A/N: Chapter 12 has been updated!
CHAPTER #33
Climb out or stay buried
His heartbeat pounded in his ears, louder than the crowd, louder than the wind. Dragoon circled the dish, its movements sharp but just a fraction slower than they should've been. Tyson could feel it, the slight hesitation, the way his focus flickered.
Robert, of course, had no such problem.
Griffolyon was cutting through the stadium lights as it weaved effortlessly between Dragoon's attacks. Robert hadn't even moved from his spot, stood tall, looking proud, not a trace of effort on his face. He was biding his time, watching, waiting—predicting.
And Tyson was giving him exactly what he wanted.
'Damn it,' Tyson gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. He pushed Dragoon forward, forcing an attack—too direct, too obvious.
Robert saw it instantly.
"Griffolyon!" His voice rang out, commanding. The bey shifted, tilting just slightly, catching Dragoon's force and redirecting it—sending it hurtling into the dish's wall.
Tyson cursed under his breath.
A low chuckle echoed across the stadium. "What's wrong, Tyson?" Robert's voice was maddeningly calm, mocking. "Feeling pressured?"
Tyson's clenched fists tightened. "Shut up."
Robert hummed, a slow, deliberate sound. "Maybe your title of world champion was nothing more than a series of lucky accidents after all."
Tyson snapped.
Dragoon surged forward, a streak of white lightning slamming toward Griffolyon—reckless, desperate.
Robert didn't even flinch. Griffolyon deflected the attack with ease, sending Dragoon skidding backward, barely keeping its balance.
Tyson sucked in a breath. He knew this wasn't working. His moves were sloppy, uncalculated, playing right into Robert's hands. But no matter how hard he tried to shake it, his mind kept drifting back—to the locker room, to Kai, to the team that felt like it was falling apart right in front of him…
oOo
"Alright, we need to decide who's taking the advantage battle."
"Anyone but Kai."
"If you have a problem, just say it, Tyson."
"Nah, I just want someone who can actually win."
"So, not you then. Max, guess it's finally your time to shine."
"Yeah! You can count on me, Captain!"
"What did you just say, Kai?! You really think I can't win the advantage for the team?"
"I could ask the same question. I haven't lost a single battle this tournament."
"Yeah, but the team already agreed to bench you for the semis. You're in no shape to battle, man. So sit back, rest, and let us handle it."
"Actually, Ty, we didn't agree on anything."
"You don't get to boss me around. You can't just wake up one day and decide you bench me."
"Uh…We kinda do. Majority vote, buddy!"
"We didn't even vote…"
"Are you pissed, Tyson, because the world doesn't spin around you for five seconds? Or is there an actual point in all this?"
"Oh Kai, please—like you even listen anymore. I said I wanna win!"
"It's not me who stopped listening. I just said I've won all my battles this tournament so far. You think you better than me?"
"Actually, I'm the best—and I don't just say it, I proved it. When you all scattered to different teams, hoping you'd have a better shot to beat me and all came at me as rivals—you still lost! I defended my title. Me! Alone!"
"We're getting way off topic, Tyson. We're supposed to decide who's fighting for the advantage."
"Be patient, Ray. Tyson's busy throwing a tantrum like a six-year-old."
"Ha-ha, real funny, Kai! You weren't laughing, though, when you hit the dirt and stayed down—beaten. You're not the best. Never were. Even when you gave it everything you had, it was only good enough for second place. That's where you belong—behind me."
"Guys. Can we just make a decision without you two trying to kill each other all the time?"
"Sure, Chief! Since I've been the reigning champ for three years, I say I'm the one who's gonna fight for the advantage!"
oOo
And now, here he was. Fighting for the advantage – or more likely losing it, as it looked like.
Another blow.
Dragoon slammed against the edge of the dish, metal screeching, sparks dancing like fireflies. Tyson's bey wobbled, barely holding formation. Its energy was dropping fast.
The crowd roared—but it was just noise. Muffled. Distant.
His thoughts were louder.
This wasn't how a champion fought. This wasn't how he fought.
Tyson had made a mistake. He'd stepped into the arena thinking this battle would burn away the chaos in his head. That the adrenaline would drown the noise, that he could fight his way back into clarity. That winning would silence the voices.
But he'd brought all the chaos with him. He wasn't fighting the match—he was dragging himself through it.
And if he didn't pull himself together now, he'd lose. Not just the round, but the advantage and the faith his team had in him.
A voice from behind snapped at him. "What's wrong, Tyson?"
He glanced over his shoulder. The Chief stood at the edge of the platform, tense and pale, his voice both reproachful and pleading.
"Wake up, please, or we'll lose the advantage!"
"Yeah, dude! If you weren't gonna let me battle, the least you can do is actually fight!" Max shouted, frustration cutting through his usual cheer.
"Pull yourself together, Tyson! Come on, you can do it!" Hilary encouraged him.
Somehow, even Ray's wise advice sounded like a reprimand. "Put away your emotions, Tyson. You'll deal with them later – at the proper time. Focus on the battle! We need that advantage!"
As Tyson's gaze traveled further across the arena, it inevitably landed on the last teammate—the one who had triggered this entire storm now raging in his chest. Kai stood motionless, arms crossed, and returned Tyson's look with the same cold, indifferent expression he always wore. Yet Tyson felt as if Kai had shouted every accusation without uttering a single word. There was something unbearably provoking about how Kai's emotionless mask could convey such hostility, such infuriating smugness—as if every struggle Tyson now faced was both predictable and justified in Kai's eyes.
After a beat, Kai finally offered his own piece of wisdom:
"You dug this hole yourself, Tyson. Better climb out—unless you want to stay buried."
Tyson gritted his teeth and whirled back to the battle with a sharp movement.
The dispute, of course, didn't remain unnoticed before Robert.
"I was under the impression the Bladebreakers embodied teamwork," he said, his voice smooth and articulate, like someone reading from a stage. "Though perhaps that was merely a pretty illusion you presented to the world."
Tyson's whole body tensed. The words sank into him like hooks, dragging out every buried doubt and insecurity.
"Tch," Tyson let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "And what, the Majestics are better? Please. Even if we're a mess, you guys wouldn't last five seconds against us in real teamwork."
Robert's smirk deepened, like a nobleman amused by a peasant's tantrum. "Is that so?"
Tyson's response came as a powerful strike from Dragoon, sending Gryffolyon stumbling before it recoiled across the dish.
Robert remained unfazed. "Let's put that theory to the test, shall we?"
Tyson narrowed his eyes. "What?"
Robert lifted his chin slightly, like a king making an announcement to his court. "Let's raise the stakes." His voice was perfectly measured, cool and confident. "A double battle in the next round."
Tyson's eyebrows shot up in surprise. The Majestics, in a tag-team match? It sounded absurd—almost laughable. Everyone knew teamwork was the Achilles' heel of Robert's crew. On the other hand, the Bladebreakers had battled countless times in tag matches, their synergy well-practiced. Tyson's initial instinct was that Robert had just handed him a golden opportunity, yet a warning sensation nagged at the back of his mind.
Robert wouldn't willingly offer up such a disadvantage to his own team in the middle of the semi-finals.
Tyson narrowed his eyes suspiciously, Dragoon and Gryffolyon still locked in a fierce chase inside the dish.
"Where's the trap?" he shot back.
"Trap? There's no trap." Robert's smirk sharpened into something dangerous. "Though the winner of this match gets to choose who fights in the tag match—from the opposing team, of course. And they'll only have to announce it right before the battle."
