I woke before dawn.
The apartment was dark. Silent except for Metal City's distant hum—traffic building on far-off streets, trains clattering on elevated tracks, industrial machinery spinning up for the day shift.
Black Dranzer rested on the nightstand.
Pulsing.
I stared at it.
Then stood.
Walked to the closet. Retrieved an old metal toolbox—scratched, dented, rust stains bleeding through the corners.
Placed Black Dranzer inside.
The pulse didn't stop. Just changed. Muffled now. Like hearing someone speak through a closed door.
I locked it. The latch clicked.
Shoved the toolbox onto the highest shelf. Behind boxes. Behind everything that might make reaching for it easy.
My hand still tingled where I'd held the beyblade. The pulse hummed in the back of my skull—faint but persistent, like tinnitus I'd stopped trying to ignore.
I closed the closet door.
Didn't look back.
***
Morning light filtered through grimy windows when I noticed the kitten's bowls.
Empty. Both of them.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd filled them. Days blurred—underground matches, training, corruption spiraling, exhaustion accumulating. Basic things had just... slipped through the cracks.
How long has it been? Three days? Four?
I filled the bowls. Water first, then food. Set them near the laundry room.
The dishes clattered against tile—louder than I intended.
Movement in the shadows.
There.
Behind the washing machine. Pressed against the wall. Eyes wide, reflecting what little light reached that dark corner. Ears flat. Body small, compressed, trying to disappear into the gap between metal and concrete.
Watching me.
I stopped in the doorway.
Looked at the small creature trembling in the dark.
Something twisted in my chest. Sharp. Unfamiliar. Like a muscle I'd forgotten existed suddenly cramping.
This is what I've become. Something that makes innocent things hide.
"Hey," I said quietly.
The kitten didn't move. Just stared with those wide eyes—blue-grey in the dim light, pupils dilated, every line of his small body screaming lpredator nearby, stay hidden, stay small, stay alive.
I sat down. Slowly. Cross-legged on the cold tile floor. Made myself smaller. Less threatening.
"I'm sorry."
The words felt strange. Foreign on my tongue. When was the last time I'd apologized to anything? When was the last time I'd felt something that warranted apology?
"For disappearing. For forgetting you existed. For making you afraid."
Still nothing.
Just those eyes. Watching. Calculating distance to safety.
I waited.
The apartment settled into morning quiet around us. No traffic noise penetrating this deep into the building. Just my breathing—slow, deliberate, trying to be as unthreatening as possible. And somewhere in that silence, the kitten's rapid heartbeat. I couldn't actually hear it, but I imagined I could. Tiny hammer against fragile ribs.
One minute passed. Two.
My legs started to go numb from sitting still. I didn't move.
Finally—cautious, testing each step like walking on ice—the kitten crept forward.
Sniffed the food bowl. Glanced at me. Sniffed again.
Started eating.
Quick. Desperate. The way things eat when they've been starving and don't know when food will come again.
Because it had been starving. Because I'd let it starve while I fed something darker.
After a few bites, the kitten paused. Looked at me directly.
Then approached.
Each step deliberate. Measured. Ready to bolt at the first wrong move.
Reached my knee. Stopped. Sniffed my hand where it rested on the floor.
I held perfectly still. Barely breathed.
The kitten pressed its head against my palm.
Purred.
The sound was barely audible—fragile, tentative, like something that might shatter if I acknowledged it too loudly. But real. Undeniably real.
Something in my chest cracked.
Not broke. Just... shifted. Like a locked door being tested from the inside. Like something frozen starting to thaw and the ice fracturing under pressure.
My throat tightened. Eyes burned.
When did I last feel something that wasn't cold or hunger or emptiness?
When did I last feel something warm?
The kitten purred louder. Rubbed against my hand—small, soft, alive. Circled slowly, pressing his tiny body against my leg like he was trying to transfer heat. Like he was trying to remind me what warmth felt like.
I stroked his head carefully. Felt the soft fur, the delicate skull beneath, the tiny vibration of contentment against my palm.
He was so small. So fragile. One wrong move and I could hurt him without meaning to.
I almost did hurt him. By forgetting. By neglecting. By letting darkness consume everything else until there was no room left for small, innocent things.
"Gumball," I whispered.
