Morning sunlight slipped through the curtains like it was shy about being awake, spilling across Zevion's floorboards in uneven golden stripes.
He wasn't shy.
He was dead inside.
Zevion dragged himself into the kitchen wearing an oversized T-shirt, hair sticking out in directions even physics refused to explain.
He stared at the stove with the same expression someone gives a horror movie monster when they're too tired to run.
"Alright," he muttered.
"Let's pretend I'm a functional adult. Again."
He cracked an egg into a pan, missing the center completely.
The egg slid to the side like it also wanted to escape.
His head still buzzed faintly from yesterday — from the roaring crowd, the blinding lights, the cameras, the cheering, the adrenaline—
And the paralyzing terror.
His hand jerked as he sprinkled seasoning.
"…I have stage fright."
He said it very quietly, like admitting it out loud might summon another audience out of thin air.
He flipped the fish, watched steam curl upward, and felt his stomach twist all over again.
Stage fright.
Of all possible combat weaknesses — shaky launch form, bad stamina management, misreading rebounds — he got stage fright.
"Really? Really? Out of every cursed ability I could get in this Beyblade world, I get the one that kills you socially."
He placed the fish on a plate, added rice, poured miso soup, and set everything neatly at the table.
Or tried to.
The bowl clinked as his hand trembled slightly.
Just thinking about the crowd from yesterday made his chest tighten.
He imagined the nationals: a stadium built like a huge glowing coliseum, thousands of fans chanting names.
Then the world tournament.
Screens everywhere.
Flashlights.
Announcers.
Interviews.
Millions watching.
A cold shock rippled through him.
"Nope. No, thank you. Return to sender. Not happening—"
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
The TV clicked on with a soft buzz, filling the silence.
Morning news anchors smiled too brightly, showing highlights from yesterday's regional matches.
Thankfully, none of those highlights involved him.
He exhaled slowly.
"Good. Still below the radar."
He took his first bite of breakfast.
The taste was simple — homemade, warm, just enough seasoning to be edible.
Definitely not Food Wars-level, but it counted as a "balanced Japanese breakfast," which made him feel slightly less like a cup-noodle gremlin.
He reached for the remote, but something on the screen caught his eye.
A news ticker slid across the bottom:
"Will Supreme Four member Shu Kurenai appear today? Predictions rise as fans speculate potential Regionals path…"
Zevion's chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth.
"…If I beat Shu… I'm done for."
Not done as in eliminated — done as in nationally famous, plastered on magazines, trending online, attacked by reporters asking what shampoo he uses.
He shoved a mouthful of rice in his mouth and chewed aggressively.
"And if I lose… I still get interviewed because it's Shu."
Lose-lose scenario.
His legs felt cold under the table.
What if his next opponent wasn't Valt-level?
What if it were someone famous?
What if the whole country watched his match on a livestream?
"Oh gods… they'll see me freeze up. I'll become a meme. A breathing, walking meme."
A faint pulse tugged at his attention — a soft, rhythmic throb like a heartbeat.
He didn't need to look.
Apeiron Sof rested on the countertop, glowing faintly through its casing like it was listening, judging, or laughing — he wasn't sure.
The Beyblade followed him everywhere now.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
The soul-bond pulled it to him like gravity.
If he walked into the bathroom, it sat politely by the door.
If he tossed it on the bed and tried to leave the house without it, it would show up in his pocket three seconds later like a cursed Pokémon.
He glared at the faintly glowing case.
"You. It could've given me super confidence. Or charisma. Or a skill that doesn't involve breaking every launcher I touch."
The Bey pulsed once.
Mocking him.
Saying, don't blame him for his own faults.
Zevion stabbed a piece of pickled radish with unnecessary force.
He thought back to Beyblade mechanics.
Four types:
Attack-type – smash, crash, explode. Weak to: Defense-type. Strong to: Stamina-type.
Defense-type – tank everything. Weak to: Stamina-type. Strong to: Attack-type.
Stamina-type – outspin the universe. Weak to: Attack-type. Strong to: Defense-type.
Thus forming the legendary Rock-Paper-Scissors trinity.
Balance-type – jack of all trades, master of none. Can change to any type but a lower speck of the original.
And then there was Apeiron Sof.
The "everything-type."
The "cheat-code-type."
The "master of all categories and destroyer of launchers" type.
It had a peak Attack. Peak Defense. Peak Stamina. Peak Balance.
