The crowd was still buzzing after the last ring-out. The holo-screens above the stadium replayed the finishing hit in slow motion, sparks frozen mid-air while the announcer broke down the move for everyone watching.
I stayed near the railing, Primordial Abyss Snake resting in my hand. The metal was cool against my skin, its weight strangely steady in the middle of all this noise.
Two new bladers stepped up to the launch zone. Their names and BP totals flashed in big white text above them — Rex Vance, 1820 BP vs. Leo Harland, 1675 BP. Just seeing those numbers made the match feel heavier than anything I'd watched back home.
The countdown began. "Three… two… one…"
CLANG! The sound of both Beys hitting the stadium floor together sent a ripple through the crowd. One was a sleek red attacker darting around the edges, the other a squat silver defense type holding the center. Each impact was sharp and loud enough to feel in my chest.
I leaned forward without meaning to, eyes locked on the screen. The hits, the sparks, the way the crowd roared in sync — it pulled me in completely.
"That's not a stock part," a voice said to my right.
I turned to see a boy about my age, short black hair under a flat cap, a custom launcher hanging from his belt. His gaze was fixed on Primordial Abyss Snake.
"What?"
He tilted his chin toward it. "Your Fusion Wheel. I've never seen that design before. You a custom smith?"
"Uh… no," I said, tightening my grip on it.
"Then where'd you get it?"
"I… brought it with me," I answered. Technically true, just not in a way he could ever guess.
He narrowed his eyes. "You got a BP card?"
I shook my head.
That made him pause. His eyebrows went up like I'd told him I'd never eaten food before. "Seriously? You're what, fifteen? Everyone in Metal City's got one by the time they're ten. How do you even battle without it?"
"I don't," I said simply.
He looked at me for a long second, then smirked. "Well, that explains why I've never seen you in the brackets. No card means no rank. And no rank…" He let the pause hang. "…means you're fresh meat."
I didn't answer right away. Instead, I glanced down at the Bey in my hand. Back home, there had been things keeping me in place — an apartment, a monthly allowance, a life I was supposed to live quietly. My parents were gone, but their savings had been my anchor.
Here, that anchor was gone. No parents. No obligations. No ties at all.
The thought wasn't sad. It was… empty. And in that empty space, something new started to take shape. If I had nothing left to protect, then there was nothing stopping me from taking whatever this world could offer.
I met his smirk with a level look. "So how do I get one?"
"BP card?" he asked.
I nodded.
"First, you need a real launcher," he said. "That thing in your pocket won't even fit your Bey." His eyes flicked to the launcher in my belt, the old plastic-gen one. "Come on. There's a shop on East Row. I'll show you where to start."
The boy in the flat cap didn't wait for me to ask questions. He turned and pushed into the crowd, and I followed, weaving through the steady stream of people leaving West Block.
We moved into a narrower street where the stadium noise faded, replaced by the hum of shop displays and the occasional clink of tools from open doorways. Neon WBBA signs glowed above storefronts, each promising Official Parts, Launcher Mods, or BP Card Registration.
"This is East Row," the boy said over his shoulder. "If you're serious about battling here, this is where you start."
He stopped in front of a shop with a huge rotating hologram of a string launcher above the door. The windows were filled with gleaming Fusion Wheels, colorful Clear Wheels, and launchers in neat rows, each with the WBBA seal printed across the packaging.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of metal shavings and oil. Workbenches lined the walls, where techs in WBBA vests assembled launchers or polished Beys for customers. Behind the counter, a man with graying hair looked up from adjusting a launcher grip.
"New blader?" he asked, eyeing me.
"Needs a proper launcher," the boy in the cap said. "And a BP card. His Bey's… different."
The man's eyes dropped to the Bey in my hand. For a moment, he just stared at it. Then he leaned closer, studying the black Fusion Wheel and the green shimmer of the Clear Wheel.
"That's no production run I've seen," he said. "Custom work?"
"Something like that," I replied.
He didn't press. Instead, he reached under the counter and pulled out a sealed box — a standard right-spin string launcher, WBBA edition. He set it next to my Bey.
"This will fit. Sturdy, smooth spin, enough torque for heavier builds. And for the BP card…" He slid a slim black scanner toward me. "Name?"
I hesitated. It felt strange, like this was the moment I was officially stepping into this world. "Ethan Kael."
He typed it in, then placed a blank BP card on the scanner. The machine hummed and spat out a finished card — matte black, my name printed in silver letters at the bottom. Above it: 0 BP.
The boy in the cap smirked. "Now you're on the board."
The shopkeeper pushed the launcher across to me. "First one's on the house. Consider it a welcome to Metal City. But if you want to stay in the game, you'll have to start earning points."
I clicked Primordial Abyss Snake into the new launcher to test the fit. The sound of the teeth locking was crisp, perfect. My grip felt more solid already.
Outside, the sky was burning gold with the last light of the day. The noise of East Row was calmer than the stadium's chaos, but the air still carried that constant low buzz of bladers moving between matches and shops.
The boy — Ryo, he finally told me — pulled his own Bey from his pocket, a jagged silver attack type with red streaks through its Clear Wheel. "You wanted a battle? You've got one. First to two points."
We walked toward an empty side street where a portable stadium sat under a canopy. The dish gleamed under the fading light, its walls high enough to keep every hit contained.
I set Primordial Abyss Snake into the new launcher. The weight felt right now — balanced, dangerous, alive.
Ryo stood opposite, his launcher angled low, eyes locked on mine.
"Three…" he started.
My grip tightened.
"Two…"
The street seemed to go still. No parents. No obligations. Nothing from the old world but this moment.
"One…"
The ripcord handles twitched.
"Let it—!"