Zevion munched lazily on a Beyblade-shaped bun as he made his way home, crumbs scattering like tiny meteors with each bite.
The streets were quiet — that comfortable kind of quiet that only existed between evening and night.
The sky was painted in strokes of orange and violet, the kind of fading warmth that made the world feel a little softer.
Even the wind seemed tired, sighing through the trees instead of whistling.
His steps were unhurried.
His posture was relaxed.
His thoughts?
Blissfully empty — the mental equivalent of elevator music.
Then his eyes caught the park across the street.
He stopped.
"…Eh," he muttered, "five more minutes of walking can wait."
The benches looked far too inviting, and his motivation had already clocked out for the day.
He crossed the road, found an empty one, and collapsed onto it like a man who'd just survived a marathon — despite barely walking a kilometer.
Leaning back, he stretched his arms and let out a long, theatrical sigh.
"Why do I even have a Beyblade that looks like it could end civilizations?"
He muttered, taking another bite.
"Seriously, what did I do to deserve a final boss as a pet Beyblade?"
His gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the last brush of sunlight kissed the rooftops.
"…Maybe I'm the villain of this world," he said flatly.
He thought about it for a total of ten seconds before deciding it wasn't worth the brainpower.
"Yeah, too much effort," he concluded, shoving another piece of bread into his mouth.
The world around him was still.
The faint chirp of distant birds, the rustle of leaves, the soft crinkle of the paper bag beside him — small, peaceful sounds.
Then something caught his eye.
A Bey stadium sat in the middle of the park — circular, silver-gray, scuffed from countless battles.
Empty.
Deserted.
No kids yelling.
No launchers firing off.
No "LET IT RIP!" echoes through the air.
Just silence.
Even the breeze seemed to pause, waiting for him to do something stupid.
Zevion chewed slowly, staring at the lonely stadium as if it had personally offended him.
Then he swallowed, dusted his hands, and sighed.
"…Eh, why not?"
He stood up — bun dangling from his mouth like a cigarette, bread bag in one hand, and his Bey glinting faintly in the other, catching the last rays of the evening sun.
By the time he finished eating, the sky had shifted to indigo, the kind of blue that quietly swallowed the world.
He tucked the bread bag into his backpack, brushed crumbs off his shirt, and crouched beside the ring.
No launcher this time.
Didn't need one.
Couldn't use one anyway — since every launcher he'd owned had died a violent, mechanical death.
So instead, he gave the Bey a casual twist of his wrist — a lazy flick, just for the sake of it.
A casual spin.
Something to pass the time.
After all, wasting time was one of his greatest talents.
So he planned to repeat this thirty or forty times.
Apeiron Sof wobbled awkwardly as it hit the surface, spinning like a drunk top one sneeze away from collapse.
"…Yeah," Zevion muttered, tilting his head.
"That's about what I expected."
But then, it didn't fall.
The wobble steadied.
The spin evened out.
And then — impossibly — it began to accelerate.
The faint hum of friction deepened into a steady whirr — sharp, clean, alive.
Under the dim park lights, the Bey glowed faintly, molten lines pulsing beneath its frame like veins of light.
"What the—" Zevion leaned closer, squinting.
It was spinning faster.
Faster.
All on its own.
No launcher.
No tricks.
Just... willpower.
Or maybe that bit-beast-related advantage?
The air shifted slightly, brushing against his face as the Bey picked up speed.
The sound was hypnotic — a low, metallic rhythm that thrummed through the plastic rim of the stadium.
It wasn't wild; it was measured.
Intentional.
Thirty seconds passed.
Maybe more.
By then, Apeiron Sof was spinning like it had been launched by a pro — steady, precise, and eerily controlled.
Zevion blinked, then chuckled softly, half in disbelief.
"Well," he murmured, "guess the 'no technique required' part wasn't a scam after all."
A small smile tugged at his lips — faint but genuine.
For once, it felt like he wasn't just watching from the sidelines.
He had control.
Even if barely.
And if he could figure this out… maybe he could handle the rest too.
The thought stirred something under his ribs — not quite excitement, but close.
Something close to curiosity — dipped in adrenaline.
He crouched lower, eyes following the flicker of light within Apeiron Sof's spinning form.
The reflection shimmered faintly in his gaze, alive with quiet wonder.
Then, gradually, the Bey slowed.
Its motion softened, easing into a perfect stop at the center of the ring — balanced, poised, almost like it was bowing after a show.
Zevion let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"…You're full of surprises, huh," he muttered.
He picked it up carefully.
The surface was faintly warm, pulsing once — like a quiet acknowledgment.
The park lights flickered overhead, scattering silver dust in the air.
Maybe it was from the stadium, or perhaps something else entirely.
Either way, he slipped the Bey back into his pocket and turned toward the road.
This time, when he started walking, his steps felt lighter.
For the first time in a long while, Zevion wasn't just drifting through the world.
He was curious about what came next.
And that — for someone like him — was almost terrifying.
...
Back home, the quiet of Zevion's room felt heavier than usual — the faint hum of his ceiling fan, the glow of his laptop screen, and the faint aftertaste of the Beyblade-shaped bun he'd eaten still lingering like nostalgia.
His mind buzzed with the strange rhythm of what happened at the park.
Apeiron Sof — his Beyblade — had spun on its own.
No launcher.
No technique.
No logic.
It was exhilarating… and a little terrifying.
So naturally, to calm down, he did the most unexciting thing possible: bureaucracy.
He opened the WBBA website and immediately regretted it.
The home page was a digital swamp — bright logos and tournament banners fighting for space, paragraphs of policy text written in legal hieroglyphics, and a pop-up asking if he wanted to accept "performance cookies."
