A week had passed since the incident.
Or, as the local news preferred to dramatize it: "Unexplained Geological Collapse of Mountain Ridge 7."
They ran endless footage of jagged cliffs and drone shots of the crater — a raw wound in the earth that filled the screen like bad wallpaper.
A talking-head geologist explained tectonic nonsense with a furrowed brow, while stock footage of landslides and seismic waves scrolled beneath him.
People who didn't live near the mountain nodded solemnly at their screens.
People who lived near it rubbed their eyes and updated their insurance policies.
Apparently, the apparent disappearance of half a mountain overnight qualified as a "geological event."
Sure — if by "geological" you meant "detonated by a sentient Beyblade with questionable power scale."
The government moved fast.
Drones buzzed above the ridge like irritated hornets; investigators in stiff jackets paced the perimeter with handheld scanners that blinked and chirped; WBBA people — because of course WBBA people — hovered like vultures with laminated passes.
There were even geologists with solemn faces and very expensive equipment, measuring, scanning, and furrowing their brows in precisely the right way.
Zevion watched it all from the safe distance of his living room from the news.
Cup noodles steamed on the low table, their salty broth fogging his glasses each time he leaned over to read another headline.
He slurped while a politician talked about "environmental responsibility," which made him snort into his ramen.
Two days later, the official report landed like an inevitable punchline.
Preliminary Cause: Illegal construction and deforestation activity.
Suspects: Unidentified company engaged in unauthorized quarrying operations.
Conclusion: "Likely man-made environmental damage."
He flipped through the article slowly, chopsticks forgotten between his fingers.
"Talk about a scary world we live in," he muttered, watching the text swim as the noodle steam fogged the screen.
He took a deliberate, theatrical slurp; the hot broth calmed him like a tiny, domestic meditation bell.
He hummed, half to himself.
"People just… blow up mountains and destroy forests for profit these days. Unbelievable."
Then he set the chopsticks down and performed the official part of his morning: a one-man courtroom dismissal.
He pointed a noodle like a gavel and addressed the empty room, delivering his best "I am innocent" speech for posterity.
"What? Was it me? Pfft. Oh, please."
He wagged the stick with mock severity.
"Obviously, it's those construction companies with shady contracts. Deep game. Real corruption arc stuff."
He took another bite, nodding as if the argument had convinced him.
"Totally unrelated citizen here. I just like nature documentaries."
Across the table, Apeiron Sof lay in its case like a sleeping beast — sealed, quiet, a faint pulse tracing beneath its cracks.
The glow was dim, an ember under ash, persistent enough to be noticed but not loud enough to alarm an already anxious human.
Zevion mostly ignored it.
Mostly.
Then a new headline snagged his attention like a hook in a pocket.
WBBA Announces Regional Tournament Qualifiers Nationwide!
"Battle for Glory! Battle for the World!"
He clicked the link with the lethargic curiosity of someone opening a door they'd rather not step through.
"WBBA… World Beyblade Battling Association," he read aloud, dry amusement coloring his voice.
"Wow. Totally not stolen from BBA — they just added 'World' and called it a day."
He smirked.
The smirk softened into something that looked dangerously like interest.
The qualifiers were only days away, being held all across the country.
The prize pool wasn't small but not too big either: sponsorships, merchandise deals, media spots, and a cash payout that might let him buy launchers that didn't collapse into slag after five seconds.
In his head, numbers flicked like a neon sign: fewer ramen nights, better gear, maybe even a sponsor who'd cover the tragic cost of living with a Bey that detonates hills.
He tapped the screen with a noodle-slick chopstick, watching the gold sunset pour through the curtains and heat the room with lazy light.
"Money, huh…" he murmured.
With Apeiron Sof, winning would be less of a skill contest and more of a formality.
He could probably win the region if he bothered to wake up and rinse his launcher.
Maybe move on to nationals.
Maybe the world, if he ever got that bored.
But winning wasn't the problem.
It was the aftermath.
