After three hours of non-stop practice, I collapsed against the wall of the beyblade room, sweat dripping down my face, muscles screaming in protest, and Black Dranzer still spinning lazily in the stadium like it was mocking my weakness.
I had learned three critical things:
One: Black Dranzer was absurdly strong, but controlling that power was like trying to steer a fighter jet with your mind while also doing calculus. The phoenix wanted to dominate, to crush, to *drain*—and reining in those instincts required constant mental effort that left me feeling like I'd run a marathon inside my own skull.
Two:Beyblade training was no joke. The anime made it look cool and effortless, but the reality was that launching repeatedly with proper form drained you physically, mentally, AND spiritually. My arms ached. My concentration was shot. And I was pretty sure Black Dranzer had siphoned some of my actual life force just for fun.
Three: I was starving, and the kitchen was completely empty because ROB apparently thought "compensation package" meant "bare minimum to not die immediately."
I dragged myself to the kitchen, opened the empty fridge, closed it, opened the empty cabinets, and seriously contemplated whether I could eat the packaging from Black Dranzer's manual.
That's when I saw it.
Sitting on the counter. Chrome gleaming. Heating elements cold and innocent.
The toaster.
My eye twitched.
It's just a toaster, the rational part of my brain said weakly. You're being paranoid. It's an inanimate object.
My trauma memories immediately countered with:THAT'S WHAT THEY WANT YOU TO THINK.
I stared at it. It stared back—or would have, if appliances had eyes. Which they SHOULDN'T. But after dying to a kitchen appliance uprising, I wasn't taking any chances.
"You know what?" I said aloud to the empty apartment. "Fuck this."
I grabbed the toaster with both hands, marched to the nearest window, threw it open, and yeeted that potential mechanical messiah three stories down into the dumpster below.
It hit with a satisfying CRASH of metal on metal.
"Burn in appliance hell!" I shouted after it.
A passerby looked up at me like I was insane. I closed the window.
"To be fair," I muttered, "it had it coming."
With the toaster threat neutralized, I felt marginally better. Still hungry, still exhausted, but at least I wouldn't die in my sleep to a breakfast-themed assassination.
---
I spent the rest of the morning exploring the house more thoroughly and making a list of what I actually needed to survive:
- Clothes (I had exactly one outfit)
- Food (critical)
- Bedsheets and pillows (sleeping on a bare mattress was getting old)
- Kitchen supplies (NO TOASTERS)
- Toiletries
- Maybe a TV so I could at least pretend to be a normal teenager
The bank account showed $10,000,000 in clean, legitimate funds, which was both comforting and deeply suspicious. ROB had clearly done some reality-bending paperwork to make everything legal.
I pulled on the one jacket I owned—black with red accents, because apparently my new aesthetic was "edgy anime protagonist"—and headed out into Metal City proper.
---
The downtown district hit differently when you were actually IN it versus watching it on a screen.
Neon signs advertising beyblade shops blazed in every color imaginable. Massive screens mounted on buildings showed tournament highlights and rankings. Street vendors sold custom parts and accessories. Kids ran past carrying launchers like they were sidearms, beyblades clinking in their pockets.
The energy was infectious—this constant hum of competition and excitement that made the air feel alive.
I felt incredibly old despite being in a sixteen-year-old body. These kids had no idea what was coming. No idea about the legendary bladers, the star fragments, the ancient powers that would turn their street battles into something mythological.
And I couldn't tell them. The cosmic gag order from ROB made sure of that. Talk about transmigration or spoil future events, and I'd explode into oblivion.
Fantastic.
I hit a department store first—one of those massive places that sold everything from furniture to food. I methodically worked through my list: clothes in dark colors because apparently I was committing to the aesthetic, bedsheets, pillows, towels, kitchen supplies (carefully avoiding the small appliance section), toiletries, and enough non-perishable food to survive a siege.
The total came to just under three thousand dollars, which was insane but also barely made a dent in the account.
"Will you be needing delivery?" the cashier asked, eyeing my mountain of purchases.
"Yes. Definitely yes."
"There's an extra fee—"
"Money is not an issue."
She blinked at my flat tone, probably wondering if I was some rich kid slumming it in the shopping district. I gave her my address, paid in cash to avoid questions, and told her the afternoon delivery window was fine.
With that handled, I decided to explore the beyblade scene before heading back.
***
I found a public park about fifteen minutes from downtown, where a bunch of kids were practicing in the open stadiums scattered around. Nothing too flashy—just basic launches, working on form and power.
