"Yaaawn…"
The sound that escaped Zevion's throat wasn't so much a yawn as it was a rhythmic, guttural protest against the very concept of linear time.
It was slow, unmotivated, and heavy with the weary resonance of a man who had already lived one full life and found the second one's wake-up calls just as offensive as the first.
He dragged himself out of the suffocating clutches of sleep, one hand lazily rubbing the crust from his eyes while the other searched blindly for the edge of the bed like a drowning man reaching for a life raft in a storm of blankets.
The morning light filtered through the curtains—soft, golden, and entirely too cheerful for Zevion's liking.
It painted the room in a quiet warmth, a serenity that felt unearned and, quite frankly, invasive.
He sat there on the edge of the mattress for several long minutes.
Not moving.
Not thinking.
Just… existing in the gray vacuum between dreams and reality.
"…Why is waking up illegal but still mandatory?" he muttered to the empty room.
The room, predictably, offered no rebuttal.
The silence of the apartment was thick, a reminder of the "lazy life" he so desperately craved, yet there was a hollow edge to it this morning.
With the sheer enthusiasm of a Victorian orphan heading toward a fourteen-hour shift in a coal mine, he finally pushed himself up.
His feet hit the cold floorboards, sending a sharp shiver up his spine that forced his brain to finally boot up its basic functions.
He shuffled toward the bathroom, his reflection in the hallway mirror mocking him with its disheveled state.
Messy dark hair that defied gravity in all the wrong ways, sticking up like the plumage of a confused bird.
Eyes that looked half-dead, carrying the weary cynicism of a reincarnator who knew exactly how much bureaucratic effort "protagonist-ing" actually took.
"Yeah… that's about right," he whispered, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror.
"Peak performance. Someone call a scout; I'm ready for my close-up."
Cold water hit his face. Once. Twice.
The shock was the only thing that made him feel tethered to the world.
He gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, watching the droplets slide down his chin.
He wasn't just Zevion, the kid in a world of spinning tops; he was a soul out of place, a ghost haunting a new machine.
And today, the ghost was exceptionally tired.
After finishing his morning routine at the speed of a tired sloth navigating a vat of molasses, he made his way to the kitchen.
His stomach gave a traitorous, hollow growl.
Hunger—the one biological imperative that his laziness couldn't conquer.
If he could photosynthesize, he'd never leave the couch.
Then again, he would need to always be in sunlight, so no thanks.
He started preparing breakfast.
It wasn't fancy.
There were no garnishes, no intricate plating, and certainly no passion.
This was survival-tier cooking, designed solely to keep his organs from shutting down.
Toast, slightly charred at the edges because the toaster was as temperamental as a Bit Beast.
Eggs, over-easy, the yolks wobbling with an uncertainty that mirrored Zevion's own life.
A glass of milk, cold enough to make his teeth ache.
Simple.
Reliable.
Emotionally stable.
He placed everything neatly on the table, the ritualistic order of the meal providing a small sense of comfort.
He reached for the remote and flicked on the TV.
Now, normally, Zevion avoided the news like a plague.
It was too loud, too dramatic, and filled with talking heads pretending they had a handle on a world that was clearly vibrating on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
But recently?
With the "Comet Incident" rewriting the laws of physics and turning children's toys into weapons of mass destruction, even a man who wanted a lazy harem life had to stay informed.
If the world was going to end, he at least wanted a five-minute head start to find a comfortable chair to watch the fireworks from.
He picked up his toast and took a bite.
Then, his thumb betrayed his intentions and opened a streaming app instead.
"News can wait," he decided, his voice a calm decree.
"Life is too short for politics before the eggs get cold."
On the screen, a new title appeared in the 'Recently Added' section.
It was stark—white, minimalist text on a pitch-black background.
Last Descender.
Zevion paused mid-chew.
His brow furrowed.
"…I've never heard of this."
In his past life, he knew the catalogs of anime and manga like the back of his hand.