The name appeared without thought. Simple. Soft. His.
Gumball purred louder. Rubbed harder against my hand, demanding more attention, trusting completely despite everything.
Despite me.
My vision blurred. I blinked hard. Felt moisture gather at the corners of my eyes—hot, unexpected, unfamiliar.
Don't. Don't break. Not here. Not now.
But something was breaking anyway. Something that had been holding itself rigid for too long. The warmth spreading from where Gumball pressed against me—it hurt. Like circulation returning to a numb limb. Like thawing after frostbite. Painful and necessary and terrifying all at once.
I kept stroking his head. Gentle. Rhythmic.
He climbed into my lap. Kneaded my thigh with tiny paws—claws barely pricking through fabric, an instinct from kittenhood he hadn't outgrown. Settled against my stomach. Curled into a tight ball of warmth and trust.
I cupped my hand around him. Felt his breathing—fast at first, gradually slowing. Felt the purr vibrating through my palm like a tiny engine.
This is what I almost lost.
This is what I almost destroyed through neglect.
This small, innocent thing that trusts me completely.
The warmth spread through my chest. Filled spaces I'd forgotten existed. Made the cold recede—not vanish, never vanish, but pull back like tide retreating from shore.
For a moment—just a moment—I felt human again.
Gumball eventually stirred. Stretched in that boneless cat way—extending tiny limbs, yawning to show needle teeth. Padded away toward the food bowl. Finished eating with less desperation now. Licked his paws. Found a patch of morning sunlight streaming through the window.
Curled up. Safe. Warm. Content.
I stayed on the floor. Watching him. Memorizing the way he looked peaceful—the rise and fall of his sides, the way sunlight caught in his white fur, the complete absence of fear.
The warmth in my chest faded slowly. Not all at once. Gradual. Like heat dissipating from cooling metal.
Replaced by familiar weight.
The cold returning. The emptiness refilling. The pressure settling back onto my shoulders like a coat I'd briefly taken off.
At least I did one thing right.
***
I opened my laptop at the desk.
The research files stared back. Names I'd read before but never really seen.
Takeshi Yamamoto: National semifinalist, age 18. Status: Unknown.
Marina Volkov: European champion, age 21. Personality changes. Status: Unknown.
Jin Park: Rising star, age 16. Recovered but refused to battle. Status: Alive, location withheld.
Fifty-three names total. The outcomes column repeated the same words: "Disappeared." "Institutionalized." "Unfit to compete."
I closed the laptop. Stared at the dark screen.
My reflection stared back. Grey eyes. Hollow cheeks. Black veins at the temples like cracks spreading through porcelain.
"They were consumed," I said to the stranger in the glass.
Erased. Forgotten. Filed away as casualties no one wanted to acknowledge.
And I was walking the same path.
The difference was I knew it. Saw the cliff approaching with perfect clarity.
I grabbed my bag. Headed for the door.
Gumball slept in his patch of sunlight. Safe. Warm.
I left the door unlocked this time.
***
Afternoon heat pressed down when I reached the warehouse.
The industrial district baked under harsh sun—concrete radiating warmth, metal surfaces too hot to touch, air thick with rust and old oil.
Inside was cooler. Shadows pooled in corners. Dust drifted through shafts of light from broken windows above.
I set my bag down. Pulled out the toolbox.
Opened it.
Black Dranzer sat there. Dark fusion wheel absorbing light.
The pulse hit immediately. Recognition. Anticipation.
I picked it up.
"Not today," I said quietly. "We do this clean."
The beyblade pulsed once. Questioning.
I closed my eyes. Focused.
Visualized the cold as something tangible. Pushed it down. Sealed it. Created a barrier.
It resisted. Not violently. Just... questioningly.
I pushed harder.
The cold receded. Buried beneath conscious control.
Black Dranzer felt heavier. Slower. Like using a tool with the safety engaged.
I attached the launcher. Raised it.
"If this kills me," I said aloud, "fine."
Launched.
Black Dranzer hit concrete and wobbled. Trajectory wrong. Rotation inconsistent.
"Again."
Second launch. Worse. Scraped left, stopped after five seconds.
"Again."
Third launch. Complete failure. Hit flat. Didn't spin. Just slid and stopped.