It was a walking final boss.
A beautiful nightmare.
"…And it still shreds all my launchers like tissue paper."
He grimaced.
"Top bladers will destroy me while this thing is still charging up."
He leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling, and sighed heavily — the kind of sigh that carried the weight of taxes, grocery bills, and broken dreams.
Launchers cost money.
Good money.
Winning nationals?
That will be a financial blessing.
Winning world championships?
That was enough to retire for life.
He looked down at his breakfast and groaned.
"How did I end up doing financial planning in a world filled with Beyblades and dramatic friendship speeches?"
The commentators always talked about "hopes and dreams."
Zevion only saw "bills and despair."
"And sleep. I need way more sleep."
He finished the last of his rice, wiped his mouth, and stood up.
Time-check: almost school hour.
He still felt sluggish — mentally drained, physically stiff, socially allergic.
He grabbed his school bag and slung it over his shoulder.
Apeiron Sof pulsed.
He sighed in defeat.
"Yeah, yeah. Come on."
He opened the Bey's case.
The Bey flickered once and instantly snapped into his pocket like a shadow.
He still wasn't used to that.
"Honestly… at this point, I'm convinced you're just a cursed mascot."
He slipped on his shoes, turned off the TV, and stepped outside.
The morning air was cool, brushing against his skin in a way that felt calmer than he deserved.
The neighborhood was quiet.
No kids yelling.
No neighbors gossiping.
Nobody is shouting his name.
Good.
For now, he was still invisible.
He walked down the street, hands in pockets, backpack bouncing slightly with each step.
"Alright, school… let's just get this over with."
Behind him, inside his pocket, Apeiron Sof pulsed softly — faint, warm, almost like it was whispering:
Tomorrow won't be peaceful either.
Zevion ignored it.
He didn't need prophetic nightmares before the first period.
Zevion walked to school with the sluggish determination of someone who had already questioned every life choice before leaving the house.
He kicked a small pebble along the sidewalk, watching it bounce ahead as if it had more enthusiasm for the day than he did.
He couldn't help thinking, for what felt like the hundredth time, why exactly he was going to school at all.
He was a reincarnator, right?
Wasn't there some unwritten rule that reincarnators got to skip boring things like homework and attendance?
Then the world slapped him with the same two problems every morning.
The first one was simple and painful: he didn't have photographic memory.
He didn't arrive in this world with a genius brain or total recall, or magical academic hacks.
He couldn't instantly remember every fact from his old life, and half of the ones he did remember were completely useless in Japan anyway.
This world had a different history, a different literature, a different technology, and, honestly, a different common sense.
He had to relearn everything from scratch, and the thought alone made his head throb.
The second problem was even worse: certificates.
No matter what world you were dropped into, society still wanted you to prove you weren't an uneducated gremlin.
Even if he planned to retire after winning some future world championship, he needed diplomas to avoid getting labeled as "that suspicious dropout kid with weird vibes."
And sure, he was only eleven right now — young enough that everyone thought he was smart simply because he existed — but as he climbed grades, classes would only get harder.
He could practically see his future self suffering at a desk, surrounded by math formulas and kanji characters that wanted to murder him.
He sighed and rubbed his forehead.
"Reincarnation without cheat codes is just extra hard mode."
Still, he had a dream.
A lazy dream, admittedly, but a dream nonetheless.
He wanted to win regionals, nationals, and eventually the world championship.
Not because he craved glory or fame — he craved early retirement.
If he played his cards right, he could live the rest of his life sleeping in, eating good food, and avoiding responsibilities like they carried diseases.
In a darker moment of honesty, he had briefly considered the idea of charming a rich family's daughter with his "smart kid" persona and securing financial stability that way.
He imagined himself marrying into wealth, sipping tea in a fancy estate while his in-laws praised his genius, and immediately felt like a terrible human being.
"That's way too scummy. I refuse to be that guy."
Because deep down, he wasn't aiming for a cold transaction marriage.
He wanted something warm. Something affectionate. Something meaningful.
Actually, something multiplied by five.
His true life goal was embarrassingly straightforward: marry five beautiful, loving wives and spend his days in a peaceful, cozy home full of affection and comfort.
A lazy life surrounded by five wonderful women who adored him — seriously, what more could a reincarnated soul ask for?
Then reality slapped him a second time.
He was only eleven.
