The echoes of the collision finally faded from the BC Sol training hall, but the pressure Free De La Hoya had left behind still lingered in the air.
Valt Aoi stood by the stadium, chest heaving, a massive drop of sweat rolling down his nose. He looked down at the newly forged God Valkyrie resting in his palm. It hadn't burst, but it had been entirely, unequivocally overwhelmed. Free had suffocated Valkyrie's attacks, draining every ounce of energy until the blue Bey simply tipped over.
But Valt wasn't crying. He wasn't staring blankly at the floor. He was vibrating with a fierce, burning excitement.
"Did you feel that, Valkyrie?" Valt whispered, his brown eyes wide. "He's completely on another level. The world is huge!"
"Are you insane, or do you just lack basic self-preservation instincts?"
Valt blinked, turning around. A boy with bright green hair, wearing a purple shirt and yellow suspenders, was leaning against the stadium railing. Silas Karlisle crossed his arms, blowing a massive bubble of pink gum before snapping it loudly.
"You just got completely humiliated by the top blader in the world, and you're smiling," Silas scoffed, his arrogant smirk entirely in place. "You're a clown."
"I wasn't humiliated!" Valt shot back, entirely unoffended. "I held my ground! For... at least a little bit!"
"Forty-two seconds, to be exact."
A younger boy with freckles and a newsboy cap slid down the bleacher railing, landing expertly on his feet. Kit Lopez didn't look up from the glowing screen of his tablet, his fingers flying across the digital interface.
"Normally, tryouts against Free last less than five seconds because he hand-spins," Kit explained, tapping a stylus against the screen. "But he used his launcher against you. Your RPMs spiked beautifully on the second drop, but his Drain Fafnir's rubber completely absorbed the shock. Still, lasting forty-two seconds against a launched Fafnir? The probability of a complete rookie doing that is less than four percent."
Valt grinned, puffing out his chest. "See? Four percent! That's practically a hundred!"
Silas rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful.
A girl with short blue hair and a sharp, disciplined posture walked over, handing Valt a clean towel. Sasha Guten didn't smile, but her expression lacked Silas's overt hostility.
"Don't let it go to your head," Sasha advised, her tone grounded and serious. "Free wasn't using his full strength. But Kit is right. You didn't embarrass yourself. I'm Sasha. This is Kit. And the guy with the attitude problem is Silas. He just transferred in from the German leagues."
"Hey!" Silas snapped. "I don't have an attitude problem, I have a talent surplus. I'm here to take the top spot."
Valt wiped his face with the towel, beaming at all of them. "I'm Valt Aoi! It's awesome to meet you guys! The bladers here are incredible!"
Kit finally looked up from his tablet, adjusting his cap. His eyes narrowed slightly, filled with intense curiosity. "Valt, before the match started... Free asked you about someone. A guy named Ryu O'Hara. You said you knew him?"
The moment the name left Kit's mouth, the ambient chatter in the surrounding gym dropped. A few of the veteran BC Sol members standing nearby visibly tensed, glancing over.
Sasha crossed her arms, looking at Valt carefully. "Is it true? You actually know that guy?"
Valt tilted his head, confused by the heavy atmosphere. "You mean Ryu? Yeah! He's my friend! We fought in the National Quarter-Finals back in Tokyo! He beat me, but we tied in the first round!"
Kit's jaw practically hit the floor. He aggressively tapped his tablet, pulling up a deeply buried file. "You tied... with the Anvil?! Are you kidding me?! Do you have any idea who that guy is on the international circuit?"
Silas scoffed, leaning closer. "He's an urban legend. A boogeyman the European elites made up to excuse their losses ".
"He's not a legend, Silas," Sasha corrected quietly. "Three years ago, a few of the top European bladers flew to a private island to test a new stadium design. Free went with them. The rumor is... none of them won a single match. Some kid completely dismantled them without ever changing his facial expression. They say he broke Fafnir in half."
Valt blinked. He thought about the quiet, silver-haired boy sitting in the corner of his mother's bakery, carefully analyzing the gluten of a piece of bread. He thought about the terrifying, dark violet shadow dragon that had cracked the National Dome's floor.
"Well," Valt laughed genuinely, rubbing the back of his neck. "If it was Ryu, it could definitely be true! He's a total monster in the stadium!"
Sasha and Kit let out simultaneous, heavy sighs. Valt's complete lack of fear or jealousy regarding a blader who had allegedly crushed the world champion was entirely baffling to them.
"You're unbelievable," Silas muttered, turning his back. "Whatever. Legend or not, if this Ryu guy ever shows up in Spain, I'll crush him. And I'll crush you too, rookie."
Before Valt could respond to the challenge, the heavy double doors of the gym swung open.
Kristina Kuroda, the young, bright-eyed owner of BC Sol, walked in, flanked by the stern head analyst, Trad Vasquez. She carried a clipboard, her expression a mix of excitement and serious business.
"Gather around, everyone!" Kristina called out. Her voice echoed clearly through the massive hall.
The dozens of bladers in the gym quickly formed a semicircle around the center stage. Valt squeezed in between Kit and Sasha, standing on his tiptoes to see.
