A/N: RIP My Laptop 💻
Hey everyone 💛
I wanted to share a quick update and explain my recent inactivity.
Unfortunately, my old laptop finally took its last breath 😔 It completely gave out, which caught me off guard and slowed things down more than I expected. That's the main reason I've been quiet for a bit.
For now, I've managed to get an Android phone so I can stay connected and slowly get back on track. While it's not a full replacement for my laptop, it does mean I can start being active again, posting updates, and continuing to work—just at a slightly different pace.
With your continued support, I'm hopeful that we'll be able to raise enough funds to get a new laptop and fully return to regular content again. Every bit of support truly helps more than you know.
Thank you so much for your patience and for sticking with me through this. I'm incredibly grateful for all of you, and more updates are coming soon 🙏✨
— Zevion Asgorath
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The referee lifted his arm, voice firm and clear.
"The first match will be the first to two points wins! A Survival Finish and a Ring Out Finish are each worth one point. Burst Finish is worth two!"
His tone carried authority — steady, practiced — but the energy in the air was anything but calm.
The host nearly bounced on his toes, his excitement too big for his body.
"Alright! You heard the rules, bladers! Now, check each other's Beys!"
Zevion didn't even pretend to move.
He simply reached into his jacket and flicked out his registration card, the holographic code pulsing faintly under the arena lights.
The referee's scanner beeped in confirmation.
Inspection — skipped.
The host blinked, thrown off.
"Whoa, old-school ID verification? You're seriously using that ancient rule?!"
He laughed nervously into the mic.
"Nobody does that anymore — except maybe germophobes!"
The crowd chuckled lightly, expecting Zevion to react, but he didn't even blink.
His face stayed blank, emotionless — as if the world around him existed at a slightly different frame rate.
The host coughed into his fist, scrambling to recover.
"Ahaha… right, moving on!"
Across the stage, Valt was the exact opposite of stillness.
He twirled his Bey between his fingers with almost boyish excitement, his grin stretching from ear to ear.
The chrome-blue body of Victory Valtryek caught the lights like polished glass, throwing back streaks of blue and silver across the floor.
"I'm counting on you, partner!"
His voice brimmed with life and fire.
"Let's get wild!"
He locked his Bey into the launcher with a crisp click.
The moment the gear locked, his nervous energy melted away — replaced by pure focus.
For the first time, Zevion saw why this kid had fans.
The shy, stumbling boy from earlier vanished.
In his place stood a Blader ready to burn.
Zevion adjusted his gloves, fingers brushing over the cool leather.
He could feel the crowd's energy rising like static — heat radiating from the lights, flashes from cameras, voices echoing off the metal walls of the dome.
It was suffocating.
And he knew what came next —
The interviews.
The curiosity.
The attention.
And the endless drag.
If he won this, everyone would start asking questions:
Where did he train?
What was that, Bey?
Why did it look so different?
Hey! Battle me!
He didn't want any of it.
So he came up with a simple plan: be the type of guy no one wanted to approach.
Act like the final boss.
Cold.
Arrogant.
Untouchable.
And Heartless.
The kind of Blader you talk about, but never to.
He reached into his coat and pulled out his Bey — Apeiron Sof.
Its design was unusual, smooth, and obsidian-black with faint crimson lines pulsing beneath the surface like veins.
Under the lights, it seemed alive.
No launcher in sight.
The referee frowned.
"Contestant, please prepare your launcher—"
"I'll launch by hand," Zevion said flatly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"The rules don't restrict launcher type."
The crowd went silent; even the hum of cameras seemed to fade.
Even the referee hesitated, looking toward the officials' booth for guidance.
After a few tense seconds, a voice crackled in his earpiece.
He sighed.
"He's… correct. It's not against the rules."
The host nearly exploded.
"WHAT?! You heard that, folks! A hand launch?! This guy's crazy! He's seriously doing it the primitive hand-style?!"
Murmurs spread through the audience like a spark igniting dry grass.
"He's going to lose instantly."
"What kind of arrogance is that?"
"No way he wins without a launcher!"
Zevion ignored every word.
He just stood there, eyes calm, expression carved from stone.
Across from him, Valt's grip tightened around his launcher.
His earlier smile didn't fade, but there was a flicker of something new — challenge.
The referee raised his hand high.
"Ready—"
The crowd joined in.
"—Set!"
A heartbeat passed.
"Three! Two! One! — Let it Riiip!"
Valt's launch exploded with sound — the ripcord screamed as Victory Valtryek tore across the stadium in a streak of electric blue, sparks flying from the friction.