He had been a connoisseur of the medium, a man who could cite episode directors and key animators at a moment's notice.
Last Descender didn't exist in his old world.
Not as a light novel, not as a niche manga, nothing.
"This is original to this world," he realized.
A strange sensation washed over him—a mix of excitement and unease.
This was proof of the divergence, a reminder that he was truly "elsewhere."
His interest, usually buried under layers of apathy, spiked.
He leaned forward, eyes focusing on the screen as the episode began.
The episode didn't start with an explosive opening theme or a flashy battle.
The story unfolded like a slow, suffocating collapse.
It depicted a world—utterly normal, much like the one Zevion currently lived in—suddenly falling into another dimension.
It wasn't a metaphorical fall.
It was literal.
The animation was hauntingly beautiful, the kind of high-budget production that made every frame look like a Renaissance painting of the apocalypse.
Reality didn't just break; it bent.
The sky tore open like wet paper, revealing a void that wasn't black, but a sickening, swirling kaleidoscope of colors that didn't belong in nature.
And then came the death.
It wasn't the heroic sacrifice of a shonen protagonist.
It wasn't dramatic or clean.
It was brutal.
Billions were twisted into disfigured abominations, their bodies warping to fit the physics of a nightmare dimension.
Zevion's chewing slowed until it stopped completely.
He watched, mesmerized and horrified, as a mother reached for her child, only for her arm to dissolve into a fine gray ash before she could make contact.
The main character didn't scream as he treated it as an unrealistic nightmare.
He didn't find a hidden power.
He just stood there, his eyes reflecting the extinction of his species.
He watched his family die one by one, not to a villain he could fight, but to the sheer, indifferent cruelty of a universe shifting its weight.
There was no plot armor.
No miracle save.
No "friendship" power-up.
Just loss.
Silence filled Zevion's kitchen as the credits rolled.
No upbeat J-Pop ending theme followed this.
Just a low, humming drone that felt like it was vibrating in his very bones.
"…Wow," Zevion breathed, finally swallowing the cold bit of toast.
The execution was perfect.
It didn't soften the blow.
It didn't hide behind "viewer comfort."
It showed the reality of what happens when a world loses its protection.
"That's illegal for a first episode," he muttered, taking a sip of milk that now tasted like chalk.
He looked at the episode list.
"Twelve episodes, huh? Eleven more emotional attacks remaining. Animation? Amazing. Concept? Crazy. Execution? Flawless. Mental damage? Severe. Very severe."
He stood up and washed his dishes in a daze.
The house felt heavier now, the shadows in the corners of the kitchen seeming a bit deeper, as if the mood of the anime had seeped through the screen and into his reality.
It felt like a warning.
In a world where Beys could destroy cities, was a "lazy life" even a statistical possibility?
Or was he just the main character of a tragedy he hadn't realized he was in yet?
"…Yeah, I need air. Fresh, non-apocalyptic air."
A short while later, Zevion stood by the riverside.
It was his sanctuary—the same place, the same weathered bench, the same calm water flowing endlessly toward the horizon.
The rhythmic sound of the current helped wash away the lingering images of Last Descender.
"Much better," he sighed, reaching into his pocket.
He pulled out Apeiron Sof.
The Beyblade felt heavy in his palm, heavier than any piece of plastic and zinc or any other metal had a right to be.
Its surface was cold, humming with a faint, predatory energy that felt less like a machine and more like a sleeping beast.
"Alright. Round two," he said to the empty air.
He didn't use a launcher.
Instead, he threw it across the surface of the river like a skipping stone.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Seven skips.
The Beyblade defied gravity, dancing across the water before losing momentum and sinking.
A second later, it reappeared in Zevion's hand with a soft, static hum, as if it had simply folded space to return to its master.
"Don't look so proud. That was trash," Zevion chided the piece of metal.
He threw it again.
Eight skips. Again. Nine. Again. Ten.
Then, on the thirty-fifth throw, something changed.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap... Thirteen skips.