"Don't accept it, Tyson!" Kenny shouted immediately, his voice strained with panic.
Tyson laughed at the German with disbelieve. "You think I'm stupid enough to fall for something like that? There's way too much risk, man."
"Oh?" Robert's mocking tone deepened, dripping with aristocratic disdain. "I had no idea that a champion of your supposed caliber would resort to caution. But perhaps, given the constant childish squabbles and tantrums among your teammates, your hesitation is justified. After all, I wouldn't take such a gamble either if my team was constantly on the verge of collapsing."
Tyson's jaw clenched, teeth grinding painfully as he fought the surge of anger Robert had deliberately ignited within him. He knew he was being baited. Every rational thought warned him not to fall for it. And yet, the burning desire to prove Robert wrong—to prove Kai and the rest of them wrong—was nearly overwhelming.
"Your team's famous for having zero chemistry," Tyson fired back. "Why would you ever willingly suggest a tag battle with us?"
Robert's smirk faded, replaced by a look of serious determination that was no less superior. His voice remained calm, composed, each word elegantly spoken, yet sharpened by undeniable resolve and pride.
"The reason is simple. I intend to show everyone that the Majestics are more than just powerful individuals. We're formidable as a unit, too."
Tyson hesitated again, his heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears, mixing with the cheers of the audience. He was caught between caution and the powerful urge to silence Robert's condescending voice once and for all. He knew better than this. He knew this was reckless. But Robert had made it personal—and Tyson had never been good at walking away from a challenge.
"Frankly, Tyson, if this straightforward offer requires such lengthy consideration, perhaps I've directed my question at the wrong person." Robert sighed dramatically, as though mildly inconvenienced. "Clearly, quick and insightful decision-making is better left to someone more…competent. Perhaps I should simply take this matter to your captain. I'm certain Kai'd recognize an opportunity without childish emotions clouding his judgement."
Tyson's fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened, the muscles in his jaw tightening until they ached. All rational thought evaporated under the heat of Robert's condescending words, replaced only by the overwhelming urge to prove him wrong—to prove everyone wrong, especially Kai.
"You don't need to talk to Kai," Tyson snapped, his every word vibrated with intensity. "You've got your answer right here. I accept your stupid challenge—let's see if your precious Majestics can even last five minutes against us."
He felt reckless saying it, felt the impulse driving him forward without control, but the need to silence Robert's smug superiority was stronger than anything else. Tyson knew he was stepping directly into a trap—but at this moment, pride demanded he march straight into it.
The words had barely left his mouth before his teammates' reactions hit him from behind.
"Nooo! Are you out of your mind?!" Kenny practically shouted, voice shrill and trembling with disbelief. "I warned you not to accept!"
"You had no right to make that decision alone, Tyson," Ray added sharply, disappointment clear in his normally calm voice.
"You've just handed Robert exactly what he wanted!" Hilary yelled, as well. "Come on, Tyson! Why can't you just listen to us for once?!"
Tyson refused to look back. He could already imagine their expressions too vividly—the anger, the disappointment, Kai's silent judgment. If he turned around now, he'd lose the little concentration he'd just regained.
"Just drop it, okay?" Tyson growled through gritted teeth, desperately trying to push aside the storm still raging inside him. "I know what I'm doing."
He did not have the slightest clue what he was doing.
He'd acted impulsively, driven by pride, emotion, and sheer stubbornness. Now, his only hope was to refocus his full attention back onto the battle before it slipped entirely from his grasp.
Taking a deep breath, Tyson forced his gaze onto the dish again—but he was too late.
In the precious moments he'd wasted arguing with Robert, Gryffolyon had been gathering momentum, swiftly circling the arena like a predator awaiting the perfect moment to strike. Tyson felt a sudden chill race down his spine.
"Dragoon, watch out—!" he shouted, panic slicing through his voice.
But Robert seized the opportunity, his voice sharp with finality. "Now, Gryffolyon! Finish this!"
Before Tyson could fully react, Gryffolyon surged forward, slamming violently into Dragoon with brutal precision. A sharp, metallic crash echoed throughout the stadium as Dragoon spiraled uncontrollably upward, then plummeted helplessly into the dish, energy completely spent.
For a moment, Tyson could only stare, stunned into silence, heart hammering painfully against his ribs.
"The advantage goes to—Robert! Yes, you heard that right—Robert of the Majestics snatches the victory from the World Champion himself!" Jazzman declared loudly, his voice booming above the cheering and murmuring crowd.
Tyson stood frozen, fists trembling slightly at his sides, mind blank with disbelief. He'd lost—lost because he'd let his pride and anger cloud his judgment, exactly as everyone had warned him he would. He'd given away the advantage, proved Robert right and worse—failed his team.
Behind him, Tyson felt the accusing, disappointed stares of his teammates burning into his back. And among them, one presence weighed heavier than all the rest.
Kai hadn't said a word—but the raging fire blazing behind his crimson eyes told Tyson everything.
oOoOo
The corridor bustled with staff members, competitors, and team managers as Boris made his way toward the arena. As always, Tala led the group, Boris at his side, with Sergei and Alexa following behind.
The weight of the impending semifinals pressed heavily on Boris's shoulders. The battle for the advantage against Justice-5 would begin shortly—especially tense now, after the Bladebreakers had shockingly lost their own advantage match to the Majestics. It was a twist no one had seen coming. To mask his nerves, Boris did his best to feign boredom.
Neither of them spoke much—there was nothing to say. They all knew what was coming, and there was no room for distraction.
That was, until some idiot decided to interrupt them.
"Alexa! Hey, got a minute?"
Boris barely spared the voice a glance at first, assuming it was some overeager fan or a reporter trying to get a last-minute quote. But when Alex slowed her pace, turning toward the source, the team automatically did the same, already sizing up the newcomer.
One of the Majestics. Arrogant. Brash. Mildly punchable.
"Haven't seen you since the party," Johnny said with a toothy grin, eyes scanning Alexa with an expression Boris didn't like.
Tala, not even turning around fully, called over his shoulder, flat as a slap, "Our match is about to start. Your timing couldn't be worse, MacGyver."
"It's McGregor," Johnny snapped, throwing Tala a withering look. "You look like a bloody walking torch, but you've still got the charm of a cave wall."
Correction. Severely punchable.
Boris closed the distance in an instant, looming over the little pest with a towering presence. The Scottish accent was too thick for his ears, but Johnny's tone made the meaning perfectly clear.
"Didn't quite catch your yappy little insult, pup." he challenged him in a dangerously low tone, face shadowed with barely restrained menace. "Sound travels differently up here, y'know."
Johnny bared his teeth—clearly not thrilled about having the height difference rubbed in. Boris noted, with a flicker of petty satisfaction, that the noble bastard was even shorter than Alexa Just a few centimeters, no biggie, but noticeable all the same.
As if reading his thoughts, a bored, contemptuous sneer curled on Tala's lips.
"Careful, MacGyver. People might step on you if you're always underfoot barking."
Sergei scoffed, and Tala silently commanded his team to follow him. But Johnny was persistent and grabbed Alex's hand.
"Just one minute – I'll be quick!"
Alex swatted his hand away without hesitation, and Boris lingered behind, close enough to hear everything—and close enough to intervene if needed.
"What do you want?" Understandably, Alex's tone was not kind.
"Why don't you braid your hair anymore?" Johnny said absently, staring at the plain blonde ponytail swinging behind her. "You looked bonnie with braids.