He stared at a passing cat like it had personally betrayed him.
"…Right. Minor setback."
He needed at least another eight to ten years before he could even begin the "future-wife scouting arc."
Until then, all he could do was wait, observe, and hope fate didn't give him weird romantic options.
So far, he had zero candidates.
Not a single girl had sparked interest.
He raised a hand as if giving a speech to an invisible audience.
"And let me be clear, I'm talking about FUTURE wives at LEGAL age. Not now. Not a middle schooler. Not weird. Totally legal, totally respectable, completely non-lolicon, thank you."
A passing old man gave him a deeply concerned look.
Zevion froze, lowered his hand immediately, and marched forward like nothing had happened.
"Why do I sound more suspicious when I explain myself…?"
As he reached the school gate, the usual morning noise washed over him — students laughing, complaining about homework, launching random daytime battles, and bouncing with the energy he completely lacked.
He blended in easily, relieved beyond words that no one recognized him from yesterday's fight.
No whispers.
No pointing at him.
No sudden fanboys.
He exhaled in quiet relief.
Good. Still invisible.
The moment Zevion stepped into the classroom, he instinctively lowered his shoulders and softened his footsteps, slipping through the doorway like a breeze sneaking past an open window.
He made his way toward his desk without drawing a single pair of eyes, almost as if he were drifting rather than walking.
As he slid into his seat, his presence evaporated.
Not metaphorically — practically.
It was his personal, handcrafted, high-grade loner technique.
He called it: Absolute Classroom Transparency.
Most people practiced sports.
Some people practiced instruments.
Zevion practiced not existing.
By adjusting his breathing, relaxing his posture, lowering his heartbeat, and making his gaze unfocused enough to blend with the chair behind him, he could reduce his presence to the same level as air-conditioning noise.
Not silent, not invisible — just ignorable.
Perfectly ignorable.
If someone actually stared at his desk, they would see him.
He wasn't literally invisible.
But the human brain had a habit of filtering out things that didn't move, didn't speak, and didn't demand attention.
And Zevion had mastered the art of being unimportant.
It wasn't even for social reasons.
It was survival.
"Teacher calls on the student who looks the most awake," he reminded himself mentally.
"And I refuse to be that student."
His technique was specifically crafted to avoid being chosen for stand-up-and-answer moments.
He maintained the perfect middle-ground expression — not too sleepy to draw concern, not too alert to look like he knew the answer.
Just an average kid-shaped object occupying space.
Did it work?
He'd never seen himself from a third-person perspective, so he couldn't confirm the visual effect.
But considering he had barely been called on all year, the results spoke for themselves.
His invisibility ratio was excellent.
Also, the fact that almost no one talked to him was a personal blessing.
Less social effort meant less emotional energy spent.
And the lazy part of his soul celebrated this daily victory with silent applause.
Classes passed by quietly.
Math slid into science.
Science dissolved into literature.
Lunch came and went without incident.
As always, he managed to survive the day without participating in even a single conversation.
It was beautiful.
He didn't draw attention.
He didn't attract whispers.
No one asked about his match yesterday, which meant his performance hadn't spread through school yet.
His heart thanked every deity in existence for that.
When the bell finally rang for the last period, the sound washed over him like a choir of angels singing the hymn of freedom.
Desks rattled, chairs scraped, students stretched and yawned, and chatted about their after-school plans.
Zevion remained still for a moment, letting the noise flow past him like a river around a rock.
Then he exhaled, sat up from his hiding posture, and began packing his bag.
Notebook.
Pencil case.
Textbook.
Apeiron Sof — pulsing faintly in his pocket like a troublesome heartbeat.
He zipped up his backpack with deliberate calm, swung it over his shoulder, and stood from his seat with the elegance of someone who had mastered disappearing.
"Finally," he murmured to himself.
"Freedom."
The hallway outside was bright and loud, filled with footsteps and voices.
Zevion slipped into the crowd silently, letting the flow of students carry him toward the exit.
No one looked his way.
No one called his name.
And no one seemed to care that he existed.
Just the way he liked it.
With a small, satisfied breath, he stepped out of the school doors — ready to return home, rest, and pretend tomorrow didn't exist.
The day had been perfectly normal.
Almost suspiciously normal.
But that was a problem for future Zevion.
For now, he simply walked toward the fading afternoon light, grateful he made it through the school day without a single spotlight shining on him.
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