A small crowd had gathered around one particular stadium. I drifted closer, curious.
A kid who couldn't have been more than thirteen stood in the winner's circle, grinning like a shark. Spiky brown hair, expensive-looking gear, and a beyblade that gleamed with fresh polish. He had that specific energy of someone who'd just discovered they were good at something and immediately became insufferable about it.
"That's fifteen hundred points!" he crowed, pointing at the three kids who looked on the verge of tears. "Winner keeps, losers weep!"
"That's not fair!" one of them protested. "You said it was just a friendly match—"
"Friendly?" The spiky-haired kid laughed, sharp and cruel. "Nothing's friendly when beypoints are on the line! What, did you think this was a playground game? You bet your points, I won them fair and square with my Strike Hawk. Winner keeps, loser sweepers!"
He pocketed their beypoints with exaggerated smugness. "If you want them back, fight me again and bet more points. Oh wait—" his grin widened, "—you can't, because you don't have any! Hahahaha!"
The kids looked devastated. One was actually crying. Their friends hovered nearby, angry but helpless.
I watched the whole scene with Kai's memories providing context I didn't need. This was the casual cruelty of competitive beyblading—the system that let stronger players drain weaker ones, that turned every match into a high-stakes gamble.
The old me would have felt bad, maybe said something supportive.
The new me—the one with Kai's cold pragmatism and Black Dranzer's dark hunger—saw an opportunity.
I stepped forward.
"You," I said flatly.
The spiky-haired kid turned, his grin faltering slightly at my appearance. I could see him trying to place me—the strange hair, the expensive jacket, the launcher visible at my hip.
"What?"
"Battle me."
His confidence returned immediately. "Oh, another sucker? Sure! What're you betting?"
"Everything you just won. Fifteen hundred points."
The crowd murmured. That was a serious bet, especially from someone they'd never seen before.
The kid's eyes lit up with greed. "And if I win?"
"You won't."
His face flushed. "Big talk! Fine! But when you lose, I'm taking every point you've got!"
I pulled out my pointer—pristine, untouched, showing exactly zero beypoints registered. Because technically, I'd never battled in this world before.
"I don't have any points yet," I said calmly. "So you'll just have to settle for humiliating defeat."
That got his blood up. "You're gonna regret that!"
We took our positions on opposite sides of the stadium. The crowd pressed closer, sensing something interesting was about to happen. I could feel their eyes on me, curious and skeptical.
I loaded Black Dranzer into the launcher, feeling the phoenix's eager anticipation thrumming through our connection.
Finally,it purred. Let me show them what we are.
The spiky-haired kid loaded his Strike Hawk—a generic attack-type beyblade that looked fast but unrefined.
"Three!"
I adjusted my stance, Kai's muscle memory flowing through me like water.
"Two!"
Black Dranzer pulsed with dark energy, already hungry for this kid's rotation.
"One!"
The crowd held its breath.
"LET IT RIP!"
***
The battle lasted exactly seven seconds.
Strike Hawk shot into the stadium with decent power, circling aggressively for an opening. Black Dranzer landed in the center and just... stopped. Perfectly balanced. Perfectly still. Like a predator that didn't need to chase its prey.
"What the—why isn't it moving?!" the kid shouted.
Strike Hawk came in for an attack. Black Dranzer shifted slightly—just a tiny adjustment in weight distribution—and when the two beyblades connected, something beautiful and terrifying happened.
Strike Hawk's rotation simply stopped.
Not slowed. Not deflected. Stopped.
Black Dranzer absorbed the impact, drained the energy, and redirected it into its own spin. The fusion wheel glowed faintly crimson for just a moment as the Soul Drain activated.
Strike Hawk wobbled, lost all momentum, and fell over.
Black Dranzer continued spinning like nothing had happened.
The crowd was dead silent.
"What... what kind of beyblade IS that?!" the kid stammered, staring at his fallen bey in disbelief.
I retrieved Black Dranzer, feeling its satisfaction pulse through our bond. Then I walked over and held out my hand.
"Fifteen hundred points. Now."
"But—that's—you can't—"
"Winner keeps," I said, my voice cold as winter. "Loser sweepers."
His face went through several shades of red before he shakily transferred the points to my pointer. I watched the number climb: 1,500 beypoints, earned in seven seconds.
I turned to leave, but one of the kids who'd lost to the spiky-haired bully spoke up, voice hopeful: "Wait, are you going to give us back our—"
"No."