Alex narrowed her eye.
"You stopped me to talk about my hair? Seriously?"
Johnny cleared his throat, visibly attempting to appear casual as he straightened his posture.
"Look, I just thought you might fancy grabbing a drink after the match. I happen to know a pretty classy spot—way better than what you're probably used to."
Alex folded her arms, bristling at both the offer and the condescension, suspicion plain on her face.
"A drink? With you? After you've been nothing but a complete jerk to me?"
Johnny scoffed. "Oh, come on. You're acting like I'm beneath you. No offense, but given your… modest background, I'd say being asked out by someone like me's a step up. From the way I saw it, you enjoyed my company at the party."
Boris's interest piqued at that, his gaze flicking between them with newfound amusement.
"Enjoyed your company how, exactly?" Alex grumbled after an uncomfortable pause in the conversation.
"Oh, for—" Johnny groaned. "Drop the innocent act and stop pretending you don't remember."
Alex's response was only a deepened furrow.
Johnny sighed with exaggerated patience, though a hint of genuine frustration crept into his voice.
"We bumped into each other on the dancefloor. You liked my jacket—I lent it to you, you made some comment about looking 'dangerously cool', whatever the hell that meant, and I generously assured you that you looked badass either way, then you—"
The sentence was cut off by Alex's quiet but sharp gasp as she stared with wide eye at Johnny in bewildered realization. Her disbelief quickly melted into awkward understanding, a faint flinch briefly visible on her face.
A harsh, mocking cackle burst out of Boris, cutting through the uncomfortable silence. The unexpected twist was simply too good to pass up.
Johnny turned abruptly, his cheeks reddening further at the realization that they'd been overheard.
"What the fuck's so funny?"
"Oh, this is priceless," Boris snickered, stepping closer with lazy menace, a wide, malicious grin stretching across his face. "So, you're the guy?"
He turned to Alex, "Now I get why you looked ready to hurl for a second time that night."
"You're really not helping." She growled, her expression could've incinerated him on the spot.
"Who said I was tryin'?"
Johnny's gaze flicked between them, alarmed, accusatory. Finally, he focused on Alex.
"What's he talkin' about?" he demanded.
"Ow, look at 'im. All flustered." Boris was bathing in Johnny's discomfort, then briefly turned to Alex again. "He'll be cryin' into his Gucci sheets tonight, thanks to you."
He sniggered, and Boris could've sworn there was the faintest tremble at the corner of Alex's mouth. Johnny's face, however, flushed a deep crimson, like someone had flipped a switch in his bloodstream. His jaw clenched, the vein in his temple visibly pulsing.
"Why don't you keep your fuckin' nose outta things that don't concern you, Red Square? Go crawl back to whatever frozen shithole spat you out!"
But Boris was not intimidated. The opposite. He slang a casual arm around his teammate's shoulders, laughter bubbling in his throat as he goaded.
"Tell him, Alex. Come on—tell him 'bout that tongue work."
"Stop being a jerk." Alex warned, slamming her knuckles into his ribs.
Boris recoiled with a surprised grunt, rubbing at the spot. It didn't stop him, though. Hell no. He was having way too much fun at Johnny fucking McGregor's expense.
"Tell me, Johnny — you always kiss like that, or was that your first time not usin' a mirror? If that's how royalty kisses, no wonder all the noble lines are dyin' out."
"You feral little gutter-rat," Johnny spat, taking a sharp step toward Boris, rolling up his sleeve with a swift move on his arm. "Say one more fucking word and I'll cave your goddamn skull in so hard they'll have to spoon-feed you for life!"
Boris raised his brows, visibly amused, but didn't back down an inch. If anything, he looked even more entertained.
"Cool, cool," he said lightly. "Just—please—don't kiss me. I might end up with PTSD, like Alex."
Johnny lunged.
Alexa moved in a single, fluid step, her hand snapping out and grabbing Johnny's wrist. With one swift twist, she spun his arm behind his back, forcing him off balance. Johnny let out a surprised hiss, frozen mid-motion, not in pain—but clearly, completely disarmed. Boris watched his struggles with a grin of amusement, hands in the pockets, completely unfazed.
"What the fuck—?" Johnny spat, but didn't fight it. He couldn't.
"Stop it." Alex's voice was deep and unshaking.
She let him go a second later, and Johnny stumbled back, massaging his shoulder, eyes wide with disbelief. He looked more stunned by her than anything Boris had said.
Boris, of course, lost it.
"Holy shit, McGregor, you just got manhandled by a girl," he howled. "Granted, she ain't your average chick... but still—wanna borrow a spine to go with that jacket next time?"
He let the pause simmer, then added with a wicked grin,
"Oh, and a heads-up? Might wanna wash that fancy-ass handkerchief. She used it after pukin' her guts out all over Dubai."
"Are you still here, Kuznetsov?" Alex barked, running out of patience. "Fuck. Off."
While part of him was tempted to keep pushing, Boris finally backed off half a step, hands lifted in mock surrender. He winked at Johnny, whose jaw twitched in restrained fury.
Boris turned his back and started leisurely pacing away from the odd pair with his usual swagger and a smug little hum in his throat.
"Forget the bloody offer," Boris heard Johnny's mutter, his tone tight with wounded pride. "Just gimme my bloody jacket."
Boris heard no response. Only footsteps as the Majestics member strode away.
Alex caught up with him a moment later, walking beside him in irritated silence.
Boris glanced sideways with a smirk.
"Seriously? McGregor?" he said, voice thick with mockery. "How wasted were you? Oh wait—don't answer. I actually do know."
"Give me a break, Kuznetsov," Alex grumbled, then shifted into a more casual tone. "Look, despite being a total ass—and short,"
Boris snorted at that, unable to help himself.
"What's really wrong with him? He's arrogant, dangerous, and hot. What more could a girl want?"
Boris blinked, then raised a skeptical brow.
He clearly had no idea if Johnny Fucking McGregor qualified as hot.
"He was talkin' down to you."
"He was also nice to me," Alex shrugged. "And he's got that bad boy vibe."
Boris scoffed, his voice low and cutting. "You call that a bad boy? Pfft. That's a leash-wearing toy. Real bad boys don't need to prove they're dangerous."
She rolled her eye at his macho speech.
"Could've at least told him he kisses like shit. Now the poor bastard's gonna live thinkin' he's Casanova. You cruel bitch."
Alex breathed a laugh, then suddenly, her expression hardened like a diamond.
"Kuznetsov. If you so much as breathe another syllable about that disgusting kiss, I will tie your intestines into a friendship bracelet and gift it to your mother at your funeral. You got me?"
Boris grinned, wide and sharp.
Friendship bracelet. Huh.
He was never going to hear the word the same way again.
"I'm just sayin'—feedback's important." He snorted before he added, "Pretty sure my mom's dead already, by the way."
Alex waved a hand dismissively. "Then I'll give it to the captain. You two are practically glued together anyway."
They kept walking in sync, the sound of the arena swelling just ahead, echoing down the corridor where their team was already waiting.
"That little punk was full of crap. Still… gotta admit," Boris muttered without looking at her, hands deep in his pockets. "He wasn't wrong 'bout the braid."
Alex glanced sideways at him, one brow arching—half skeptical, half something else. But then, without a word, she came to a sudden halt. Boris stopped too, more out of instinct than choice, shooting her a sidelong glance.
Shit. Did he cross a line? Was the braid comment too much?