I stared at the motionless beyblade.
"Never happened before. Not even Day 1."
Picked it up. Examined the fusion wheel, spin track, performance tip. Mechanically perfect. No damage. No wear. Nothing physically wrong.
The problem wasn't the beyblade.
The problem is me trying to use it wrong.
The problem is fighting against its nature instead of with it.
I launched again.
And again.
Time blurred into repetition. Launch, observe, retrieve, repeat.
Shadows shifted as the sun moved. Sweat accumulated. My water bottle emptied.
Maybe thirty good launches out of two hundred.
Shoulder burned. Normal muscle strain from poor form repeated endlessly. Wrist aching from launcher recoil. Fingers stiff.
No shared pain. No phantom sensations. Just mundane exhaustion.
I sat eventually. Back against a column.
"Clean power feels empty," I said. "Compared to darkness."
The beyblade pulsed once.
"But empty is safer than consumed."
Is it, though?
"One more," I said. "One more good launch and I'll stop for today."
I stood. Loaded Black Dranzer. Raised the launcher.
Focused everything into this single attempt. Perfect form. Perfect angle. Perfect release point.
Launched.
This one felt different.
The angle clicked. The rotation stabilized. Black Dranzer spun perfectly—smooth, controlled, exactly how it should. The fusion wheel catching light, the performance tip maintaining ideal contact with concrete, everything synchronized.
Beautiful.
For five seconds.
Then wobbled. Lost balance. Scraped concrete. Stopped.
Almost.
I stared at where it had fallen.
Almost perfect.
Almost controlled.
Almost wasn't enough.
Almost meant nothing.
Almost was just another word for failure with hope attached.
I walked over. Picked up Black Dranzer. Felt the warmth fading from the metal.
The cold pressed at the edges of awareness. Patient. Inevitable. Waiting for the moment I'd slip.
The warehouse door slammed open.
***
Voices—loud, multiple, aggressive.
I looked up.
Seven of them. All wearing the jackets—black leather, skull emblems, the Face Hunters' signature style.
The leader stepped forward. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Orange hair styled upward in aggressive spikes. A grin that didn't reach his eyes.
Benkei.
"Well, well," he said loudly. "Heard someone's been using our territory without permission."
I stood slowly. Every muscle protested. "This isn't your territory."
"Everything in this district belongs to the Face Hunters." He gestured broadly, claiming the entire warehouse with one sweep of his arm. "You want to train here? You go through us first."
The others fanned out. Forming a loose semicircle. All with launchers ready. Beyblades gleaming in afternoon light.
Seven against one.
"Really?" I said flatly.
One of them—shorter, nervous-looking—spoke up. "We heard you got scary lately, man. But seven against one? Those are our odds."
I didn't respond. Just looked at Black Dranzer in my hand.
The cold waited beneath the surface. Easy. Fast. Effortless.
Just let go. End this in seconds.
"No," I said quietly.
"What?" Benkei frowned.
I raised my launcher. "Nothing. Let's go."
Benkei grinned. "Big mistake."
"We'll see."
"So what's it gonna be?" Benkei demanded. "Leave, or get wrecked?"
I looked at Black Dranzer in my hand. Felt the cold waiting beneath the surface. The easy power. The hunger that could end this in seconds.
Just let go. Stop fighting. End this the fast way.
"No," I said quietly.
"What?" Benkei frowned.
"Nothing." I raised my launcher. "Fine. You want this? Let's go."
Benkei grinned wider. "Big mistake, Bladebreaker."
"We'll see."
***
"Three! Two! One! Let it rip!"
Eight beyblades launched.
Black Dranzer hit the center and anchored immediately—obsidian fusion wheel spinning with cold precision, finding optimal position through pure mechanical efficiency.
The Face Hunters' beys circled in formation. Dark Bull led—crimson and aggressive, Benkei's signature. Six others flanked—mismatched attack types, worn from countless street battles, filed edges and modified parts that spoke of desperation more than strategy.
They attacked.
The first two rushed simultaneously. Black Dranzer shifted left—minimal movement, maximum efficiency, conserving rotation. Both attackers missed completely, collided with each other instead.
Crack.
Sparks flew. Metal shrieked. The beys ricocheted apart, wobbling badly.