He closed his eyes and let his imagination run a worst-case highlight reel: kids sleeping on his porch at dawn, reporters knocking before coffee, WBBA suits asking him to talk about the "heart of the Blader spirit," sponsors with vague clauses about image rights, fan art that clung to the weird corners of the internet, and mad scientists with clipboards asking to dissect Apeiron Sof "for research."
It sounded suspiciously like fame.
It also sounded exactly like the opposite of the peace he'd carved out for himself.
He groaned and buried his face in his arms, letting the fan's lazy breeze cool his forehead.
"Ugh… easy money, lots of trouble. Why is the world like—"
A faint pulse answered from the case beside him, like a smug little heartbeat.
Apeiron Sof's glow dimmed and brightened, as if to underscore the point.
"Don't look at me like that," Zevion told the case, speaking to it as if it had lectured him.
"You're the one who turned a mountain into a historical landmark."
The Bey pulsed again, slow and pleased, as if it enjoyed the scandal.
He sighed, the sound long and theatrical.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
He sat and spun possibilities in his head like coins: sponsor or solitude, cash or calm.
Every path seemed to demand a price he didn't want to pay.
If he entered, he'd be rich and miserable.
If he didn't, he'd be broke and comfortable.
The eternal dilemma: sloth versus survival.
As the fan clicked and the city lights outside blinked awake, he tried to be decisive.
"Maybe I'll just flip a coin," he muttered, fishing in his pocket.
The coin spun up, catching the last light — a silver blur.
For a ridiculous second, he actually considered letting fate choose.
Before it could settle, a small pulse from the Beyblade warred with the laws of physics.
The coin softened midair like wax under too much heat, edges curling as smoke began to rise.
It sagged, smoldering, and collapsed into a misshapen, smoking lump on his table with a tiny hiss.
Zevion stared at the ruined coin, the metallic stench blending oddly with noodle broth and evening air.
"…Okay," he said, small and flat.
"Guess that's your vote for yes."
He pressed the smoking lump between his fingers and felt faint warmth.
The Bey hummed in return, almost conversational.
He slumped forward and buried his face in his arms again, a long groan escaping him.
"Fine. We'll enter the damn regional tournament. But I swear — if someone calls me 'bro' and challenges me before breakfast, I'm throwing you into orbit."
The Bey hummed once — soft and satisfied.
He should have felt triumphant.
Instead, he felt like a man who'd agreed to the worst possible job because the paycheck was too good to refuse.
And so, he decided he would take the cash mone—
I mean, he decided to participate in the regional tournament.
At least, that was the plan.
Zevion had already reasoned it out like a lazy economist.
He had enough money saved up to keep him fed and clothed — barely — until adulthood.
It wasn't much, just a modest cushion that kept him floating in the lower-middle-class survival bracket.
Rent, food, a few indulgences like cup noodles and Wi-Fi.
Nothing fancy.
But he was eleven.
Eleven.
The idea of "financial stability" until adulthood felt like patching a sinking ship with instant noodles.
The regional prize money, though?
That would give him some breathing room — a nice little financial safety net so he could keep being gloriously unproductive for years to come.
A future free of "job applications" and "responsibility."
The dream.
So, with the dedication of a man filling tax returns, he opened the WBBA registration site.
And then, within five minutes… he decided to quit.
"Yeah, no. Not worth the headache."
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the monitor with the look of someone watching a car crash in slow motion.
Why?
Apparently, every participant had to register with their launcher.
The same launcher that his Bey destroyed. Every. Single. Time.
Zevion rubbed his temples.
"Of course. Of course, they'd have rules. Why would anything be simple?"
Even if he somehow handled it — registered one launcher, used another — there was another problem, a bigger one, the kind that made headlines and prison sentences.
Bey inspection.
Each participant had to let their opponent inspect their Bey before every match.
A harmless rule meant to prevent cheating or illegal mods.
But in Zevion's case?
That was like handing someone a live grenade—no, maybe a nuclear warhead with a friendly smile.
According to the info dump Apeiron Sof had oh-so-helpfully uploaded into his mind (complete with visuals that gave him migraines), the Bey's soul-binding system came with what the Bey itself called "safety protocols."
"Safety," of course, being a relative term.
If the Bey went too far from him, it would automatically return — like a clingy ex with GPS tracking.