Jesus. She thinks I'm hittin' on her, doesn't she? Fuckin' hell, he furrowed his brows.
He hadn't even meant it like that.
"You have to win this one, Kuznetsov. At all cost."
Boris blinked. "Huh?"
Her voice was low, clipped. No sass. No sting. She looked like someone who'd just been told bad news and couldn't say it out loud.
Not 'try'. Not 'do your best'. Not 'don't screw up'.
Just – win.
"Ah. Right. That option. Forgot it existed." His voice was dry, sarcastic—but it didn't quite land.
"I'm serious, Kuznetsov," she snapped, sharper this time, like she needed him to get it. "You have to win this advantage."
He clicked his tongue and smirked, trying to shake off the weight of the moment.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry. I gotcha."
Alex didn't smile back.
Boris held her gaze for a beat too long—then looked away like it burned. He turned on his heel, and walked off with heavy-shouldered strut to join Sergei and Tala who were already waiting for them.
"What did the little brat want?" Tala asked incidentally, his voice clipped and tense, mind clearly focused on the team's upcoming battle.
"He came flirtin'," Boris said with a derisive grin while Alex caught up with the team. "Left with his arm twisted like a pretzel when Alex wasn't interested. Romantic, huh?"
Sergei snorted.
"He was an ass," she muttered in her defense.
"Ain't sayin' he didn't deserve it."
"Good," Tala said offhandedly and closed the conversation. "Let's move."
With that, the air shifted. Humor gone. No more distractions.
The four of them marched out into the arena, where Jazzman already stood waiting, mic in his hand, and the crowd roared with the usual electric energy. Cheers rose like thunder, but none of it touched the tension simmering beneath the Blitzkriegs' surface.
The Justice-5 entered the arena just as the Blitzkriegs were taking their positions. They stood across from each other on the wide stadium floor, tension crackling in the space between them like a storm barely held back.
Smug grins met cold stares.
The crowd roared overhead, but the noise seemed distant—muted beneath the silent standoff playing out on the ground.
Boris cracked his neck as he stepped up to the dish after Tala had offered a few brief, clipped words—nothing more than a nod to strategy. Sergei's pat on the back had been firm, but lacked warmth. It was all mechanical, as if none of them dared to let emotion interfere. Boris fed off the silence. Let the tension fuel him.
He was ready.
He was Boris.
The Lethal Archangel of Volkov Abbey.
The boy who turned obedience into power and pain into control. Falborg was with him. And they would remind the world what it meant to fight with brutal precision and unshakable will.
"Laaaaaadies and gentlemen!" Jazzman's voice boomed through the arena, echoing off the walls like a siren before a storm. "You've been waitin' for this one! History, pride, and raw power collide in this match for the advantage!"
Boris exhaled slowly through his nose, boots planted on the stadium floor like he was trying to anchor himself. He didn't look at the crowd—too loud, too bright, too expectant.
"On my right, representing the Blitzkriegs—he's one of the most ruthless bladers in the game, a boy raised in the frost of Volkov Abbey, with a beast that strikes like a shadow and moves like a bullet. Give it up for—BORIS!"
The arena roared. Boris didn't flinch. He didn't wave. He wasn't here to smile.
"And on my left…" Jazzman's voice dropped lower, adding weight. "He's the prodigy who redefined the laws of physics, the boy who moves like space bends for him. The most talented competitor of the sport—BROOKLYN FROM JUSTICE-5!"
Boris's eye twitched. Just slightly. The cheers were louder for his opponent. As expected.
Brooklyn stepped up to the dish, all maddening serenity and that infuriating, vacant smile—like he'd already won, like this was all just a formality.
He hated that smile.
He didn't want to wipe it off—he wanted to carve it wider, from ear to ear, with something sharp and merciless. That face belonged to a freak—a puppet of some sick, parasitic force that fed on darkness and spat back brilliance.
"And let's not forget the stakes, guys!" Jazzman pressed on, "Last year, the Justice-5 delivered one of the most brutal defeats we've seen in beyblade history, knocking the Blitzkriegs out with barely a scratch on 'em. Some said it was over before it started. Some said they never stood a chance."
The words sliced deeper than Boris wanted to admit. He could feel the tension behind him—Sergei standing still as stone. Tala's silence like ice.
It was just as Alex had told him.
He had to win this one.
"But this year, things are different." Jazzman's voice was electric now, riding the waves of anticipation. "This year, Boris steps into the ring not just to win the advantage—but to rewrite that history. The Blitzkriegs want blood."
The crowd erupted—cheers and screams crashing through the air like a tidal wave. It was almost deafening.
"...Can't wait to taste it." Boris uttered darkly, loading his launcher.
He exhaled and felt Falborg stir inside him like a caged animal that was ready to tear through steel.
Let Brooklyn bend space all he wants.
Boris was here to break it.
Jazzman began the countdown, and the battle was on. Boris let Falborg loose with unrelenting force, refusing to give his opponent even a second to build momentum for a counterattack.
Boris pushed hard. Gritted his teeth. Shoved every ounce of force he had into the launch.
He had to win. Had to crush Brooklyn before the whole match twisted out of reach. But Falborg was surging—faster, wilder, hungrier than he'd felt in a long time.
Too wild.
And even as he fought to stay ahead, part of him was already pulling back, clenching the leash tighter, unwilling to let the falcon fully loose.
…
He lost.
He lost the battle. And with that, the team lost the advantage.
Boris stepped down from the podium, the rush of adrenaline replaced by a suffocating weight in his chest. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and the clothes clung uncomfortably to his back. His breathing was ragged, like his heart hadn't registered that the battle was over.
Brooklyn had outmaneuvered him. He knew it. But that didn't make the bitter taste of failure any easier to swallow.
His team waited by the bench, though none of them was sitting, while Jazzman reminded them and the Bladebreakers that the losing team had to declare their lineup in advance for the semi-finals matches. None of his teammates said a word. Tala's expression was unreadable, Sergei's face closed off. Only one look cut through him—the blazing green eye that burned with restrained fury.
Boris avoided it.
"That was a tough battle," Tala said curtly, rather to himself than to Boris. "Let's go inside."
The team fell in line, leaving the arena in grim, loaded silence.
Boris couldn't decide what bothered him more—their easy acceptance of the loss, or the fact that none of them had chewed him out on the spot.
"Go ahead. I'll join you shortly," Tala ordered on the corridor before taking off in a different direction, and they did as they were told, filing into the locker room like shadows.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them–
"What the fuck was that, Kuznetsov?!"
Alex's voice was sharp as a blade, cutting through the heavy silence. Boris raised his brows, slid his hands into his pockets and stared back at her, stone-faced.
He tolerated criticism from only one person—and she wasn't it.
"What's yo' problem?"
"You weren't fighting to win!" she barked, pointing a finger at him like she meant to drive it through his chest. "You held back Falborg's power! Why?!"
His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening at the accusation.
"No idea what you're talkin' about," Boris growled back, his voice low but holding a dangerous edge. "I fought with my best."
Alex scoffed, a bitter, disbelieving laugh escaping her. "Your best? That was your best? Are you fucking kidding me, Kuznetsov?! If that was really your best, Falborg wouldn't still be with you. You don't deserve his faith!"
"I don't give a shit what you think I 'deserve.' You're not Falborg, and you sure as hell ain't me. If you wanna push me, then pray someone's around to pull me off you." Boris snarled. "So do yourself a favor and shut the fuck up while you still can."
