The WBBA Registration Hall was louder than usual. The glass façade caught the midday sun, flooding the lobby with light as dozens of bladers crowded around the central match boards. The usual buzz of small talk was replaced by sharp bursts of excitement—short, clipped phrases carrying through the air.
"Five hundred BP… in one match?"
"Yeah, but you lose a hundred if you choke."
I didn't even need to push through the crowd to see what had them worked up. Above the regular bracket schedule, the massive digital display flashed SPECIAL CHALLENGE MATCHES in bold red. The format was simple: step up against a higher-ranked blader, fight in a single round, and either walk away with a +500 BP boost or drop 100 BP on the spot.
The board listed only a handful of open slots, each showing the name, BP total, and reputation of the high-ranked blader waiting on the other end. My eyes scanned past unfamiliar names until one made me pause.
Kurogane Ryoji – BP: 620
I'd heard that name in passing—always with the same tone. Ryoji was known for ending matches in under thirty seconds, his raw attack power overwhelming anything that couldn't match his launch speed and aggression. For rookies, he was a BP wall you didn't try to climb unless you were ready to get knocked flat.
The slot against him was empty. Nobody had stepped up yet.
I felt the pull of Snake's case at my side. I wasn't here to take wild shots—I'd just finished forging a move that could turn a battle instantly. The Abyssal Vortex wasn't just theory anymore; I'd felt it bite. Believing in it wasn't arrogance. It was calculated risk.
My hand settled more firmly on the strap of the case. In a single-round format, there was no room for warm-ups, no best-of-three to fall back on. One launch. One chance. But that also meant a single, clean execution of the Vortex could win it outright.
I stepped forward, my shoes clicking against the polished floor as I approached the clerk at the challenge desk. Her eyes flicked up from her tablet.
"Special match?" she asked.
"Against Ryoji," I said without hesitation.
The reaction was immediate—a ripple through the people in earshot. A couple of heads turned. One blader let out a low whistle.
The clerk's eyebrows arched, but she keyed in my name. "Confirmed. You're up next. Win and you gain five hundred BP; lose and you drop one hundred. You understand?"
"Yeah."
She gestured toward the waiting area by Stadium Two. My slot was already appearing on the big screen—Ethan Kael vs. Kurogane Ryoji—the bold red stakes blinking underneath.
I moved toward the platform, feeling eyes follow me. Not out of respect. Out of curiosity. They wanted to see if I'd get flattened like everyone expected.
And maybe I would. But if the Vortex held… this was the fastest road into the tournament bracket.
I took my place by the entrance gate, the hum of the crowd settling into a low background noise. Across the stadium, the far gate opened, and my opponent stepped through.
Even without knowing his face, I would've picked him out instantly. Tall, broad-shouldered, maybe twenty years old. A jagged scar split his left eyebrow, deep enough to catch the light. A dark jacket hung open over a heavy chain, from which his Beyblade dangled like a trophy.
Kurogane Ryoji.
My fingers flexed slightly against Snake's case, but my breathing stayed even. I wasn't here to admire the horizon he thought he owned. I was here to cut through it.
Ryoji's boots thudded against the stadium platform as he crossed to his side. He didn't rush—each step was measured, the pace of someone who knew the hall's attention was his and liked it that way.
His eyes locked on me the moment he stopped, scanning from head to toe like he was mapping exactly where to land the first strike.
"You're braver than you look, kid," he said, his tone deep but laced with mockery. "But bravery without perspective? That's just ignorance. You think the world's as small as the sidewalk you've been walking. I've seen horizons you can't even imagine."
It wasn't loud, but in the quiet between match announcements, his words carried. A few bladers in the front rows smirked.
I didn't rise to it. My expression stayed even, the same as if we were discussing the weather. "Maybe. But right now, I only need to see you."
The corner of his smirk twitched before sharpening again. Around us, a couple of heads turned my way—rookies didn't often talk back to Ryoji.
"That so?" he said, tilting his head. His fingers brushed the chain at his side, unhooking the Beyblade and letting it roll into his palm. "Guess we'll see how long you can keep looking once we start."
I caught the glint of his Fusion Wheel as he raised it, and recognition hit immediately. I'd seen it before—grainy clips on the WBBA archive feed and whispered warnings from other bladers. Iron Fang Golem 130R2F. The jagged metal "fangs" on the wheel were uneven by design, meant to rip into an opponent's spin instead of just shoving it away. The 130 track lifted it high enough to strike from above, while the Right Rubber Flat tip would launch it forward with blistering acceleration.
It was a build with a reputation: close-range brutality, designed to crush center control before you had a chance to set your rhythm.
The commentator's voice cut in overhead, snapping the tension taut. "Up next: Special Challenge Match! One round! Winner gains five hundred BP—loser drops one hundred!"
The crowd answered with a rumble of cheers and shouts. Ryoji smirked toward them, soaking in the noise like it belonged to him. I didn't take my eyes off him.
This wasn't about the crowd. It wasn't even about the BP anymore. It was about proving the Abyssal Vortex could stand against someone who gave you nothing to breathe with.
He rolled his shoulders, stepping into position with practiced ease. I matched him, sliding Snake into my launcher until the prongs clicked. The familiar weight anchored my stance.
Ryoji's smirk widened, this time edged with intent. "Let's see if you can still talk once I put you out in ten seconds."
I didn't answer. I just met his gaze and waited for the call to launch.