The kitten watched from the window ledge as I launched Black Dranzer for the two hundredth time.
Clean release. Perfect rotation. The beyblade settled into the stadium center with barely a sound, maintaining optimal spin velocity without deviation.
No special moves. No Soul Drain. No Volcano Emission. Just control.
Yesterday had been rest. Today was precision. Power wasted is power lost—Kai's philosophy, now mine. I stopped at two hundred launches, shoulder loose but not tired. Conscious restraint. That was growth too.
I collected Black Dranzer and headed back inside, the kitten padding after me with insistent mews.
***
After feeding the cat, I opened my laptop.
The tournament had given me victories and beypoints. But it hadn't given me understanding.
Black Dranzer was ancient—a bit-beast from the original series era, adapted to Metal Saga mechanics. But what did that actually mean? How many bladers had carried dark beys before me? What happened to them?
I started broad. "Ancient beyblade history." "Legendary bit-beasts." "Historical tournament anomalies."
The official sites were sanitized. Championship records, technological development, tournament statistics. The WBBA (World Beyblade Battle Association) site had entire sections on legendary bladers—past champions, their techniques, their beyblades. But bit-beasts were mentioned only as "cultural mythology" or "historical symbolism"—spiritual concepts that inspired modern designs but weren't considered literally real.
Of course they'd think that.
In Metal Saga, most people believed beyblades were purely mechanical. Advanced technology, sophisticated engineering, but ultimately just metal and plastic spinning in a stadium.
They didn't know about the spirits. The ancient creatures sealed within certain beys.
I refined my search. "Blader burnout." "Unexplained tournament incidents." "Neurological symptoms competitive bladers."
The results were scattered across old forums, archived news articles, abandoned medical studies. I opened multiple tabs, cross-referencing dates and locations.
A psychology journal from fifteen years ago: Personality Changes in High-Level Competitive Bladers.
I skimmed the abstract. A longitudinal study following fifty competitive bladers over three years. Twenty-three exhibited significant personality shifts—increased aggression, memory gaps, dissociative episodes. The researchers noted "unusual neurological patterns" but couldn't identify a consistent cause. Environmental factors were ruled out. Genetic predisposition showed no correlation.
The study concluded with: Further research needed to determine causation. Funding application denied.
It had never been followed up.
I clicked through to the full paper. The case studies were disturbing.
Subject 7: Male, age 19, three years competitive experience. Began exhibiting violent outbursts during matches. Described "voices" telling him to "crush" opponents. Psychiatric evaluation inconclusive. Withdrew from competitive circuit six months into study. Current whereabouts unknown.
Subject 15: Female, age 22, five years competitive experience. Reported "lost time"—periods of several hours with no memory of activities. Family noted marked personality changes, describing her as "someone else wearing her face." Beyblade confiscated after she attacked another blader outside of sanctioned match. Banned from WBBA events. Current whereabouts unknown.
Subject 23: Male, age 17, two years competitive experience. Hospitalized after collapse during regional tournament. Brain scans showed unusual activity in regions associated with identity and self-recognition. Patient reported "something trying to take control." Recovered physically but refused to battle again. Beyblade destroyed at patient's insistence.
Twenty-three cases. All with similar patterns.
And in every case—the beyblade was either confiscated, destroyed, or disappeared with the blader.
I sat back, processing.
These weren't random incidents. These were failed hosts.
I opened another tab. Regional tournament archives going back twenty years.
A report from eighteen years ago: Blader disqualified after violent altercation during finals. Blader disqualified after attacking opponent with bare hands mid-match. Described as "mentally unstable." Beyblade confiscated. No follow-up.
The incident description was clinical—subject became "unresponsive to verbal commands" and "attacked opponent with intent to cause serious harm." Security footage was sealed. The blader's name was redacted. His beyblade was described only as "custom design, dark coloration, aggressive performance."
Dark coloration. Aggressive performance.
How many of these were bit-beasts?