"Want me to braid my hair while you pretend to be scary?" She quipped back dryly.
Something strange stirred in Boris—bewilderment mixed with his boiling anger. People didn't react like this to him. They usually tucked their tails and backed away, eyes wide with panic. Sure, every once in a while, some jackass possessing a death wish challenged him, gambling their safety against his temper—but Alex's fearless bravado was entirely different.
She showed no fear. Her stance, tone, and unwavering gaze radiated a confidence that clawed at Boris's nerves, irritating him far more than he cared to admit.
'I'm scared of you.'
Those words rang mockingly in his head. If she truly was scared, she had a funny way of showing it. Either she had lied—though why would she?—or her definition of fear was entirely alien to him.
"Looks like you found your match, bro." Sergei snorted, clearly amused by Alex's reckless insolence.
Boris acknowledged his friend's remark with an eye roll but remained silent otherwise. Keeping his temper under check took too much mental focus from him already.
Ignoring Sergei the same, Alex bared her teeth in an angry hiss, sharp and sudden, like water sizzling on hot embers. "You're scared of your own bitbeast, Kuznetsov. You're terrified of what Falborg might do if you let him off the leash. So you play it safe. You play it small. Like some fucking ordinary coward!"
The silence that followed her words was dense and choking. Words were caught in Boris's throat, trapped by disbelief and simmering rage.
"Leave the dressing-down to the captain, Alexa," Sergei intervened firmly, clearly sensing how dangerously thin Boris's patience had worn suddenly. "Tala will handle it."
"No, he needs to hear it!" she shot back, whirling on Sergei for half a second before snapping back to Boris. "I watched you pull back today. Brooklyn's strong, I know—he might've beaten you anyway. But you didn't even try to push Falborg to his limit. Tell me I'm wrong! Look me in the eye and tell me you gave it everything you had!"
"You don't know Falborg! I do!" Boris fired back, his temper seeping through the strained control. "Quit giving me bullshit lectures about how to fight with my own damn bit-beast!"
"So that's it?" her green eye scanning him from head to toe, lips twitching in disdain. "You're really going to keep living and playing like that? In fear? That's pathetic, Kuznetsov. You're pathetic!"
Boris's lip curled into a snarl. His fists were already clenched so tight, his knuckles cracked.
"You don't even belong here. You're a last-minute tagalong Tala dragged in 'cause we needed a fourth, not 'cause you're any good." he growled. "So maybe think twice before actin' like you're the spine of this team, when you're barely the filler."
He paused for a beat before tilted his head aside with a derogative grin.
"How pathetic is that?"
Alex didn't back off.
"Say whatever the hell you want," she fumed. "Mistakes or not, I'm still the best damn chance this team has at winning."
He let out a humorless cackle, shooting a glance at the suddenly somber Sergei.
"Ya hear that, mate? She's got ego, that's for damn sure."
It snapped off too fast—like a switch being flipped—and what followed was silence, heavy and wrong. His expression darkened like a curtain falling, that familiar flicker of something colder creeping into his eyes. Gone was the mockery—what remained was sharp and dangerous.
"You're a shit blader, Alex." He said roughly. "And the only thing you've proven is why I never believed girls belong in this sport in the first place."
"You forget your fucking role, Kuznetsov. How are you gonna make Tala's dream come true and win a tournament for him if you don't trust your own bitbeast?!"
Sergei moved, a warning in his voice now. "Alexa—that's enough!"
The girl didn't seem to hear him.
"You were the example of the flawless warrior I was supposed to follow! Indomitable! Dauntless! Loyal! Ferocious! Inhuman!" Her voice shook with fury as she slammed her palm violently against the lockers, the echo of metal reverberating through the room. Boris had never seen her this enraged—so alive, so unhinged.
"Where's the guy who was ready to even kill for his friend? Where's the guy who always knew how to eliminate his opponent? What's wrong with you? What happened to you?!"
Boris's vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in as Alex's furious voice twisted, distorted, and morphed into an all-too-familiar tone from his past. Volkov's harsh, contemptuous voice echoed in his ears, making Boris feel small again—insignificant and utterly powerless. He remembered how his body used to react instinctively: his breath quickening, heart hammering painfully against his ribs, every muscle tensing like a cornered animal ready to flee. That voice had always crushed his will, stripped away his defenses, and reduced him to nothing more than a trembling puppet desperate for approval.
Now, Alex's words sliced into those same wounds, and for a nauseating moment, Boris felt the same visceral dread grip him again, choking and overwhelming—
With a guttural snarl, Boris swung violently, one hand seizing the bench beside Alex and hurling it across the locker room in a blind rage. The crash was deafening as it smashed against the opposite wall.
"You ever fuckin' talk to me like that again—" Boris roared, voice raw and ragged, veins pulsing in his neck as he leaned dangerously close to her face, "and I swear I'll rip your goddamn throat out with my bare hands and shove it right down your fuckin' neck!"
A heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him short, his chest heaving violently, every muscle quivering from the desperate effort to hold back the violence his rage demanded. His fists clenched so tight, the pain of his nails biting into his palms was the only thing anchoring him from completely losing control.
"If I have to step in again," Sergei grumbled with a stern look, "so help me, I'll sit on your ribs 'til you two forget how to be angry."
The room went deathly silent after that.
Alex shifted her glare from Sergei back at Boris with her unblinking eye, standing still and rigid like a statue. And though she was definitely shaken by his rage, Boris found himself almost impressed by her composure.
Slowly – not to trigger him further – she raised a hand to her face and, with a light swipe of her fingers, wiped away the spit he'd left on her during his violent outburst.
"Sounds like a date," she muttered flatly.
The hand on Boris's shoulder tightened, a firm restraint against any sudden move.
Sergei did well—grounding him, dragging him back to a more rational edge. Still, another wave of rage rose like a storm on the horizon of Boris's fraying sanity, just waiting to break loose.
"What the fuck is going on here?" A voice cracked like thunder in the silence.
Through the thick fog of his mind, Boris vaguely registered Tala's presence at the door—azure eyes blazing, taking in the scene.
"Nothing," Boris muttered darkly, keeping his glare locked on the girl in front of him as Sergei finally let go of his shoulder. "Just Alex bleeding out her pussy and losing her damn mind like it's my fault."
The blonde wrinkled her nose, clearly disgusted by the obscenity, but before she could retort, Tala groaned loudly.
"I leave for five damn minutes and come back to a kennel fight. Are you serious?" He stalked in like a wolf, gaze and voice matching already with the tension in the room. "Why is it always you two giving me a headache? Screaming like street thugs that the whole corridor can hear while we've got a goddamn championship to win."
Alex turned toward the captain, breaking the locked stare between her and Boris, still seething.
"A championship we're not winning if Kuznetsov doesn't pull his head out of his ass and start doing his part."
"I was up there fighting!" Boris hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't stand there and act like you know what it's like to go head-to-head with a freak like Brooklyn."
"You wanna talk pressure? Try standing there, knowing your teammate just gave up mid-fight! I told you to win this advantage at all cost!" Alex shot back, louder now.
"What are you so scared of, Katin?" Tala cut in flatly.
Boris knitted his brows together at the odd question.
She didn't look scared. She looked pissed.
She looked crazy.
"I'm not scared." Alex bit back hastily.
Then her shoulders sagged a little, and she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She glanced down at the floor, her gaze refusing to meet anyone's to hide something she didn't want them to see.