The hope died in his eyes.
I looked at the group of them—young, naive, expecting some hero to swoop in and make things right.
"I won these points fair and square," I said, echoing the bully's own words back at them. "Winner keeps. If you want them back, beat me for them."
One of them took a hesitant step forward, launcher raised—
Black Dranzer pulsed threateningly in my hand, and the kid froze. They could all feel it. That dark presence. That barely restrained power.
"But you can't," I finished, turning away. "So they're mine now. I'm no hero."
I walked away from the stunned crowd, ignoring their whispers and shocked expressions.
That was cruel, part of me thought. Those were just kids who got hustled.
That was honest, Kai's memories countered. This world rewards strength. They need to learn that.
Black Dranzer agreed wholeheartedly.
I was halfway out of the park when I heard one of the kids shout after me: "That was so cold!"
I paused, turned slightly, and let Kai's trademark smirk cross my face.
"Cold. Efficient. As it should be." I raised my pointer in mock salute. "Winner keeps. Loser sweepers."
Then I left them to process whatever lesson they'd just learned.
***
The delivery truck came right on time. I spent the next hour transforming the empty apartment into something vaguely human-friendly—bedsheets, pillows, towels, actual cooking utensils, real food.
No toaster.
Never again.
I wasn't risking toaster-related PTSD flare-ups.
By the time I stocked the last cabinet, I felt… weirdly settled.
Like I was borrowing someone else's life but making it livable.
Because I am, I reminded myself. Kai's face. Kai's skills. My memories.
A legally questionable fusion.
The doorbell rang.
The delivery guy again?
Maybe he forgot something.
I opened the door—
And stared into the face of the apocalypse.
Madoka Amano stood there, bright smile in place, tool belt peeking under her jacket.
In her hands…
was the toaster.
THE chrome war criminal.
The traitor that triggered my death.
The metallic Judas.
"Oh! Hi!" Madoka said. "I found this outside your building! It looked brand new, so I thought maybe you'd want it back? …I saw you throw it out the window earlier—"
"It's cursed," I said instantly. "Haunted. Possibly demonic. You should not be holding it."
She blinked. "Um… what?"
"That thing has ended lives."
Madoka laughed like I'd just told a joke. "Wow, you're dramatic! Anyway—I'm Madoka Amano. I run the B-Pit beyblade shop downtown!"
Of course you do. Of course the main mechanic girl just casually walks into my reincarnation arc carrying my murderer.
"Kai," I replied, because my legal documents said so.
Her eyes widened slightly. Whether because of the name or because she'd seen my battle at the park earlier, I wasn't sure.
"I actually saw you battling today!" she said. "Your beyblade—I've literally never seen movement like that! What parts is it using?"
Black Dranzer pulsed in my pocket, like a sleeping dragon opening one eye.
Do not let her touch me.
"Custom," I answered quickly. "Personal project."
Madoka's eyes sparkled with mechanic curiosity—dangerous.
She stepped forward slightly.
"I'd love to examine—"
"No," I said immediately.
Then softened it. "Maybe later."
She blinked at my speed-run rejection, but recovered.
"Well… here's your toaster!"
"I don't want it," I said, with the sincerity of someone refusing cursed treasure.
"But it's brand n—"
"I would rather eat cold bread until I die again."
"…Okay?" She slowly retracted the toaster. "Well… uh… nice meeting you, Kai!"
"You too."
I closed the door before the toaster could attempt eye contact.
Then leaned back against it, exhaling like I'd just survived a boss fight.
Madoka Amano.
Mechanic genius.
Canon-relevant as hell.
Already curious about my bey.
Already holding the chrome murderer that ended my first life.
Black Dranzer hummed with dark amusement.
You fear the small metal box?
You didn't die to one, I shot back.
If it returns again, I will incinerate it myself.
A comforting thought.
I looked over my now-functional apartment—bed made, kitchen stocked, fifteen hundred beypoints earned through "childhood villain" efficiency. One week until canon started.
And next door, a girl with pink hair now possessed a cursed toaster.
"This is fine," I muttered.
"This is totally fine."
Black Dranzer pulsed skeptically.
You are unraveling.
"Shut up and let me pretend I'm normal."
I collapsed onto the bed and closed my eyes.
I dreamed of beyblades and toasters locked in eternal war.
On the sidelines, somewhere in the divine background noise, a cosmic toaster god laughed.
End of Chapter 2.