I searched for similar incidents. Found dozens.
Not all were violent. Some were subtler.
Blader withdrawn from tournament due to medical emergency—cause unlisted.
Championship contender forfeits without explanation, disappears from competitive scene.
Rising star retires at peak performance, citing "personal reasons."
The pattern was clear once you knew to look for it. Promising bladers reaching a certain threshold, then suddenly gone. Erased from records. Forgotten.
I found a beyblade history blog—半分陰謀論, half conspiracy theory, maintained by someone who called themselves "ChromeWatcher."
The most recent post was titled: *The Lost Bladers—Why Do Champions Disappear?*
The author had compiled a list. Fifty-three names over the past two decades. Competitive bladers who vanished from official records after reaching regional or national level.
Takeshi Yamamoto: National semifinalist, age 18. Last seen at tournament in Kyoto. Beyblade "striker hammer" Status: Unknown.
Marina Volkov: European champion, age 21. Withdrew mid-season, cited health concerns. Family reported personality changes in months prior. Beyblade: Custom black and gold design. Status: Unknown.
Jin Park: Rising star, age 16. Hospitalized after exhibition match. Described "presence" in his beyblade. Recovered but refused to battle. Beyblade confiscated by family. Status: Alive, location withheld.
Fifty-three names.
The comments section was mostly dismissive. "Typical sports dropout rates." "People quit for all kinds of reasons." "This is just cherry-picking data."
But one comment, from an anonymous user, stood out:
"My brother was on this list. They say he 'withdrew for personal reasons.' Truth is, he's in a psychiatric facility. Has been for six years. Still talks about his beyblade. Says it's 'waiting for him.' Says it 'wants to finish what it started.' The doctors think it's psychosis. I know better. Whatever was in that beyblade—it tried to take him. And it almost succeeded."
Posted three years ago. No replies.
I stared at the screen.
Black Dranzer pulsed from the table.
Just once. Quiet.
Not acknowledgment. Not warning.
Something else.
Recognition.
Like it remembered the bladers it had consumed before me.
Like it was waiting to see if I'd be added to that list.
This is what happens when you fail.
Black Dranzer had tried to possess me on Day 11. The memory was vivid—the phoenix's presence overwhelming my senses, my identity fragmenting, the desperate struggle to maintain *self* against something ancient and hungry.
I'd survived by anchoring to my original name. The identity from before transmigration. The one thing Black Dranzer couldn't touch because it predated our connection.
But others hadn't had that advantage.
They'd fought with only one identity. One self. And when the bit-beast pressed hard enough, there was nothing else to fall back on.
They were consumed reminds me of shu.
I leaned back in the chair. The kitten jumped onto my lap, purring, completely oblivious to the weight of what I was reading.
The dream's warning echoed: Grow or burn.
I wasn't special for having Black Dranzer.
I was special for still being myself after two weeks with it.
Power wasn't rare. Ancient bit-beasts weren't rare.
Survivors were.
I closed the laptop slowly.
Knowledge was another form of defense. And now I knew exactly what I was up against.
Or rather—the battle to remain myself against something that wanted to erase me and wear my skin.
The kitten kneaded my leg, purring louder.
I stroked its head absently, feeling the soft fur, the warmth, the simple trust.
"At least one of us is safe from existential threats."
I set the kitten down gently and stood. Training called. But now, with a clearer understanding of the stakes.
Black Dranzer pulsed from the table—once, quiet.
Like it had been listening.
***
I was walking through the commercial district when heat flared in my pocket—sudden, intense, almost burning. Pressure built behind my eyes. The air felt thick, wrong.
Black Dranzer pulsed violently.
I stopped immediately.
People flowed around me, oblivious. But Black Dranzer was screaming—not in sound, but in pure awareness flooding through our connection.
Recognition.
Something nearby. Something powerful.
I turned, scanning. In the distance—Metal Tower. The city's central landmark, rising above the surrounding buildings.
And around its top, the air was wrong.
