Chapter 2 — The Weight of Silence
(Shu Kurenai's Perspective)
Shu Kurenai learned early that silence could be heavier than sound.
It settled in your chest.Pressed against your ribs.Made it hard to breathe—but impossible to scream.
He learned that the day he ran away.
Shu still remembered the look on Ryuuga's face.
Not anger.Not fear.
Confusion.
That was the worst part.
Shu had turned his back as the BeyRaiders stormed in, his fingers shaking so badly he nearly dropped his launcher. He had known who they were the moment they entered—their reputation, their cruelty, the way they destroyed Beys not to win, but to prove dominance.
They weren't there for fun.
They were there for him.
And Ryuuga stepped forward anyway.
"Get away from him."
Shu had wanted to shout. To stop him. To say this wasn't his fight.
But fear is a selfish thing.
Shu ran.
Every step burned. Every breath felt stolen. He told himself he would get help, that he would come back, that Ryuuga was strong—stronger than anyone he knew.
By the time he returned, it was already over.
Ryuuga's Bey lay broken.
And something inside Shu broke with it.
Shu never apologized.
Not because he didn't want to—but because the words never felt enough.
"I'm sorry" couldn't undo shattered parts."I'm sorry" couldn't erase the way Ryuuga looked at him afterward—quiet, distant, wounded in a way that had nothing to do with Beys.
So Shu did what he always did.
He hid behind calm.Behind logic.Behind perfection.
And he trained.
Years passed.
Ryuuga rose through Japan's underground scene like a storm given form. Shu watched from the shadows, reading articles, watching grainy recordings, memorizing every launch, every movement.
He told himself he was just studying.
That was a lie.
He was watching a friend destroy himself through strength alone.
When the Japanese Number One Title Match was announced, Shu knew before anyone else how it would end.
Lui Shirosagi didn't fight Beys.
He crushed them.
The day of the match, Shu sat in the crowd, hands folded neatly in his lap, expression perfectly composed. Anyone watching would have thought him calm.
Inside, he was screaming.
Ryuuga launched with everything he had—pushing past limits that should never be crossed. Shu could see it clearly: the instability, the strain, the way Ryuuga trusted his Bey even as it screamed in protest.
Stop, Shu begged silently. Please stop.
Lui smiled.
One strike.
Total annihilation.
The stadium erupted.
Shu didn't hear it.
All he saw was debris raining down like ashes, and Ryuuga standing there—still, silent, alone—while the whole country watched his dream die.
That night, Shu threw up.
That was when hatred took root.
Not loud.Not explosive.
Cold.
Lui Shirosagi represented everything Shu despised: domination without care, power without responsibility. But deeper than ideology, deeper than philosophy, was something far more personal.
Lui had destroyed Ryuuga.
And Shu had let it happen—twice.
From that day on, Shu trained with a singular purpose.
Control.Precision.Perfection.
If strength destroyed, then he would master restraint.
If chaos took everything from him, then he would become order itself.
When Shu met Valt Aoi, it startled him.
Valt was loud. Reckless. Smiling even when he lost.
He trusted his Bey completely.
Too completely.
Shu saw it immediately—the same fire, the same instinct, the same unshakable belief that things would work out if you just pushed harder.
He saw Ryuuga.
And the fear came rushing back.
Shu stayed close to Valt not because he wanted a protégé—but because he couldn't lose another friend the same way.
If he guided Valt.If he tempered him.If he stood beside him—
Then maybe this time, Shu wouldn't run.
At the Japan Preliminary, Shu stood calm as ever, glasses reflecting the stadium lights. No one could see the war beneath the surface.
Across the field stood the shadow of a man he hadn't faced yet.
Lui Shirosagi.
Their rivalry wasn't born here.It wasn't about fame.It wasn't even about ideals.
It was about a shattered Bey.A silent scream.And a boy who ran away and never forgave himself.
Shu clenched his fist.
This time, he vowed, I won't look away.
And somewhere far from the stadium, a storm began to stir.