"What—" one of the Face Hunters started.
The third came low, trying to exploit the opening. Black Dranzer met it head-on.
CLANG.
The impact sent the attacker flying backward. It hit concrete and scraped ten feet before stopping, fusion wheel smoking from friction.
"Two down already?!" another shouted.
"Hit him together!" Benkei ordered. "Overwhelm him!"
Four beys converged. Coordinated assault from all angles.
Black Dranzer spun in place—creating a defensive barrier through pure rotation, redirecting force rather than absorbing it. The first attacker hit the barrier and bounced—sent spinning away wildly, completely destabilized. The second managed contact but lost half its rotation in the exchange, wobbling away.
Smash.
The third broke through—clean hit against Black Dranzer's fusion wheel.
My wrist jerked from the launcher feedback. I adjusted stance, compensated for the momentum transfer.
Black Dranzer wobbled once. Stabilized through sheer mechanical advantage. Countered with precise angle adjustment.
The attacker went flying—straight trajectory into the fourth bey that was circling for position.
CRASH.
Both beyblades collided mid-air. Fell together. One stopped immediately, fusion wheel cracked. The other scraped weakly for two rotations before dying.
"Four down," I said quietly. Breathing harder now. Sweat dripping. Shoulder burning from sustained launcher work.
"This is bullshit!" one of the remaining Face Hunters yelled. "He's not even using special moves!"
"Doesn't matter!" Benkei launched Dark Bull forward with everything he had. "All at once! End this!"
The last three attacked in unison.
Dark Bull from the front, full power committed. Two others from the sides, trying to pin Black Dranzer between impacts.
Black Dranzer shifted—minimal rotation loss, maximal position advantage, decades of Kai's technical knowledge compressed into split-second decision. Let the side attackers pass through empty space where it had been a moment before.
They collided with each other.
Crack. Crack.
Sparks erupted like fireworks. Both beys stopped immediately, fusion wheels smoking, performance tips shattered from collision force.
Only Dark Bull remained.
Benkei gritted his teeth. Poured everything into one final charge. "One more time!"
Dark Bull rushed forward—full power, everything committed, no strategy left except overwhelming force.
Black Dranzer waited.
Perfectly still. Conserving every ounce of remaining rotation.
Dark Bull closed the distance—three meters, two meters, one—
Black Dranzer moved.
Not a dodge. A redirection. Physics and geometry and perfect timing converging.
Minimal contact. Maximum force transfer.
SMASH.
Dark Bull launched backward like a bullet. Hit the wall with a sound like a gunshot. Concrete cracked in a spiderweb pattern. The beyblade fell, completely stopped, fusion wheel bent from impact.
Silence.
Benkei stared at his fallen beyblade. Eyes wide. Disbelieving. "No..."
The other Face Hunters looked at each other. At their destroyed beys scattered across concrete. At me standing alone in the center, barely winded despite the exhaustion written across every line of my body.
"You know what?" one of them said, voice tight. "I'm out."
"Yeah, me too," another agreed quickly, already backing toward the door.
They grabbed their beyblades—broken, smoking, defeated—and ran.
The nervous kid hesitated. Looked at me. Looked at the exit.
Ran.
Benkei stood alone. Fists clenched. Breathing hard. Pride and anger warring across his face.
"This isn't over," he said.
"Yes it is." I recalled Black Dranzer. The beyblade returned to my palm, still warm from sustained battle. "Leave."
He walked to Dark Bull. Picked it up carefully, examining the bent fusion wheel. Headed for the exit with shoulders hunched.
Stopped at the door. Looked back.
"What are you?"
"Tired."
He left.
***
Silence returned.
I stood alone. Hands trembling. Breathing heavy. Sweat dripping. Wrist swollen.
The smell of ozone and hot metal hung in the air. My grip on the launcher had rubbed the skin raw.
I sat on cold concrete.
Black Dranzer rested in my palm. Warm. Pulsing.
The cold pressed at awareness. Patient. Waiting for the moment I'd slip.
And I will slip. Eventually.
Training alone—possible.
Fighting clean—possible.
Sustaining both—
Impossible.
I stared at Black Dranzer.
"I can't do this alone."
The words left my mouth before I decided to speak them.
End Chapter 10