The sound of spinning metal filled the air, sharp and high-pitched.
Zevion flicked his wrist — a single, smooth motion, almost lazy.
Apeiron Sof slipped from his fingers like a drop of black mercury, landing in the stadium with a faint hum.
It spun weakly at first, wobbling dangerously close to the edge.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
"Go, Valt!"
His friends yelled from above.
"End it quick!"
Valtryek roared forward, slamming into Apeiron Sof with a blinding flash of sparks.
The smaller Bey skidded back — sliding dangerously close to the rim.
Then something shifted.
The motion wasn't recoil.
It was a redirection.
A low, pulsing sound — whumf — rolled through the air, like the space around Apeiron bent for a split second.
Its faint crimson lines flared, glowing hotter.
The next strike didn't come from Valtryek.
It came from behind.
In one impossible instant, Apeiron Sof vanished from the impact point — then reappeared a meter away, striking Valtryek's flank with a heavy metallic crack.
The blue Beyblade shot across the stadium like a bullet, colliding with the wall in a flash of blue sparks before tumbling out of the ring.
The sensor lights flickered.
Then...
"RING OUT FINISH! Point to Zevion!"
The entire stadium froze.
For a moment, even the host forgot how to breathe.
Apeiron Sof spun silently in the center of the ring, perfectly stable — the hum of its spin soft and deep, like the steady rhythm of a heart.
Valt stood there, wide-eyed, launcher hanging limply from his hand.
His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Zevion didn't smirk.
Didn't bow.
Didn't react.
He just lifted his hand — and as if obeying a silent command, Apeiron Sof drifted toward him, slowing until it rested neatly in his palm.
The crowd erupted into chaos.
"WHAT WAS THAT?!"
"Did he teleport his Bey?!"
"Is that even possible?!"
The host practically lost his voice trying to shout over them.
"UNBELIEVABLE! A hand launch and a one-hit victory! This newcomer might just be insane!"
Zevion turned away, his face calm but his mind quietly spiraling.
Great. Now they'll pay even more attention.
But at least… no one would dare talk to him casually anymore.
He exhaled softly, slipping Apeiron back into his pocket.
Inside, a flicker of surprise broke through his stoic mask.
To think Apeiron had taken the first hit, absorbed all that momentum, and converted it into speed — all in less than thirty seconds…
He allowed himself a tiny smirk.
"Still crazy," he muttered under his breath.
Then his eyes flicked toward the arena again.
Though honestly… how did that not end in a Burst Finish?"
He sighed inwardly.
Talk about bad luck.
The referee's voice echoed through the mic after a brief check with the officials.
"It's confirmed — a Ring Out Finish! One point goes to Apeiron Sof!"
The crowd erupted again, a tidal wave of noise crashing against the stadium walls — half cheering in awe, half murmuring in disbelief.
Banners fluttered in the upper stands, cameras flashed, and the hum of excitement ran like static through the air.
The host, with a sharp and lively voice, jumped in before the echo faded.
"Apeiron Sof used a fierce counterstrike to knock Valtryek clean out of the stadium! That's one point to Zevion, putting him in the lead! The question is — can he carry this miracle through to the next battle?!"
He glanced at Valt before slipping his Beyblade out of his pocket.
His fingers moved with the same unhurried precision as before — calm, steady, detached.
He was already preparing for another hand launch, no hesitation, no adjustment.
Just quiet confidence.
Across the stadium, Valt stood still.
For a heartbeat, his expression froze — eyes wide, jaw slightly open, disbelief flickering across his face as though his brain was still buffering what just happened.
His grip on the launcher trembled slightly.
Good, Zevion thought, allowing the faintest trace of smugness to pass through his mind.
This victory is mi—
Before the thought even finished, Valt suddenly burst back to life.
"Oh man!"
He shouted, his voice bright and genuine.
"You're awesome! That thing is intense!"
Zevion blinked, utterly thrown.
Huh?
Valt's grin widened until it nearly split his face.
His whole body vibrated with energy like a coiled spring about to explode.
"I've wanted a battle like this for as long as I can remember! Fighting such a strong opponent's got me fired up! I'm so stoked!"
The enthusiasm hit like a shockwave.
Zevion stared, speechless.
What the hell… is wrong with this guy?
Valt clenched his fist, his blue hair swaying as he shouted again.
"This rocks! This match is just getting started!"
Zevion sighed through his nose, a long and silent exhale.
Yeah, he's definitely insane… This is exactly why I stay away from this circus.
