The air tonight felt too calm — strange, almost heavy — for a world standing on the edge of tomorrow's regional qualifiers.
The sun was already sinking behind the skyline, dyeing the river in shades of amber and violet.
The water rippled lazily, mirroring the fading sky — tranquil, detached, like it didn't care about the chaos tomorrow promised.
Zevion stood at the riverbank, launcher in hand.
Another cheap one.
He'd bought a handful earlier that day, already accepting their fate.
One-use launchers — disposable sacrifices to the mechanical god that was his Beyblade.
At this point, he was convinced the WBBA should start selling "Zevion-special" launchers — guaranteed to explode on first use.
"Rest in peace, future casualties," he muttered, weighing the flimsy launcher in his palm.
Apeiron Sof gleamed faintly in the fading light, already attached and waiting.
The cursed thing looked innocent enough — if you ignored the fact that it shredded launchers like paper.
It was supposed to be his final practice before the tournament.
Well, technically… his first practice too.
He exhaled, half amused, half resigned.
"This is either going to be brilliant," he murmured, "or expensive."
He pointed toward the river, the faint chill of the evening wind brushing his cheek.
For a heartbeat, everything felt still — then he yanked the ripcord.
CRACK.
The launcher disintegrated instantly — plastic shards scattering across the ground.
Zevion didn't even flinch. He'd seen it coming.
But the Beyblade that tore free didn't just fall.
It glided forward — fast, steady, graceful — spinning over the surface of the river.
Not on it.
Over it.
Zevion froze, mid-blink.
The Bey didn't sink.
Not even a ripple dared to form.
The faint metallic hum of its rotation shimmered through the quiet air, the glow from its core reflecting off the dark water like a heartbeat.
The water stayed perfectly still, like glass — reflecting the Bey's crimson-black light as it danced effortlessly across the surface.
"What the…" he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.
He watched, transfixed.
Apeiron Sof moved like it was weightless— like the river existed just to hold it up.
The faint hum of its spin mixed with the murmur of the evening breeze, a sound too delicate for something so unnatural.
It was mesmerizing.
And just a little terrifying.
A reminder that maybe he wasn't the Bey's owner — maybe he was just the human attached to it.
He had only wanted to test a theory — to see if it could spin on more than solid ground.
Air testing, he had no idea how to attempt it yet.
So, water would do.
The irony was, he'd also planned to "punish" it.
A petty act of revenge for all the destroyed launchers.
He'd even thought, If you're going to break my gear, you can take a swim too.
Instead, the cursed Bey decided to walk — or rather, spin — on water like some smug mechanical deity.
"...You've got to be kidding me," Zevion muttered, half laughing, half horrified.
As if to mock him further, Apeiron Sof began to slow — not faltering, but descending gracefully, drifting across the river until it stopped right in front of him.
Then, with impossible precision, it bounced once and landed neatly into his open palm.
Like it chose to return.
He stared down at it.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
Silence.
Just the soft rustle of wind and the low hum of the river.
He sighed.
"Yeah, yeah… that's enough exhausting one-time training for today."
Tucking the Bey back into his pocket, he turned toward the path leading home.
The sky had deepened to a dusky blue now, stars barely beginning to peek through. His shoes crunched lightly over gravel.
Then a voice echoed across the riverbank — loud, full of energy, and painfully familiar.
"Don't slack off! Basics! Jump, pull, repeat!"
Zevion's head turned lazily.
On the far side of the bank, a boy with deep blue hair — one he recognized from school — was sprinting back and forth with a tire strapped to his back, barking his own training commands like a self-made drill sergeant.
Two kids followed behind him: a boy and a girl, both younger, each looking fed up with him, but they decided not to stop him.
The deep blue hair guy leapt, tugged on ropes, launched practice spins — the air practically buzzed with their effort.
Zevion blinked, then rubbed his temple.
Watching them for a few seconds was enough to make Zevion tired.
His brain classified it instantly under "things other people should do."
The laughter, the shouting, the raw enthusiasm — it all blended into a single noisy ball of effort he wanted absolutely no part of.
"Yeah, good luck with that," he muttered, turning away.
"I'll cheer you on from a safe, horizontal position."
He shoved his hands into his pockets and started down the road, leaving the sound of the boy's shouts behind.
The air was cool, the streetlights flickering to life one by one.
His thoughts drifted lazily — from what to eat, to how much sleep he could get, to the simple, faraway dream of someday being eighteen, rich, and surrounded by women instead of screaming bladers.
Simple dreams.
Peaceful dreams.
Dreams that didn't involve 5 a.m. training routines or exploding launchers.
The next morning, the world felt completely different.
Zevion stood before the Beikoma WBBA Regional Qualifier Arena, the official venue glowing under banners of red and gold.
Crowds moved like rivers, voices overlapping — cheers, chatter, laughter.
The air smelled of warm metal, oil, and excitement.
Zevion stared up at the stadium and sighed.
"So… this is it," he muttered, half to himself, half to the Bey in his pocket.
"The start of my 'main villain' arc."
Apeiron Sof stayed silent, but somehow, he could feel it agreeing.
The host's voice exploded across the stadium like a confetti cannon gone rogue.
"Alright, ladies and gentlebladers! Welcome to the WBBA-sponsored Beikoma Regionals!"
He shouted, his mic crackling under the sheer force of his enthusiasm.
The crowd answered in waves of cheers, banners flashing under the blinding white lights.
The air buzzed — part electricity, part pure human noise.