It didn't just bounce; it seemed to propel itself, kicking off the water with tiny bursts of blue sparks that sizzled against the river's surface.
Zevion froze.
He stood up straight, his eyes narrowing.
"Thirteen?!"
He stared at Apeiron Sof.
The Beyblade glowed faintly, a pulsing indigo light emanating from its core.
"…Don't tell me you're learning," he whispered.
"You're a piece of plastic and metal. You shouldn't have a learning curve for skipping across a river. You're supposed to be an inanimate tool, not a pet."
It hummed again.
Suspiciously.
Like a dog pretending it hadn't just eaten the couch.
He threw it again, this time skipping only 7 times before sinking.
"Inconsistent. Disappointing. Just like your owner," Zevion sighed, collapsing back onto the bench.
He stared up at the sky, his arm aching from the repetitive motion.
His soul felt like it was trying to leave his body again, drifting off into the clouds.
Why was his life so peaceful?
It felt wrong.
It felt like the calm before the sky tore open.
Yesterday, there were Bit Beasts and global chaos.
Today, he was a retired old man skipping stones.
"If I keep this up, I'll just repeat my old life," he thought.
The realization was heavy.
In his past life, he had been a spectator.
A ghost in the machinery of society.
"I don't really have anyone, do I? Not truly."
As a reincarnator, there was a gap.
The kids were too young; their passion for a spinning top game felt like a fever dream.
The adults were too distant, buried in their own mundane struggles.
He was a man out of time, a bridge to nowhere.
"Yeah. That's not happening again," he decided, sitting up with a rare spark of resolve.
"I think I should… try talking to people more. Preferably girls. Wait, that sounded weird. I mean—normal, healthy, non-suspicious social interaction. I need to build a circle. A safety net. A harem of support, strictly for emotional and practical stability."
He nodded to himself, convincing himself that his "Lazy Harem" goal was actually a very responsible social strategy.
"Yes. That. Even if nothing comes of it, I need to stay tethered to this world. Being alone is just—"
"ZEV! ZEV! ZEV!!!"
Zevion closed his eyes slowly.
The resolve he had just built—the calm, adult-like decision to socialize—instantly evaporated, replaced by an immediate desire to be a rock.
A very small, very hidden rock.
"Of course," he groaned.
"The universe heard me thinking about peace and decided to send the loudest possible correction."
He didn't need to turn around.
Only one person in this world shouted names like they were trying to alert a neighboring prefecture of a natural disaster.
Valt Aoi came sprinting toward him, his blue hair windblown and his face flushed red with effort.
He was waving his arms like a madman, his excitement practically radiating off him in heatwaves.
He skidded to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust that settled right on Zevion's freshly washed jacket.
"Oh, man! I've been looking for you everywhere!"
Valt panted, leaning over his knees to catch his breath.
"I was at home. Then I was here. I am not a difficult man to track, Valt. I have the movement radius of a garden gnome."
Valt ignored the sarcasm entirely.
He stood up, puffing out his chest and pointing a finger directly at Zevion's nose with the dramatic flair of a stage actor.
"Ahem! Zevion! I, Valt Aoi, have been thinking! I haven't slept! Well, I slept a little, but then I woke up and thought some more!"
"That sounds dangerous for your health," Zevion noted.
"I've decided! You have to JOIN OUR BEYBLADE CLUB!"
The river flowed.
A bird chirped somewhere in the distance.
Zevion blinked once, his expression as flat as a pancake.
The silence stretched out, becoming awkward for anyone who wasn't Valt.
"…Why?"
"Because you're strong! And cool! And your Bey is like—WHOOSH! And we need a team, and I just know that if we play together, we'll reach the top! We'll be legends! We'll see the world!"
"No," Zevion interrupted, holding up a hand.
"Absolutely not. That sounds like effort. Effort leads to sweat. Sweat leads to laundry. Laundry is the enemy of a lazy life. Plus, 'seeing the world' usually involves walking. I am a staunch advocate for staying in one place."
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