Only Zevion could use it.
For life.
And, naturally, that meant he couldn't use any other Bey either.
Nice, right?
Except for the tiny, horrifying defect.
If someone else touched Apeiron Sof — even accidentally — their mind would shatter.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Some would feel their consciousness burn out in an illusion of death.
Others… wouldn't wake up again.
Zevion still remembered the psychic echo he felt the first time the Bey explained that, or well, just dumped it in his rotting brain.
It wasn't pain exactly — more like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing gravity had your name on speed dial.
So yeah.
"Bey inspection" wasn't an option unless he wanted to become the prime suspect in a mass manslaughter case.
He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and mumbled.
"Great. I'm gonna end up killing more people with this thing off the stage than on it."
He slumped back into his chair, arms dangling.
Still… a small part of him couldn't deny it.
In a purely pragmatic sense, Apeiron Sof was the most powerful weapon in the world.
If someone ever tried to mug him, he wouldn't even need to throw a punch.
Just say, "Touch the Bey," and problem solved.
Not exactly heroic, but effective.
He sighed again, louder this time.
"Yeah, that's not exactly 'Beyblade Spirit' material."
He mentally crossed the regional tournament off his to-do list, stretched like a cat, and moved on with his day.
The next morning brought the smell of warm bread and roasted sesame from the bakery across the street.
Zevion hadn't planned to go out, but his instant noodle stash was in critical condition — and even he couldn't survive on seasoning packets alone.
So, he wandered down the block, hands in his pockets, the sun painting long shadows on the cracked pavement.
The bell above the bakery door jingled softly when he pushed it open.
Warmth hit him like a hug — that buttery, yeasty kind that clings to your clothes.
The air smelled like sugar and dough, the kind of smell that could convince even the laziest person to become a morning person.
Behind the counter stood the baker — and wow.
Zevion blinked.
'Uh… this place hiring models or something?'
He thought.
She looked more like a celebrity trying to "blend in" for a movie role than an actual baker.
Late twenties, maybe early thirties, flour dusting her apron in a way that almost looked deliberate.
Her smile could've sold luxury cars.
Weren't bakers supposed to be older ladies in their forties with motherly laughs and rolling pins?
Anyway.
Whatever.
He wasn't here to philosophize about bakers.
He bought his usual — a bag of Beyblade-shaped buns because apparently this world was legally incapable of being normal.
While he waited, he half-muttered to himself.
"Man, I'm buying spinning top bread. My life's really gone places."
The baker chuckled, a soft sound that carried easily through the cozy air.
"Rough morning?"
Zevion blinked, caught off guard.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Just… tournament stuff."
Her brow lifted.
"Tournament? You're a Blader?"
He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Kinda? I wanted to join this regional thing, but… It's complicated. Registration, inspection, rules, bureaucracy… all that stuff. So, I'm skipping it."
She tilted her head, still smiling.
It was one of those warm, gentle smiles people gave when they didn't know you but didn't want to see you sad either.
"Well," she said, sliding the paper bag toward him, "you shouldn't be so down. If you can't join now, that doesn't mean you never will. Train a little. Get stronger. Surprise everyone when they least expect it."
Her voice carried that quiet conviction of someone who actually believed in people.
Zevion blinked at her for a moment, the words hitting harder than he expected.
Then, with a small sigh, he smiled — a tired, genuine one.
"…Guess so."
He took the bag, its warmth seeping through the paper and into his hands.
Outside, the wind carried the faint hum of life — kids shouting somewhere down the street, the rhythmic whir of a launcher being tested, the city quietly revolving around its Beyblade.
He looked at the bag, then at the faint glow of Apeiron Sof's case peeking from his backpack zipper.
"This world's insane," he muttered under his breath.
But his lips curved upward anyway.
After all, this was the Beyblade world — where a single win could turn you from ramen poverty to celebrity status overnight.
And maybe, just maybe… he wasn't as done with it as he wanted to believe.
With a faint spark of motivation — or maybe just the smell of warm bread — Zevion walked home, bag of buns in one hand, questionable resolve in the other.
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