The sun hung low in the afternoon sky, casting long, golden shadows across the concrete park benches where Zevion sat.
His breath was still coming in slightly ragged hitches from his training session, but his body's exhaustion was nothing compared to the mental gymnastics he was currently performing.
"Wait, Zev. Think about it again," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper against the rustle of the trees.
He leaned back, resting his head against the cold metal of the bench, and stared up at the drifting clouds.
He was trying to reason through the chaotic landscape of professional Beyblading.
First and foremost, he had to be realistic: most major championships were effectively out of his league as a solo act, even if he managed to become the strongest blader in the world.
He knew the fundamentals.
A blader's skill, the quality of the Beyblade itself, and that ethereal, vague connection people called a 'bond'—that was the holy trinity of power.
But there was a wall.
A thick, stubborn barrier that most solo bladers hit: the requirement of team spirit.
Even legends like Tyson and Daichi had been forced to pair up because of tournament regulations.
Zevion had watched the shows, seen the battles, and yet, the core concept of 'teamwork' still felt like a foreign language to him.
He understood the surface-level benefits—it helped with character development, and if you choked during a match, a teammate could theoretically pick up your slack.
But was that it?
If G-Revolution emphasized teamwork so much, he thought, narrowing his eyes, then it must be more than just a safety net.
There's some tactical or spiritual resonance I'm missing.
But the 'why' of a team was secondary to the 'who.'
If he wanted to climb the ranks, he needed a partner who wasn't just dead weight.
He needed a guaranteed win.
Someone who could hold the line while he handled his own business.
His eyes drifted to Valt Aoi, who was currently vibrating with unspent energy a few feet away.
Zevion suppressed a groan.
Valt was... Valt.
He was passionate, sure, but he wasn't the rock-solid pillar of reliability Zevion needed for a second-slot victory.
I can't just join a random team either, Zevion mused.
They'd be skeptical of a newcomer, and I'd be under their thumb.
He needed someone close.
Someone elite.
Someone who was at least friendly enough not to sabotage the locker room atmosphere.
His mind immediately landed on a single name: Shu Kurenai.
One of the Supreme Four.
A top-tier talent in all of Japan.
While Shu might still have mountains to climb on the world stage, his reputation in Japan was ironclad.
With Shu on the roster, the team would have instant credibility and a terrifying win rate.
If I have Shu, Zevion thought with a calculated smirk, I have a path to the top.
I can earn enough fame to be recognized and be a part of the world's strongest team later.
Making the world championship as good as won.
Then I'm set.
He took a deep breath, smoothing out the frown on his face, and turned his attention back to the blue-haired boy waiting for his answer.
"Sure," Zevion said, his voice level and cool.
"I will join your club—"
He didn't even get the word 'but' out before Valt erupted.
"HELL YEAH!"
Valt screamed, leaping into the air with a fist-pump that nearly knocked his own headband off.
"Finally! You joined! We're gonna be the strongest, Zev! Mark my words! We're going to the top!"
Zevion's eye twitched.
The sheer volume of Valt's excitement felt like a physical assault on his eardrums.
He felt a headache blooming behind his eyes.
"Listen to me first, you three-braincells creature!"
Zevion snapped, waving a hand to get Valt to pipe down.
"I can practically hear your brain cells fighting for third place in there. I said I'd join, but I have a condition."
Valt froze mid-hop, his expression shifting from pure euphoria to intense, wide-eyed confusion.
"Condition? What kind of condition? Do you want more bread? My mom makes great bread!"
Zevion sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to deflate his entire chest.
"No, not bread. Just make sure Shu joins the club. If he's in, I'm in. That's the deal."
Valt beamed, his confidence returning instantly.
He gave a thumbs-up so energetic it looked like it might snap his wrist.
"Don't worry about it! Leave it to me! Consider yourself an official member already! Shu's my best friend—he'll definitely say yes!"
Zevion slumped back onto the bench, the brief conversation leaving him more exhausted than a hundred practice launches that he had never done yet.
"By the way... how many members are actually in this 'club' right now?"
Valt grinned widely and held up two fingers in a classic victory sign.
Zevion blinked, waiting for the rest of the sentence.
"Currently, there are two members!" Valt chirped.
Zevion stared at him, his face a mask of disbelief.
"Please... please tell me you mean two more members besides us."
"Nope!" Valt laughed, rubbing the back of his head.
"Just you and me! Two members! But don't worry, I'll get the others! It'll be a full house before you know it!"
Zevion covered his face with his hands.
"Just go, Valt. Go and recruit. I'm... I'm exhausted from training. I need to recover."
It was a lie, delivered with the smooth, practiced ease of someone who just wanted to be left alone.
He couldn't deal with the happy-go-lucky energy anymore.
"You got it! Rest up, partner!"
Valt shouted as he sprinted away, his footsteps echoing against the pavement until silence finally reclaimed the park.
Zevion let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for an hour.
The silence was blissful.
He watched a bird land on a nearby branch, feeling his internal temperature finally begin to drop.
It was fine.
He didn't have to do the recruiting; that was Valt's problem now.
"So..." Zevion murmured, his gaze shifting.
"What was I talking about before I was interrupted?"
He racked his brain, digging through the layers of Beyblade strategy and team politics.
"Yeah. Talking with girls."
He paused, testing the words out loud.
"Why does it suddenly sound normal when I say it like that? 'Talking with girls.' Was I overthinking it? No... wait."
His brow furrowed.