Tala tilted his head, brow furrowing as the pieces began shifting in his mind. Boris could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes.
"They're gonna destroy us." She muttered darkly. "That advantage would've given us a real shot at beating them."
Her arms tightened across her chest, and when she finally lifted her head, her gaze landed on Boris—sharp and burning.
"But thanks to Kuznetsov losing the battle… now we can kiss the finals a goodbye."
Tala let out a long, theatrical sigh and rolled his eyes.
"Jesus, Katin. Is it really that time of the month or are you just committed to full-blown melodrama today?" He massaged his temple with a painful frown. "Whatever it is that scares you death, that's not our problem. Deal with it—like a Blitzkrieg."
He threw a pointed look at Boris before he continued.
"Nothing gives you the right to talk to your teammates like that. Boris did what he could—quit dumping your nerves on him. This outcome was expected. We all hoped he might surprise us, but he didn't. You've no right to take your frustration out on him."
Boris stiffened, and his head whipped toward him. "Fuck you."
"Did we watch the same battle?!" Alex's volume rose again. "Kuznetsov barely used Falborg's power! He can't even handle his bit-beast! He's terrified of what it can do."
Ice-cold eyes snapped in the girl's direction. "I trust Boris. Unlike you, I actually know how he fights—his rhythm, his tactics, what he's capable of. He gave it his best. He lost. We move the fuck on."
Clearly, Alexa couldn't.
"And how exactly do you plan on winning a championship with a blader who can't even control his own bit-beast?" She paused deliberately, letting the question sting. "This isn't something you fix with a few extra practice drills. If we don't deal with it now, you can bet a second-place finish—at best!"
That, Boris couldn't let go. His body moved before his thoughts could catch up, fury and bruised pride propelling him toward her—
Tala stepped between them, arm up like a steel wall.
"You think I'm the reason we're loosing'?" Boris snarled over Tala's stretched out arm in restrained fury. "Babe, if I were you, I'd be more worried 'bout droppin' the damn blade again and handin' the match to the enemy!"
Alex's brows pulled together into a sour expression, but she didn't bite back. He must've hit a nerve, Boris figured. It was satisfying.
With a firm push of the elbow on Boris's chest, forcing him to step back from the blonde, Tala silently warned him to shut it.
The redhead turned back to Alex. "Since you're not the captain of this team, let me do the worrying. Even on his worst day, Boris is still a top-tier blader—meaner, faster, more brutal than most of the shit you've ever seen. So unless you've suddenly become a better strategist than me, Katin, I suggest you shut the hell up."
Alex's mouth tightened for a moment, but the fire in her eye didn't dim.
"I'm no better strategist," she admitted reluctantly. "But I'm not blind either. You said it yourself—he's brutal. But where the hell was that brutality today? He's supposed to be the sharpest blade on the team—the kind that makes you bleed with the gentlest touch."
Something cracked inside him—loud and final, like a bone giving out.
"I AM NOT A FUCKING WEAPON! Stop callin' me that!"
Boris's shout rang through the room like a gunshot. His chest heaved with ragged breath, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. For a moment, no one moved. Even the air felt frozen, bracing for the explosion that hadn't quite come.
Alexandra stood tall and raised her chin.
"I saw the recording of your match against Ray. You're not the same since then. You wielded Falborg's power like a warrior brandishing his sword back there. Now… you're just going through the motions." Her eye narrowed and she hissed. "Falborg's nothing more now but a shadow in your hand. And you're the one who clipped his wings."
With a sharp breath, Boris turned away and raked both hands through his hair—desperate to remain in control. He fixated on the blank wall ahead, needing something, anything, to ground himself.
He clunched his eyes tightly, retreating into the darkness within his mind, where anger could surge without consequence. In that secluded space, he pictured lunging forward and grabbed Alex roughly, slamming her against the wall, one hand locking her in a vice grip, the other pressing hard over her mouth to shut her the hell up. He imagined the faint tremor in her body pressed tightly against him, how she struggled fiercely but helplessly under his hold—alive, vibrant, defiant yet trapped completely by him, his alone to control. He imagined leaning close, growling vicious threats in her ear, wanting to feel her stupid courage crumble into raw, gut-twisting fear. His fingers tightened at the thought, vividly feeling the frantic, panicked rhythm of her heartbeat pounding wildly beneath his arm, the hot, rapid flutter of her breath tickling against his skin. A loose strand of her hair, golden and soft, brushed against his cheek, the faintest scent of shampoo catching in his nose—
"Are you done?" Tala's cold voice cut through the silence like ice cracking underfoot. "Because I'm more than done listening to your rant."
Boris spun around, his pulse rampaging from the pictured violence—then exhaled in quiet relief when he saw Yuriy was not talking to him. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, hoping it masked the unrest his imagination had stirred in him.
"If I remember correctly," Sergei spoke, too, his tone calm, but when his eyes landed on Alexa, the usual friendly expression was gone. "We didn't say a word when you messed up your launch against Team Psykick—did we?"
Alexandra's glare could've burned holes, but she said nothing.
Tala started his habitual back-and-forth pacing, deliberate steps that clicked across the floor like a metronome made of warning signs. He always did it when he was too frustrated to stay put.
"Since you're so damn convinced that even you'd have been a better opponent for Brooklyn, I'll give you the chance to prove those amazing skills of yours. You'll fight the first match with Justice-5 tomorrow. You've had plenty to say—time to see if your blade talks as much as your mouth."
Alex's mouth opened—probably to argue—but Tala held up a hand.
"Not a word until I'm done!" He didn't shout. He didn't need to. The stillness around him did the shouting. "You've got fire, Katin. No one's denying that. Opinions too. Fucking loud ones. But what you don't have is a single clue what teamwork means."
Alexa shifted her weight. A breath, sharp through her nose. "I know what—"
"I'm the one talking!"
Boris and Sergei listened with stony faces, motionless — this was the stillness before the storm, the kind that made your skin itch before the thunder rolled in. They'd seen it too many times to mistake it. Get in Tala's way now, and you'd only add fuel to the brewing tempest.
Katin was too new, too headstrong, to feel the shift in the air. Or, stupidly, she simply didn't care.
"Don't you fucking dare tear any of your teammates down like you're some authority on excellence."
"But Kuzn—"
"Shut up! You don't speak unless I say so! All I see right now is a blader who stirs up more shit than wins matches."
"That's not–"
"Jesus, Katin, do you ever stop?!"
Silence.
"The common denominator in every blown-up situation we've had since the tournament's started was you!" He pointed with a single, unshaking finger — a judge pronouncing sentence. "I haven't had to deal with this many shits in a row since you joined the team—and that says a lot, considering we had Kai last year."
Alex didn't argue anymore. Her chin dipped slightly, but her eye stayed locked on Tala — blazing, defiant, and just barely keeping her composure.
"We're here to win. If you've got extra energy to burn, the training room's wide-open day and night. Hit the launcher until your arms give out. You'd need that extra practice anyway. But if you're just here to poison morale, you're more useless than I thought!"
The redhead halted his restless pacing and came to a standstill in front of the blonde. When Tala spoke, Boris half-expected frost to come out of his mouth.
"Remember what rules I laid down when you joined our team?"
Miraculously, the blonde didn't shoot back a snarky reply—too busy rifling through her memories for the answer Tala clearly expected her to already know.
After a beat, she muttered, "If I have a problem, I talk to you first."
Tala gave a slow, mocking clap.
