Rain tapped lightly against the window, a steady rhythm that filled the small room with a kind of dull calm. Aaric sat at his desk, a soft cloth in hand, brushing dust from the few things he actually cared to keep neat. His room wasn't messy, but it wasn't the kind of place anyone would call organized either—books stacked at uneven angles, a pair of earphones half-hanging from the edge of the table, and an old desktop PC that still hummed faintly despite its age.
Near the corner of the desk sat a single object he always handled with more care than the rest—a Phoenix Beyblade. Plastic, scratched along the sides, its once-bright stickers faded and curling at the edges. It wasn't something he played with. In fact, Aaric had never launched a Beyblade in his life. This one wasn't even his to begin with.
It had belonged to his older brother.
Years ago, when his brother was still around, Aaric had watched a few episodes of the old Beyblade anime—the Tyson era—mostly because his brother wouldn't shut up about it. He remembered sitting on the couch, watching spinning tops crash into each other while characters shouted their moves like they were calling on gods. It had been entertaining in that loud, over-the-top way anime could be, but it never hooked him. He didn't ask for his own top. He didn't join tournaments. For him, Beyblade was just… something his brother liked.
And then his brother was gone.
The Phoenix stayed on his desk after that—not as a toy, but as something more solid than memory. Aaric never moved it far, never let it gather too much dust. Every once in a while, on nights like this, he'd wipe it down without thinking too much about why. Maybe it was just habit. Maybe it was something else.
The rain kept falling. The light from his desk lamp caught on the cracked bit chip, reflecting a faint orange glint. Aaric didn't notice it yet.
He tilted the Phoenix in his hand, rubbing a thumb along the edge of the bit chip. The plastic felt colder than usual—not the normal chill of something untouched, but sharper, almost metallic. He frowned, giving it another wipe with the cloth.
That's when it slipped.
It wasn't a dramatic fall. The Beyblade just rolled from his fingers, bounced once on the desk, and landed on the floor with a dull clack. He sighed, leaning down to pick it up—then stopped.
The crack in the bit chip wasn't there before. Or maybe it was, but tonight it looked deeper, splitting the sticker cleanly in two. And from that thin line, light bled out. Not the soft yellow of a bulb, but a molten orange, like heated metal pulled from a forge.
Aaric blinked and shook his head. This was impossible. It was a piece of plastic from over a decade ago, something that should've been gathering dust in a box, not glowing on his floor. But the light grew brighter, bleeding into the room, washing the walls in flickering gold and crimson.
Heat followed. First warm, then uncomfortably hot, like standing too close to a bonfire.
And then came the sound.
At first, it was just a low hum, almost like the faint whir of an electric fan. Then it deepened into a distinct whirring spin—faster, sharper—the sound of a Beyblade at full launch. But layered under that, almost hidden, was something else: the cry of a bird. Not any bird Aaric knew, but a sharp, echoing screech, distant yet piercing, like the call of a predator.
The Phoenix started spinning on its own. Slowly at first, wobbling in place, then faster and faster until the air around it shimmered with heat. Papers on the desk fluttered. A pen rolled to the floor. The rain's sound was drowned out entirely.
Aaric took a step back.
The Beyblade was no longer just spinning—it was pulling.
The pull started as a tug at his clothes, like a sudden gust of wind sneaking through a cracked window. Aaric glanced toward the glass—still shut tight—then back to the Phoenix.
The spin had become a blur, the orange glow twisting into streaks of gold and crimson. Heat rolled off it in waves, but instead of radiating outward, the air seemed to flow toward it, dragging everything in the room an inch closer. The pen clattered against its side and vanished in a shimmer of light.
Aaric's pulse kicked up. He took another step back—and his heel caught the leg of his chair. Before he could steady himself, the pull doubled, hauling him forward as if invisible hooks had latched onto his chest.
"Okay… this isn't—" His words were ripped away, swallowed by a sudden roar.
The room dissolved around him.
The glow burst outward, flooding his vision until there was nothing but light. It wasn't blinding white—it was molten, alive, burning like the heart of a forge. The temperature spiked, the air tasting sharp and metallic, coating his tongue with a tang that reminded him of biting foil.
Then came the wind.
It tore past his ears, carrying with it the faint clang of metal striking metal, the echo of cheering voices, the rhythmic click of launchers—sounds he'd only ever heard in anime soundtracks. They weren't recordings here. They were real, layered and chaotic, surrounding him from all sides.