"It wasn't talking. It was dating. Yeah. That."
The familiar, prickly sense of social awkwardness rushed back into his chest like a cold tide.
The "weirdness," as he called it, was back in full force.
He shifted his position, lying flat on the bench and staring up at the canopy of leaves overhead.
"So, how do I actually do it?" he asked.
He wasn't talking to the trees.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Beyblade, holding it up so the light caught the intricate designs on its surface.
Apeiron Sof.
It was the only thing he felt was sentient enough to truly understand the depths of his mind.
Besides, Apeiron Sof carried a "curse"—anyone else who touched it risked madness or worse.
It was the perfect confidant; it couldn't betray his secrets because no one else could get close enough to hear them.
Or so he thought.
From the perspective of a passerby, Zevion was just a teenage boy lying on a park bench, whispering intensely to a piece of plastic and metal.
A couple walking their dog gave him a wide berth, the woman whispering something about "delusions" to her husband.
Zevion, lost in his own world, noticed nothing.
Ignorance, in this case, was his only shield and a true bliss.
Zevion sat upright on the bench, his fingers tracing the cold, jagged edges of his Beyblade.
The park had grown quieter, the distant sounds of city traffic replaced by the rhythmic chirping of evening crickets.
He held the blade up to eye level, the metal reflecting the faint purple hues of the twilight sky.
"Say, should I just try to do a pseudo-date with a cute girl?"
Zevion asked, his voice dropping into a tone of dead seriousness.
Almost on cue, a faint, low-frequency hum emanated from the core of Apeiron Sof.
Now, to be clear, Zevion didn't actually understand the "meaning" behind that hum.
He wasn't that far gone yet; he was still grounded enough to be considered "relatively stable" rather than "mentally ill."
But in the theater of his own mind, that vibration was a dialogue.
"Hm? What's that? You don't know what a pseudo-date is?"
Zevion asked, tilting his head as if responding to a confused look.
How did he manage to carry on a full conversation with a piece of metal, you ask?
Simple.
Zevion was masterfully maintaining an illusion of communication.
He was essentially talking to himself, using Apeiron Sof as a sounding board, and then convincing himself that the Beyblade was the one leading the discussion.
"Well," Zevion began, leaning back and crossing his legs, "a pseudo-date is a date where you go on something that looks like a date, but it isn't actually a date. You know, like going to watch a movie, or hitting the shops, or just hanging out together—all without the heavy pressure of making it official. By the way, I made that word up myself. Isn't it cool?"
He smiled, genuinely convinced that inventing his own terminology was the height of sophistication.
But even a delusional mind has its limits.
Zevion knew that if he didn't actively pull the Beyblade into the conversation, the fragile illusion of their "bond" might shatter.
"Hey, are you even listening?" he nudged the blade.
"Hum once for a yes, and twice for a no."
Now, if you were under the impression that Zevion was the only problem child here, you'd be mistaken.
Apeiron Sof was just as much of a handful.
While Zevion was an adult mind trapped in a youth's body—acting like a child nonetheless—the Beyblade possessed a cold, ancient awareness like a child.
Apeiron Sof knew perfectly well that Zevion couldn't actually understand its language.
It didn't hate the boy; in fact, it actually liked him, but it certainly didn't care for his trivial romantic anxieties.
It would much rather have Zevion discussing grand strategies for world domination or plans to crush his enemies into the dirt.
A "lovelife improvement plan" was, frankly, beneath its dignity.
But, seeing as it was stuck in Zevion's pocket, it had to endure the boring chatter.
Apeiron Sof gave a single, bored hum.
"Great! You're with me," Zevion chirped.
"So? Should I just go for it? Try a pseudo-date with some random cute girl?"
Within the dark depths of the Beyblade's consciousness, a spark of malicious intent flickered.
Apeiron Sof fell silent for a full minute, contemplating the possibilities.
It realized this might actually be a golden opportunity.
If Zevion went out and got rejected by multiple girls—which seemed highly likely—his heart would eventually harden.
He might start thinking about inflicting that same pain on others.
He might realize that if he simply conquered the world, he wouldn't need to ask for permission; he could forcefully take whatever he desired, girls included.
Yes, the Beyblade schemed; this path leads directly to his evolution as a conqueror.
Apeiron Sof let out a final, single, resonant hum of approval.
It didn't even consider the possibility of a girl actually liking Zevion—that was an outcome so statistically improbable it wasn't worth calculating.
And Zevion himself was already operating on the assumption that he would likely be rejected, which would make it take even more time.
It was a perfect storm; a few failures, and his transition into a world-dominating tyrant would be inevitable.
"Alright! It's settled!"
Zevion shouted, jumping to his feet with renewed vigor.
He was completely unaware of the dark scheming occurring within his own palm.
"A random cute girl for a pseudo-date! Today, I start a brand new page of my life!"
He took one confident step toward the exit of the park, then suddenly froze.
His shoulders slumped, and the fire in his eyes dimmed to a flicker of pure panic.
"But seriously... how do I even go about asking a girl out?"
The grand "new page" of his life had been written, but he realized he didn't even know how to hold the pen.
His romantic journey had effectively ended before it had even begun.
Apeiron Sof realized with a sinking sense of irony that its grand master plan for world conquest might actually fail before it even started.
After all, how could Zevion ever reach the stage of being rejected by girls many times—let alone conquering the world to spite them—if he couldn't even summon the courage to find one to talk to in the first place?
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