"The European League officially kicks off next week," Kristina announced, looking proudly at her team. "Our goal this year is the same as always: complete and total victory. We are going to take the World Championship. To do that, we need to finalize our starting roster for the opening matches."
Trad stepped forward, adjusting his glasses. He looked down at his own tablet. "The roster has been selected based on tryout data, physical endurance, and mechanical output. The starting lineup for the first round will be: Free De La Hoya. Silas Karlisle."
Silas smirked, popping his knuckles. A few veterans grumbled, clearly annoyed that a new transfer had immediately taken a starting spot.
"And for our third starting position," Trad continued, his eyes briefly flickering over the crowd before landing on the boy in the red jacket. "...Valt Aoi."
The gym went dead silent.
Then, the whispers started.
"The new kid?"
"He just got here today. He doesn't even know our formations."
"He lost to Free! Stan has been here for two years, why is the rookie taking the spot?!"
Valt froze. He pointed a finger at his own chest, his brown eyes wide. "Me?! Are you serious?! I get to battle right away?!"
"Don't get cocky," Trad warned sharply. "Your output spiked higher than anyone else in the tryouts, excluding Free and Silas. But your control is entirely unrefined. If you become a liability to the team's win record, you will be benched immediately."
Kristina offered Valt a warm, encouraging smile. "We believe in your potential, Valt. Welcome to BC Sol."
As the assembly dispersed, the atmosphere around Valt grew tangibly heavy. The friendly curiosity from earlier was gone, replaced by sharp glares and muttered complaints from the senior members who had just been passed over.
Valt felt the sudden, uncomfortable weight of their envy. It wasn't like the Beigoma BeyClub, where everyone cheered for each other. This was the world stage. Spots were limited, and careers were on the line.
Sasha gave him a sidelong glance. She didn't look angry, but her eyes were critical. "You just put a massive target on your back, Valt. You better prove you earned that spot on the stage, or they'll eat you alive in the locker room."
Valt looked down at God Valkyrie in his hand. He felt the hostility in the room, but he also felt the familiar, burning excitement in his chest. He remembered Ryu's absolute, unbothered confidence in the face of the entire National Dome.
Valt gripped his Beyblade tightly, a fierce smile returning to his face. "I'll earn it. Just watch."
---
Thousands of miles away, the neon lights of New York City blurred against the rain-slicked windows of a high-rise executive suite.
The room was vast, devoid of any personal touches, dominated entirely by a massive, reinforced glass stadium in the center. The only sound was the heavy, rhythmic drumming of rain against the glass.
Shu Kurenai stood in the shadows near the back wall.
He looked different. The pristine white WBBA uniform was gone, replaced by a dark, high-collared jacket. The athletic tape on his hands had been removed, but he wore dark, heavy gloves that covered his knuckles completely. His posture was rigid. The calm precision of the Supreme Four prodigy had been entirely hollowed out.
He stared down at his right hand.
Resting in his palm was a Beyblade, but it wasn't Storm Spriggan. The shattered pieces of his former partner had been left behind in Tokyo.
This Beyblade was heavier. It was forged from dense, cold metal and dark crimson polycarbonate. The dual-spin core of *Legend Spriggan* caught the ambient light of the city, gleaming with a violent, terrifying edge.
Shu's fingers slowly curled inward, clutching the metal layer so hard the sharp contact points dug painfully into the leather of his gloves.
He closed his eyes.
He didn't see the New York skyline. He saw the blinding lights of the National Dome. He saw the dark violet shadow of the dragon. He heard the horrific, echoing *crack* of his own weakness, the sound of the red plastic splitting in half against an immovable wall.
*I wasn't strong enough,* Shu's mind whispered, a toxic, repetitive loop that had been playing constantly since he left Japan. *Valt evolved. Ryu evolved. I stood still.*
"The metal suits you."
Shu's eyes snapped open.
A tall figure stepped out of the shadows near the suite's entrance. The man wore a sharp suit, his face obscured by the dim lighting, but his presence commanded the room.
"You threw away your attachments," the man said, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of empathy. "Attachments breed hesitation. Hesitation causes friction. And as you learned against him... It shatters the weak."
Shu didn't turn around. He kept his eyes locked on Legend Spriggan.
"I am not weak," Shu stated. His voice was cold, completely stripped of its former warmth.
"Then prove it," the man replied, stepping up to the edge of the glass stadium. He set a heavy, custom-built launcher on the rim. "The Raging Bulls organization is a stepping stone. True power does not exist in the light of the WBBA. True power exists in the dark. The Snake Pit is waiting for you, Kurenai."
The man turned, walking back toward the heavy oak doors of the suite. He paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"If you want to break the Anvil," the man promised, "you must become the hammer."
The door clicked shut, leaving Shu alone with the roaring silence of the rain.
Shu walked up to the stadium. He locked Legend Spriggan onto the heavy launcher. The metal clicked with a heavy, final sound. The boy from Beigoma was dead. The prodigy of the Supreme Four was gone.
Shu pulled the ripcord, his crimson eyes burning with absolute, unforgiving darkness.
"I will break him," Red Eye whispered to the empty room.