Not moving. Not still. Something in between. Like reality itself was rippling.
Then I felt it.
Pressure. Massive weight pressing down on the entire district. Not physical. Spiritual. The presence of something ancient and furious.
Black Dranzer surged in response—alert, focused, predatory. But not hostile.
Respectful.
Another pulse hit. Different signature. Brighter. Warmer. Like standing next to a star.
Two presences. Two bit-beasts.
Fighting.
I moved without thinking, feet carrying me toward Metal Tower. The pull grew stronger with each block. The pressure intensified until it felt like walking through deep water.
By the time I reached the plaza, a crowd had gathered.
People stared upward, phones out, recording. Excited chatter filled the air—"What is that?!" "Is this a special event?" "I've never seen anything like it!"
I pushed through to the tower's base and looked up.
There.
High above, on Metal Tower's observation platform—the outdoor stadium built into the structure's peak—two beyblades fought.
I couldn't see the bladers clearly from this distance. Just small figures, silhouettes against the sky.
But I could see them.
The bit-beasts.
Storm Pegasus.
Translucent. Massive. Wings spread wide. A creature of pure light. Blue flames wreathed around it—not heat, but radiant energy that made the sky shimmer.
Rock Leone.
Equally massive. A lion forged from storm clouds and raw power. Its mane whipped like a hurricane, each movement generating visible wind currents. The roar was silent but felt—a vibration in the chest, in the bones.
They clashed above the tower.
When Pegasus charged, the air ignited. A comet of blue fire streaking across the sky, leaving trails of light that lingered for seconds. The impact against Leone created a shockwave that I felt from the ground—a physical push that made people around me stumble.
When Leone countered, the wind howled. A tornado manifested around the lion, visible as a spiraling column of compressed air and debris. The funnel cloud tightened, then exploded outward in a burst that scattered pigeons for blocks.
A woman next to me gasped. "Did you see that?! The wind effect was insane!"
Her friend nodded excitedly. "Must be some kind of special stadium technology. The light show was amazing!"
Technology. Light show.
They had no idea.
They'd just witnessed two ancient gods fight, and they thought it was special effects.
Black Dranzer pulsed in my pocket. Not jealousy. Not hunger.
Focus. Like it was studying. Learning. Measuring the distance between itself and them. Just like a hungry beast who founded a rare delicious prey.
The battle intensified.
Pegasus dove from above, wings folded, accelerating like a meteor. Leone braced, tornado compressing into a dense shield.
The collision lit up the sky.
Blue flame met green wind. Energy exploded outward in a visible sphere—light and force and raw power that made the tower itself sway.
People screamed. Some ran. Others stayed frozen, unable to look away.
I stayed rooted, watching the spirits clash again and again.
This was beyond tournament battles. Beyond anything I'd experienced.
This was legendary tier.
The fight reached its peak.
Pegasus pulled back, wings flaring, gathering light around itself. The entire creature *blazed*—a miniature sun born from will and bond.
Leone roared, mane expanding, the tornado around it growing until it engulfed half the tower's peak.
They charged simultaneously.
The impact was cataclysmic.
Light and wind exploded outward. The shockwave hit the ground like a physical wall, knocking people backward, shattering windows in nearby buildings.
When the light cleared—
Pegasus still flew. Battered but unbroken.
Leone was falling.
I watched the spirit descend, form flickering, pride wounded but not extinguished. It faded before reaching the ground, dissolving back into the beyblade that had birthed it.
Above, Pegasus circled once—victorious—then faded as well.
The pressure disappeared.
The air returned to normal.
Silence.
The crowd erupted in chaos. Excited shouting, frantic phone calls, people arguing about what they'd just seen.
I stood still, processing.
That's the level I need to reach.
Tournament victories meant nothing at this tier. My five wins, my 2.8-second record, my reputation as a "monster blader"—irrelevant.