"So, you do have a functioning brain. How rare. Might want to try using it more consistently." He let the silence linger a second, then added, "In the meantime, save that charming warmongering of yours for something useful—like figuring out how not to get annihilated tomorrow."
The silence stretched taut — drawn like a bowstring, seconds from snapping. The whole team watched her, waiting to see if she'd dare challenge the captain again.
Alex didn't say a word. Just stared. First at Tala, then at Sergei, then—lastly—at Boris.
Boris met her gaze without flinching, arms crossed, grey brows drawn low and together. For once, she wasn't shouting, wasn't preaching. Just standing there, seething in a silence too big for her to fill alone.
Boris should've felt vindicated. And he did, a little. Served her right for running her mouth like she was untouchable. But something about the way she stood there—chin dipped, eye burning, cloaked in defiance and isolation—gnawed at him in a way he couldn't quite name.
She looked alone in that moment. Outnumbered.
Still, he wasn't about to let that sympathy show. Not when she looked like she was one deep breath away from lunging at someone. Not when she still saw him nothing more than a tool with a sharp edge.
Alex's eye swept over them one last time.
"Fuck you all!"
With that, she turned and walked out—boots echoing across the floor until she tore the door open and slapped it after herself.
"What's the matter with her?" Sergei mused quietly in the sudden silence.
"I recruit one girl and suddenly it's a soap opera in the locker room." Tala growled to himself, pale fingers pressing against his temple as if he was dealing with an actual headache.
His attempt at humor fell flat. The tension didn't lift—it merely cracked, allowing the silence to slip back in.
The weight of it all suddenly got to him, and before he knew it, Boris was looking for Tala's gaze.
"'This outcome was expected'?" Boris echoed Tala's words after a while, his voice low and sinister. He wasn't even sure what to feel anymore. "You all hoped I might surprise you—but I didn't?"
Tala turned. No warning in the motion, no dramatic flair — just a pivot, sharp and precise. His eyes locked onto Boris.
"What the fuck does that mean, Tala?" Boris pushed when no answer came.
"What do you expect me to say?"
Exhaling sharply through his nose, Boris chewed on his bottom lip, incredulousness etched across his face.
The audacity.
"The truth would do."
"The truth," Tala repeated, cold and detached—like a challenge. Like he wasn't convinced Boris could handle it.
He held his friend's gaze, but it took effort — more than he wanted to admit. Despite having known Tala for over a decade, Boris suddenly felt as if he were looking at a stranger. Something in his friend's expression felt unfamiliar. And Boris, who was no expert at reading people, could only trust his instincts.
Tala had always been a tough case to figure out, his intentions. He knew how to bury things, bury them deep and wear normal like a mask. But after everything they'd been through—desperation, crime, chaos, rare sparks of laughter—Boris had learned to spot the subtle shifts.
Now, though, he felt utterly blind. Whatever Tala was thinking, it was locked behind ice.
"The truth is, Boris," Tala said bluntly at last, "she's not wrong. You don't fight like you used to."
Boris stiffened. His jaw clenched tight, so it wouldn't drop in his disbelief.
Tala's words held no overt accusation, no overt cruelty — but their neutrality somehow made them hurt even more. Boris felt as though he'd just been plunged into icy water, breath forced from his chest, the cold seeping painfully into his bones.
"You think the same?" he turned to Sergei.
The blonde guy shifted some but when he spoke, his voice was steady. "You've changed."
Boris eyes narrowed. "Changed how?"
Sergei's glance flicked to Tala.
"Don't look at 'im, goddamnit!" Boris snapped with sudden burst of rage, knowing that it wouldn't faze the behemoth. "Look at me and answer the fucking question, Sergei!"
His friend shrugged. "You don't go all in. It's like…"
"Like what? Huh?" he cupped a hand around his ear mockingly. "C'mon, say it!"
Instead of Sergei, Tala answered in a cold tone.
"Like you're holding Falborg back. Just like Katin said."
Boris stared.
Are these guys for fucking real?!
"Then why the fuck didn't you say a word?!" His voice cracked, raw and furious.
If there was one thing Boris couldn't stand, it was lies.
Back in the Abbey, he'd lived under constant threat—of betrayal, of violence in the dark. He'd spent too long watching his own back, living every damn moment like someone might stab him if he blinked wrong. In the Abbey, in his group, paranoia wasn't a weakness—it was survival.
It'd been fucking exhausting.
So, Boris had drawn his line with his friends: honesty for loyalty. That was his deal. No grand expectations, no flowery ideals. Just tell him the truth, and he'd give you everything he had.
Tala knew that. Sergei too.
They knew how he was built. Knew he didn't ask for much, didn't need much. Just this one damn thing.
So why the hell hadn't they told him?
Why did they think he could stomach being left in the dark—again? For years?
He noticed Tala tilted his head slightly, observing him — dissecting him — like Boris was some broken machine he hadn't figured out how to fix yet.
But Boris wasn't something to be assessed.
He wasn't a fucking equation.
Volkov had observed him with that same cold, clinical detachment. Like a specimen in a jar, a failed experiment. Not a person, not a pupil — just something defective, needing correction.
A sharp heat flared beneath Boris's skin, a flush of anger and humiliation he didn't want Tala to see. He felt his fists twitch at his sides, and his expression hardened instinctively. Boris had always hated being scrutinized like this. As if Tala were silently taking notes, calmly pinpointing all his flaws and shortcomings.
"Don't ya fuckin' give me that glare!" His teeth bared slightly as a low growl slipped free.
Something in Tala's posture stiffened at Boris's snarled warning as he straightened. His ice-blue eyes, though, never wavered, still burrowing mercilessly into Boris's soul, indifferent to the pain they were causing.
"It's not a subject you can just bring up at any given time," Sergei replied eventually, trying to reason with him.
Boris's eyes sharpened into a glare.
"It's been almost two fuckin' championships, mate. Don't give me that crap."
Sergei's gaze hardened but didn't take up the gloves. Boris turned his attention back to Tala—his best friend, his true ally, the one he lived for. The one he now braced himself to hear pathetic excuses from.
"I'm all ears," he urged him in a sardonic tone.
Tala didn't flinch.
He remained infuriatingly calm as he asked in a neutral tone, "What happened during your match with Ray, Boris? Or after."
A bitter chuckle slipped from Boris's throat. He started pacing in a circle, eyes flicking up to the ceiling like he might find patience written there. Restlessness clung to him like static.
"Of course," he scoffed, voice low and venomous. "Dodge the damn question with some smug detour. Classic. God forbid you just give a straight fucking answer—that'd be too easy, huh?"
"That wasn't a detour," Tala replied coolly. "It's called relevance."
He stopped pacing and turned sharply to face him.
"Fine. Then lemme ask you something, too – do you look down on me?"
Tala's façade flickered for a second—barely. Red brows knit, his lips parted like a retort was coming, but nothing came out. And that silence said enough.
Boris felt it like a crack running through the center of him.
Gotcha, he thought bitterly.
But it didn't bring the satisfaction he'd expected. Just a cold ache settling in his chest. He shook his head in resentment.
"This is her doing." Tala said, not looking at Boris—just past him, like he was watching it all unfold from a distance.
Boris scrunched up his face, not following his train of thought.
"What?"
"Don't you see?" The younger boy turned to fully face Boris. "She's playing right into Volkov's hand. He's using Katin to tear us apart. That's her purpose. That's why she's here. You let Katin get into your head. And now look—she's already got you doubting your own team."
