooth this time, like the air itself wanted to help.
"Let it rip!"
Snake hit the stadium hard, coiling into a tight spiral almost instantly. I felt the pressure shift—the air tugging faintly, the link between us thrumming like a drawn bowstring. And there it was: a faint swirl of shadow hugging the spin path, tendrils reaching outward in jerks that matched the beat in my chest.
The Abyssal Vortex had shape now.
The shadows flickered for barely two seconds before fading, but it was enough to spike my pulse. That brief swirl had felt real—not just in my eyes, but through the pull in my hands, like the bond between me and Snake had deepened for a moment.
Still, two seconds wouldn't win a match. I needed the Abyssal Vortex to last long enough to pull in an opponent, disrupt their balance, and finish the job. Anything less was just a flashy spin pattern.
I scooped Snake from the stadium, the metal warm against my palm. My fingers traced along the Fusion Wheel, feeling every groove and dent. The tip looked fine—still sharp, still capable of holding grip without scraping. This wasn't a problem with the Bey itself. It was on me.
First attempt: too loose, too casual. Second attempt: overcompensated, broke the rhythm too soon. Third attempt… closer, but not enough to threaten a real opponent.
I crouched low beside the stadium and ran through the problem in my head. The Vortex needed three things: tight, consistent coiling; sustained spin speed; and that invisible "pull" effect, the one I could feel more than see except in those shadows. All three had to sync perfectly, and if my focus wavered for even a heartbeat, it would unravel.
I set Snake in the launcher again, this time adjusting my grip slightly. My thumb rested higher on the frame, my wrist locked straighter. I took a deep breath, but didn't count aloud. Counting was too mechanical—it turned my attention outward. I needed to be inside the moment.
The rooftop wind brushed past me, tugging at my hair, then stilled. I let go of every stray thought—BP points, the tournament clock, the imagined noise of the crowd—and narrowed everything down to a single point: me and Snake.
The ripcord pulled smooth, the launcher vibrating faintly in my hand. Snake hit the stadium floor and immediately cut into a sharp, coiling path. My awareness followed it—not from above, but as though I was inside its spin, feeling the slope tilt beneath its path.
Then it happened.
The shadows weren't faint this time. They burst outward from Snake's rotation, forming dark tendrils that spiraled in sync with the spin. The air itself seemed to ripple, like heat waves bending the rooftop view behind it. The pull was tangible now—I could see dust skitter inward, drawn toward the tightening coils.
The connection in my hands throbbed in steady beats, each one intensifying the drag. It wasn't just speed—it was precise control. The coils held their shape, the pull growing heavier instead of bleeding away.
I held it for as long as I could. Ten seconds. Twelve. My breath grew shallow, but Snake's spin still bit at the air. At last, I eased the link, the vortex dissolving into a wide arc as the spin slowed.
When Snake came to rest, I picked it up slowly, the tip still faintly warm. My hands trembled—not from strain, but from the rush. I'd proven it to myself: the Abyssal Vortex wasn't just theory. It was a weapon in the making.
And when I unleashed it in battle, an opponent wouldn't know they were trapped until the stadium spat them out.
I stood there for a moment, Snake resting in my palm, the wind brushing past my shoulders. The dented stadium lay quiet, but my breathing still matched the rhythm from seconds ago, when the Vortex had been alive in front of me.
A grin tugged at my mouth before I realized it. A short laugh slipped out, turning freer, the kind that rattled in your chest when you've crossed your own line. It wasn't the laugh of someone celebrating a big win—it was the sound of building something no one else had.
I'd arrived in this city with nothing—no family, no allies, no name. Just Snake, my launcher, and a hundred BP worth almost nothing. Until now, I'd been keeping pace, avoiding the jaws of stronger bladers. But here, above the streets, I'd forged my edge.
The Abyssal Vortex still had rough edges, but it was mine. In a one-round format, something like this could end matches before they truly began.
I crouched and set Snake on the stadium's lip one last time, not to launch, but to see it in the light. Sunlight flashed along the Fusion Wheel, and for an instant, I swore the shadows still clung there, as if the Vortex had marked it.
"This is just the start," I murmured.
Clipping Snake back into its case, I gave the latch an extra push until it clicked. The sound felt final—like sealing away a promise I'd made to myself. Slinging the case over my shoulder, I headed for the rusted stairwell.
By the time I reached street level, Metal City was fully awake. The air buzzed with bladers' voices, stadium plates clanging, and tournament talk spilling into every corner. I moved through it with steady steps and sharper eyes.
I passed rookies arguing over launch grips, older teens swapping parts like contraband. One glanced at me, but I kept walking. My focus was forward.
The WBBA registration hall rose ahead, its glass front catching the noon sun in a blinding glare. Above the doors, the countdown clock ticked away, each second burning smaller. Under it, the 500 BP requirement glowed like a wall—but now it looked like one I could break.
Because I wasn't just another blader hoping for luck. I had a weapon that could tilt the stadium in my favor before my opponent knew the match had begun.
I tightened my grip on Snake's case as I stepped toward the hall. The Abyssal Vortex was ready for the world, and so was I.
The sunlight caught my face as I crossed the threshold. Somewhere ahead, my next opponent was waiting. They just didn't know they were about to meet the pull of the abyss.