He clicked "Accept All" purely out of spite.
"This site looks like it was coded by someone allergic to simplicity," he muttered, scrolling.
Every line of fine print was agony, but somehow, it was exactly the kind of mind-numbing work he needed.
The rhythm of it — the scrolling, the skimming, the clicking — was almost meditative.
His brain could idle there, drifting between curiosity and boredom.
Until one sentence made him stop.
Special Provision — Confidential Equipment Registration
Contestants may elect to submit their Beyblades via a WBBA-certified non-contact scanner when disclosure of physical blueprints compromises proprietary secrets or presents health risks (e.g., germophobic contestants).
He blinked.
Then reread it.
Twice.
Then again, just to make sure the caffeine hadn't made him hallucinate bureaucracy.
"…you've got to be kidding me," he said aloud, laughing under his breath.
His own voice sounded too loud in the quiet room, bouncing faintly off the walls.
"Of course, there's a clause for germophobes. Because, sure, why not."
Relief washed through him like a lazy wave.
The kind that doesn't make you smile right away — it just lets your chest loosen a little.
He could register without anyone touching Apeiron Sof.
For the first time, the thought of entering a tournament didn't make his stomach twist — it made him grin.
No inspections, no dismantling, no suspicious scientists wanting to "study its unique structure."
The loophole was perfect — practical, lazy, and exactly his style.
Decision made.
He stretched, closed the laptop, and let out a satisfied hum.
"Guess I'm entering the regionals after all."
Dinner that night was simple — a frozen curry meal reheated with the reverence of a sacred ritual.
It wasn't fancy, but it filled the room with warmth, with spice, with a sense of quiet victory.
He slept easily, for once.
The next morning, the sky was a pale wash of gray-blue when Zevion slipped out of the house.
The air was cool, crisp — the kind of weather that made the streets feel new, like the world had been reset overnight.
The Beyblade shop was already open by the time he arrived.
Neon lights hummed faintly against the glass windows, illuminating rows upon rows of spinning tops, launchers, and toolkits.
Kids were already testing their combos in the corner stadiums, their laughter clashing with the electronic hum of the machines.
Zevion ignored all of it.
He went straight for the counter and pointed at the shelf like a man on a grocery mission.
"Those twenty premium Beyblades. Three layers. Two weighted disks. Reinforced driver. Premium bearings. And… that toolkit."
The clerk, a cheerful man in his twenties with a lanyard full of Bey-shaped keychains, blinked.
"Uh, sure! You building something custom?"
"Something like that," Zevion said.
"Or maybe it's building itself. Not sure yet."
The clerk laughed awkwardly, scanning the items.
"That'll be… a lot."
Zevion handed over the cash with a grimace that perfectly captured the pain of every yen leaving his wallet.
...
Back at his favorite mountain clearing — his 'workshop' in the loosest possible sense — he laid out the new parts neatly on the ground.
After all, the government officials had already done their inspection — he doubted they'd want to come back after last time.
He laid out the new parts neatly on the ground.
Apeiron Sof rested in the center, gleaming faintly even without sunlight.
"Alright," he said quietly, crouching down.
"Let's see if you're hungry."
He didn't expect a response.
But the air around him shifted anyway — faintly warm, a metallic tang curling in the breeze.
One by one, he pushed the new parts and Bey forward.
The Bey didn't just absorb them — it consumed them, its black-red surface rippling like liquid metal, swallowing the plastic and steel as if they'd always belonged to it.
The smell of ozone filled the clearing.
A faint hum vibrated in the air — not sound, exactly, but presence.
When it was done, Apeiron Sof gleamed like something that shouldn't exist: part toy, part weapon, part art.
Sharper lines.
Darker hue.
A pulse beneath the surface, faint but steady.
He grinned.
"Yeah. You definitely upgraded yourself, didn't you?"
...
The WBBA branch office was modern and sterile — white walls, bright lights, too much air conditioning.
The kind of place that made excitement feel like an inconvenience.
He stepped up to the counter, slid his Beyblade into the non-contact scanner, and watched the machine hum quietly.
The screen blinked blue, then green.
A soft ding.
Then a printout.
WBBA Certification: COMPLETE
Non-Disclosure Mode: ENABLED
Inspection: VISUAL ONLY
The clerk smiled, clearly more invested in their coffee than his Beyblade.
"All set, sir. Anything else?"
"Yeah," Zevion said, leaning on the counter.
"Just curious — why doesn't everyone do this? Seems… smart."
The clerk chuckled.
"Most people want to show off their setups. Sharing's part of the sport. Besides, all the telemetry data during matches tells us what parts they're using anyway. Unless you've got something secret or, uh, a disease, it's just extra paperwork."
Zevion smirked.
"Guess I'm cursed then."
The clerk laughed uncertainly.
"Right… well, good luck at the regionals."
He pocketed the registration card, a quiet thrill running through him.
That little piece of plastic meant nobody could legally inspect his Bey — not the judges, not the engineers, not the curious prodigies who liked to take things apart "for science."
As he stepped out into the sunlight, the thought hit him all at once:
He'd done it.
He was officially, legally untouchable.
Even if that wasn't the point, thinking that way was far more exciting than the boring alternative.
He imagined the analysts trying to scan his Bey only to hit encryption walls, the researchers scratching their heads, the overconfident bladers trying to study it from a blurry replay frame.
He laughed under his breath.
"Good luck figuring that one out."
Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked home, his grin lazy and dangerous all at once.
For the first time in a while, the world felt like it was about to get interesting.
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