He tried to shield his eyes, but his arms felt slow, heavy. His body was weightless, suspended in the spinning vortex. Somewhere within the blur, he saw it—the Phoenix, no longer plastic. Its surface gleamed with sharp metallic edges, gold and red plates catching the swirling light.
The cry came again—louder this time, shaking through his bones. A single beat of flaming wings cut through the vortex, and the pull became a free fall.
And then—black.
Something hard pressed against his back.
Aaric's eyes snapped open to a sky brighter than it had any right to be. Not the pale grey of his city mornings, but a sharp, cloudless blue, with sunlight so clean it felt like it had been polished. He squinted, raising a hand to block the glare, and felt the dry warmth on his skin—warmer than any rain-soaked evening should've turned into.
The surface beneath him wasn't a floor. It was rough concrete, but scored with circular burn marks and thin grooves that cut into its surface like claw scratches. He shifted upright slowly, dust falling from his jacket. His muscles felt… different. Looser, lighter. Even his breathing came easier, as though the air itself weighed less here.
A faint metallic tang clung to it, along with another scent—oil, and something scorched, like a kettle left on the flame too long.
He glanced around.
He was sitting in the middle of a wide, circular zone—a launch zone. Bigger than any toy stadium he'd seen online, this one looked like it could take a car's weight. Around it, the city stretched upward in gleaming tiers. Neon billboards flickered with looping battle footage, the sharp clang of metal-on-metal echoing faintly from an open-air arena a few blocks away.
Stalls and small shopfronts lined the streets nearest the launch zone, their signs marked with numbers and parts—"RF145," "WD Tip Specials," "SpinBoost Drinks." Most were compact stands, the kind where bladers haggled over parts before rushing back to the arena.
Bladers walked past in gear that looked part sport uniform, part street fashion: arm guards, belts with spare parts clipped in, jackets with team emblems stitched across the back.
Aaric's gaze dropped to his hand.
The Phoenix was there—but not the one from his desk. This was something entirely different. The plastic was gone, replaced with polished metal and gleaming paint. Its outer ring blazed gold, segmented into flame-shaped edges that caught the sunlight, while the inner track shimmered a deep crimson. The bit chip's crack had vanished, replaced by a flawless emblem: the stylized head of a phoenix, wings flaring upward.
It felt heavier than before, but perfectly balanced in his grip. Solid. Real.
He stood, slipping it into his palm like it belonged there—because it did. It wasn't just some relic from his brother's shelf anymore. This was his Beyblade now.
The hum of the city around him seemed to sharpen, drawing his attention to movement nearby. A shadow passed over the launch zone, followed by the sharp sound of footsteps on concrete. Aaric turned.
A boy, maybe eleven or twelve, stood at the edge of the zone, eyes flicking from Aaric to the Phoenix in his hand.
"You new here?" the boy asked, his voice casual but laced with curiosity.
Aaric met his gaze, then gave a small nod. No explanation.
He turned away, walking toward the plaza's edge, fingers tightening around the Immortal Phoenix. This Beyblade… it brought me here. The thought was impossible, but the memory of the vortex was too sharp to ignore.
The streets stretched ahead, familiar yet different. Buildings stood where he'd expect them, sidewalks curved where they should, but scattered among the familiar were touches of a world that wasn't his: towering digital panels projecting 3D battle replays, kiosks showing live rankings and match schedules, drones carrying stadium parts overhead.
The people's clothes matched Earth's streetwear—hoodies, jeans, jackets—but nearly all had a launcher clipped at their waist and a square Beyblade case strapped to their side.
This wasn't a hobby here. It was life.
He kept walking, the city's noise swelling around him, each step pulling him deeper into a world built for battles. Whatever rules it followed, he would learn them.
The Immortal Phoenix was his.
And this world was about to find out what that meant.
The thought burned quietly at the back of his mind as he drifted from the launch zone into the busier main street. The open battle area gave way to rows of shops and buzzing walkways. Sunlight spilled across polished storefront glass, and the hum of conversation mixed with the occasional metallic clash from somewhere deeper in the city, each sound pulling his eyes to new details.
By the time he reached the first row of storefronts, the determination in his chest had steadied into focus. That's when he began to notice something unusual about the way this world worked—something written right on the glass of every shop window.