Zevion slipped through the crowd with practiced indifference, his hands buried in his pockets, brushing against the cool metal or plastic of his spare launcher part, expression neutral enough to pass as background furniture.
He'd already gone through registration earlier — non-contact ID scan, visual inspection, and the usual WBBA red tape — which meant he could stand here now without being yelled at — a small miracle by tournament standards.
For him, that was already a victory.
The host wasn't done.
"Welcome, everyone! And for those who haven't registered yet, the deadline's almost up!"
He flung his arm forward with exaggerated flair, probably something he'd rehearsed in front of a mirror.
"Don't miss your chance to enter the tournament, okay?"
Zevion winced.
That 'okay' sounded like a cry for help.
It was too weird.
He sighed softly.
"Someone please mute this man."
His gaze drifted over the crowd, searching lazily for anyone he recognized.
It didn't take long.
The crowd pulsed and shifted, a sea of movement and chatter.
Still, three familiar faces stood out — all from his school.
The first: the deep-blue-haired kid from yesterday, still vibrating with nervous energy like he'd downed an entire pot of coffee.
The second: Rantaro Kiyama — the self-proclaimed "Great Rantaro," leather jacket and all, whose confidence could probably power a small city.
And lastly… Shu Kurenai.
Calm.
Composed.
The one everyone whispered about — Supreme Four member, last year's national runner-up.
Basically, No.2 Beyblader of the entire nation.
Zevion exhaled slowly.
"Yeah, note to self: don't get matched with him."
The host's booming voice cut through his thoughts again.
"Now then! The opening ceremony begins!"
A chorus of music blasted through the speakers — triumphant, overly dramatic — as if the fate of the world depended on spinning tops.
Then came the usual routine: introductions, WBBA's Japan branch president Shinjirou Komazaki stepping up for a speech, sponsor thank-yous, sportsmanship reminders… all recycled lines Zevion tuned out entirely.
He mentally labeled each speech as a "commercial break" and waited for the actual entertainment to start.
Finally — finally — the real battles began.
When his bracket number flashed on-screen, Zevion stepped up toward his assigned stage with the enthusiasm of a man heading to jury duty.
He wanted someone easy.
Preferably someone who'd trip, cry, and forfeit before he even launched.
"Come on up to the battle stage!"
The host called, his voice pitching high with excitement.
The massive doors before him slid open dramatically, spotlights sweeping across the arena like it was a grand game show reveal.
And fate — with its usual sense of humor — handed him his opponent.
"Valt Aoi is up!"
Zevion's stomach did a small, helpless flip.
The same hyperactive deep-blue-haired kid from the river jogged — no, shuffled — onto the stage.
His hair looked like it had been personally styled by a tornado, and his movements screamed equal parts adrenaline and stage fright.
The crowd cheered anyway, roaring his name like he'd already won a championship.
"Valt! Valt! Valt!"
Valt beamed — for exactly three seconds before tripping over the first step and face-planting straight into the stage floor.
The host froze mid-sentence.
Then, with the survival instinct of a professional entertainer, he pivoted fast.
"Ahaha! Energetic entrance from our young blader! And now — let's welcome his opponent! The newcomer, Zevion! Will he surprise us all today?"
The stage lights hit his face, hot and uncomfortably bright.
Zevion's smile twitched.
He didn't know whether to laugh, groan, or throw the host into orbit.
"Great," he muttered under his breath.
"Now everyone's staring. Love that."
The crowd's focus shifted toward him.
Hundreds of eyes.
Flashing lights.
Phones raised.
His stomach twisted.
If not for the prize money, he'd have walked straight back out.
The host, naturally, made it worse.
"Ladies and gentlemen! It's time for our first match — Apeiron Sof versus Victory Valtryek!"
Zevion's eye twitched.
Victory Valtryek.
Really?
The name already sounded like it came preinstalled with arrogance.
He tightened his grip on his launcher, jaw set.
The cheap metallic or plastic creaked faintly in his hand — a fragile handshake between him and fate.
Meanwhile, Valt stood across the stadium platform, visibly trying to shake off nerves.
His two little friends — the ones from the riverside — leaned over the railing, yelling encouragement.
"You can do it, Valt!"
"Go, Valt!"
Zevion could practically feel their optimism from across the stage, and it made him tired.
Then, with perfect timing, the referee stepped forward.
"An awesome battle is about to unfold! The referee for this match will be I, Shinjirou Komazaki!"
Zevion blinked.
The WBBA branch president himself?
Of course.
Because why wouldn't the universe assign one of the highest-ranking official to his very first public match?
More attention.
More cameras.
More reasons for his heart to beat like a drumline.
And, honestly, more reasons to commit fictional homicide.
He exhaled deeply, forcing calm.
In his head, he pictured the river again — quiet, peaceful, bun in hand, no cameras, no screaming fans.
Maybe a beautiful woman as a future wife feeding him that bun.
Bliss.
He clung to that fantasy like oxygen.
Across from him, Valt looked up with a grin — nervous but determined.
His eyes gleamed with a fiery kind of innocence Zevion couldn't decide was admirable or stupid.
Zevion just smirked faintly, voice low enough only for himself.
'Alright, kid. Let's get this over with.'
That's what he thought to say — but stage fright rooted him in place.
His body cold, his throat dry, he simply stood there, hoping for it all to end quickly.
Not like it mattered much.
Most bladers vanish from your life after a match anyway, right?
Just one battle — and we're good to never meet again.
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