The host's booming voice returned, feeding the energy of the crowd.
"Don't forget, folks! The first to get two points wins! Zevion may have the lead, but Valt can still turn this around!"
The audience cheered wildly, their combined excitement reverberating through the metallic dome.
The smell of heated metal and the faint tang of sweat filled the air.
Zevion's eyes stayed half-lidded.
He tuned out the sound, focusing only on the faint weight of Apeiron Sof in his palm.
Let's finish this.
"Second Battle!"
The host declared dramatically.
Both bladers took their positions.
Valt adjusted his launcher, tilting it at a sharper, more aggressive angle — sparks of determination burning in his eyes.
Zevion simply held Apeiron Sof between two fingers, the black Bey glinting faintly under the overhead lights.
His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was razor-sharp.
The referee's arm rose once again.
"Ready—Set!"
The crowd followed in unison, their voices echoing like thunder.
"Three! Two! One! — Let it Riiip!"
Valt's ripcord screamed — the launcher bursting with power as Victory Valtryek launched forward in a streak of electric blue.
Zevion's motion looked lazy, effortless — a smooth flick of his wrist.
Apeiron Sof dropped into the stadium like a drop of ink hitting glass, wobbling slightly before finding its center and stabilizing.
Valtryek immediately circled in, its bright blue aura flaring like lightning as it charged.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Metal slammed against metal.
Sparks erupted across the rim of the Beystadium, bouncing like fiery raindrops.
"Valtryek's going on the offensive again!"
The host roared.
"He's not holding anything back this time!"
Valt shouted over the noise, voice raw with excitement.
"Take that — and that — and that — and that! Let's go, Valtryek! RUSH LAUNCH!"
The blue Bey blurred, orbiting like a cyclone.
Each strike rang out like a gunshot, echoing through the dome.
The floor trembled faintly under the continuous shockwaves.
The audience was on its feet, clapping, chanting, losing itself in the chaos.
"Valtryek's 360-degree attack leaves no opening for a counterstrike from Apeiron Sof!"
The host cried.
"Can Zevion's Apeiron Sof endure this relentless assault?!"
But Zevion didn't even flinch.
He just watched, quiet and unshaken — eyes reflecting the spinning flashes of blue and red.
He could see the rhythm now.
Every hit, every movement — a predictable cycle.
And beneath the sound of clashing steel, he could feel it — Apeiron Sof wasn't losing energy.
It was feeding.
Each blow absorbed.
Each impact redirected.
Its crimson lines pulsed brighter and brighter, the faint hum deepening with every contact — a low vibration that thrummed through the air like the growl of something alive.
Valt grinned widely, completely unaware of what was happening.
"Looking good, Valtryek! You're pushing through! I can feel it — you want this win! Let's give it everything!"
The crowd cheered his name, "VALT! VALT! VALT!"
And then… the shift came.
Valtryek's speed faltered.
The once-perfect rhythm broke.
Its rotation stuttered, balance thrown off.
The blue aura flickered, then dimmed.
The host gasped.
"What's this?! Valtryek's losing stability!"
Zevion's eyes narrowed.
Now.
Apeiron Sof curved sharply along the stadium's ridge, its spin surging with sudden force.
The motion was fluid — almost serpentine — before it shot upward along the slope, glowing crimson like molten glass.
The crowd collectively held its breath.
The air pressure shifted — a sharp, invisible force rolling through the stadium as Apeiron Sof broke free from the orbit line.
Then—
CRASH!!!
Apeiron Sof slammed down from above with an explosive impact.
The metallic crack echoed like a thunderclap.
Valtryek shattered instantly — blue fragments flying in every direction as sparks sprayed across the floor.
The sensor lights blinked red.
Then a digital voice boomed over the PA.
"BURST FINISH! Two points to Apeiron Sof! Zevion wins the match — 3-0!"
Silence.
For a second, it was as if the sound had been sucked out of the arena.
Then the cheers hit like a wave — screaming, roaring, chanting.
Zevion exhaled quietly, the faint vibration of Apeiron Sof's spin fading from his hand.
He pocketed it, turned, and walked away from the stage.
Every camera followed him — flashing lights reflecting off his black coat — but he didn't look back once.
His expression stayed unreadable, carved in stone.
But beneath that calm mask, exhaustion crept in — the mental weight of holding up that cold, untouchable persona.
Still, it worked.
No one dared to approach him now.
And as the roar of the crowd carried his name through the dome, Zevion's only thought was simple.
Perfect.
The less they talk to me… the better.
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Patreon link: patreon.com/zevionasgorath