Those two—Gingka Hagane and Kyoya Tategami, operated on a completely different scale. Not just power. Experience. Years of battles. Synchronization with their bit-beasts that went beyond technical skill.
Their spirits manifested that large, that solid, that real because their bonds were absolute.
Mine was two weeks old. Fragile. Built on survival and mutual testing.
Black Dranzer pulsed again. Quieter this time.
Not discouraged. Just... aware.
We have a long way to go.
I turned and walked away from Metal Tower, leaving the excited crowd behind.
But the weight of what I'd seen—what I'd felt—followed me.
There were levels to power.
And I was still climbing.
***
Late Afternoon
I noticed the tail four blocks later.
Subtle. Professional. Someone who knew how to blend without vanishing.
Male. Early twenties. Dark jacket. Scarred hands visible when he adjusted his phone.
Not a Face Hunter. Too calm. Too deliberate.
I led him through three more blocks, testing. He maintained perfect distance—never closer than twenty meters, never farther than thirty.
I turned down a side street. Narrower. Fewer people.
Gave him a choice: reveal himself or break off.
He chose revelation.
Footsteps quickened behind me. Then stopped.
I turned.
He stood fifteen meters away, hands in pockets. Average height, lean build. The scars on his hands were old—burn marks, mostly. His eyes were flat. Calculating.
"Kai Hiwatari," he said. Voice neutral.
"You have five seconds before I walk away."
"I'll make it quick." He pulled something from his pocket—a beyblade. Custom design. Dark purple fusion wheel, aggressive contact points, worn from extensive use.
He launched it.
Not at a stadium.
At me.
I moved instinctively—sidestep, hand up. Black Dranzer pulsed in my pocket, reacting to proximity.
The purple bey curved midair, trajectory adjusting, coming straight for my face—
I caught it.
Bare hand. Spinning wheel against my palm.
Pain flared immediately. The rotation bit into skin, trying to cut through. Heat and friction and raw force concentrated in my grip.
But I held it. Felt the energy thrumming through the metal.
Then crushed my grip slightly.
The bey stopped spinning. Fell still.
Blood welled from a shallow cut across my palm.
I looked at the scout.
His expression had shifted—slight widening of eyes. Not impressed. Evaluating.
"Decent reflexes," he said quietly. "But catching it means nothing. Underground doesn't care about your tournament record."
I tossed the bey back. He caught it smoothly.
"Underground?"
"Real battles. Real stakes." He pocketed his beyblade. "Down there, you bleed. You break. Sometimes you disappear. Still interested?"
"What makes you think I want that?"
He smiled—thin, knowing. His gaze dropped to my pocket briefly. "That bey you carry. It's hungry. I can feel it from here. And things like that..." He paused. "Underground's the only place that feeds them properly."
Black Dranzer pulsed. Not warning.
Agreement.
The scout pulled out something else—a black card, matte finish. Just coordinates embossed in silver.
Pier 7. Midnight.
"Come alone," he said. Then added, almost casually: "Or don't come. But you saw that fight at Metal Tower, didn't you?"
I said nothing.
"You felt it. The gap between you and them." He stepped closer. "Tournament matches won't close that gap. Safe battles won't push you far enough. You need something that breaks you before it makes you stronger."
He held out the card.
"Midnight. Pier 7. We'll see what you and that black phoenix are really made of."
I took the card.
Heavy stock. Expensive. The coordinates were precise—latitude and longitude.
The scout turned toward the street's end. Before leaving, he launched his beyblade one more time.
It shot forward.
Struck a metal support beam twenty meters away.
The beam screamed—high-pitched shriek of stressed metal. The bey carved clean through, a perfect circular cut. The top half of the beam tilted, groaned, then crashed to the ground with a thunderous clang.
The purple bey returned to the scout's hand.
He didn't look back. Just walked away, leaving me staring at the severed metal.
I looked down at the card. At the blood on my palm.
Black Dranzer pulsed.
Hungry.
End Chapter 7
A/N : Thank you for reading!
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