"No, Tala," he spat without skipping a beat. "You did that. You and Sergei—you two did that, the moment you decided to keep your mouths shut and let me walk around thinking everything was fine. And all this time, you were what—silently judging me? Whispering shit behind my back? You think that's leadership?"
"You've got no fucking idea how stressful leadership is! Neither you nor Katin!" Tala snapped, raising his voice with sharp control. "I thought giving you space was what you needed. I figured you'd work through it on your own—like you always do."
He paused, the next words quieter, edged with something harder to admit.
"But time went on, and nothing changed. You weren't getting better. You were just... faking."
"Then maybe you should've fucking said something!" Boris bit back. "Maybe you should've done your damn job and talked to me – as a captain, as a friend, whatever – instead of waiting for someone else to light the fuse!"
"Talk to you?" Tala let out a cold laugh. "Are you serious right now? You're not exactly the picture of emotional receptivity, Boris. You don't listen. You nearly turned a bench into a projectile and took off Katin's head two minutes ago, just because she was dumb enough to challenge you."
"At least Alex had the guts to call me out! To my face! Didn't hold back. Didn't sugarcoat shit. She didn't wait two goddamn years to tell me I was falling apart!"
"Don't scream in my face like it was my fault you're an emotional wreck!" Tala bellowed.
To hold himself together, Boris exhaled loudly and stepped closer, placing both hands on Tala's narrow shoulders. He felt the redhead tense under his touch—just slightly, but enough to make something twist sharply in Boris's gut.
He drew in a breath and looked him dead in the eye as he growled.
"You're supposed to be our captain, Yuriy. It's your fucking job to know when one of us is slipping. To fix it before we crash and burn."
One of his hands slid to the back of Tala's neck, his fingers brushing the nape gently. It had been ages since either of them tolerated physical contact. The Abbey had trained it out of them. But before that—when they were just two kids surviving on the streets—touch had meant reassurance. A hand on the shoulder, a tight grip, a silent I'm here with you.
"I thought you knew that. I trusted you. I followed you. But instead, you just stood there. Watchin'. Stayin' silent."
Tala looked up at him, and for the first time, something real flickered in those ice-blue eyes—clarity and conflict all tangled together.
"I didn't know–" he said, quieter at first then his tone became sharp. "I'm not a fucking shrink, Boris. I didn't know what to say."
Boris, weary and heavy, let out a slow breath and rested his forehead gently against Tala's. For a beat, they stood like that—close enough to feel the soft brush of the impossibly long lashes against his cheek as Tala blinked.
The tension between them wasn't loud. But it was evidently there.
"I don't know what's worse," Boris murmured, voice calm once again but heavy with bitterness before it turned rough and dark. "Her calling me a weapon, or you treating me like I'm already broken."
He let the words hang there, heavy and intimate, before pulling back. His gaze swept over his childhood friend, noting the rare, unsettling silence.
"You look tense," Boris remarked flatly.
"Dude," Sergei suddenly cut in dryly, reminding them both he still existed. "If you got that close to my face, I'd tense too. Maybe even deck you. Just sayin'."
Boris shoved his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants and sighed like he couldn't be bothered to dignify the comment with anything more.
"Boris." Tala called him out, his tone serious and heavy with a weight. "I want to win the championship this year."
"I know," Boris said.
How couldn't he?
That was the whole damn reason he was still here. Still standing beside Tala, week after week, match after match. Still putting his body and mind through this endless grind. For him.
Not for the sport. Not for the glory. And sure as hell not for himself.
He was here because Tala wanted to win.
Because Tala had looked at him once—years ago, when they were still more bone than boy—and said we'll survive this, and then we'll win everything they said we couldn't.
And Boris had believed him.
He still did.
Some twisted, broken part of him had tethered itself to Tala's ambition so tightly, he couldn't even tell where his own will ended and Tala's began.
He thought Tala knew that.
Thought it was obvious.
But now, as Tala stared at him like a soldier issuing orders—not a friend asking for support—Boris wasn't so sure anymore.
Tala's eyes flicked between Boris and Sergei.
"That's all I want. I don't care what kind of damage we're dealing with right now. We handle that after. Right now, we focus. We fight. And we win. Nothing else matters."
Boris didn't reply. Tala made his stand very clear.
Sergei eased himself down onto the hard bench, limbs sprawling in four different directions as he rested his gaze at his two teammates. Comically enough, even sitting down while Tala and Boris stood, he was still almost eye level with them.
"You two keep going at each other's throat like you're enemies. Like you forgot you're best pals on the same team."
Sergei paused for a moment.
"Boris ain't stupid. You'll figure out your deal eventually." he said, tone sharpening just a notch. "And Tala, you're not wrong to be alert. But you're both acting like this is about one girl whispering in someone's ear or concealing important things. It's not."
"Then what's this 'bout, master?" Boris sneered.
"It's about trust." he said simply. "And the fact that we're losing it."
Boris glanced at Tala, more out of habit than anything, and saw the redhead narrow his eyes—contemplating Sergei's words for a moment.
Just like his bit-beast, Sergei resembled a whale in every way.
He looked like a whale—big and massive.
Moved like a whale—slow, steady, and impossible to stop.
And spoke like a whale—rarely, but with depth.
"It's natural we're losing trust," Tala spat. "We have a fucking spy on the team, causing dissensions and manipulating some of us."
Boris shot him a vicious glare, but it went unnoticed by the redhead.
"Alexa's part of the team, too," Sergei reminded him with a pointed look. "You won't win this championship without her, Tala."
Boris furrowed at the plain opinion while Tala exhaled sharply, still rubbing at his temples like the weight of it all was grinding into his skull.
"Don't tell me you actually trust her," he groaned, "when it's obvious she's conspiring with Volkov behind our backs."
"I don't know if I trust her." Sergei admitted thoughtfully. "But I don't distrust her either. She's not playing a game, at least not the kind you think. She's not the enemy. Keep that in mind. She's just surviving. Like all of us."
"Oh, for God's sake, Sergei! You've seriously started liking that shit-stirrer bitch?"
The elder boy nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders, not denying Tala's comment.
"She doesn't try to be liked," he explained. "That's rare. Especially around guys like us, built to intimidate. But she doesn't shrink. That earns something from me. Respect, maybe." he tilted his head, reconsidering. "Or curiosity."
Boris would never admit it out loud, but he appreciated Sergei's insights. They sounded like… stripped-down truths.
Whenever he or Tala—mostly Tala—got lost in the noise, tangled in theories and emotions, Sergei would open his mouth and drag them both back to earth with a few words of plain, solid sense. The kind that cut through the fog and made everything suddenly clearer.
Sergei wasn't like Tala, who saw through people like glass and always had a theory locked and loaded. He wasn't like Boris either, who relied on gut instinct, on raw feeling—who could read the air in a room better than he could read a page in a book.
But what he did have—what neither Boris nor Tala had figured out yet—was wisdom. The kind that came from silent observation and patience. From keeping your mouth shut until the right moment and then saying just enough to knock everyone else sideways.
It made Sergei dangerous in a way that was hard to explain. People mostly feared him for his build of body. But truthfully, when Sergei talked, you listened.
And if Sergei didn't see Alex as a threat, then maybe she wasn't. The guy's presumes had been right more times than Boris could count, and Boris wasn't stupid enough to ignore the words of a smarter man.
"Guess no one ever taught us how to survive after the Abbey, mm?" Sergei muttered, more to himself this time.
They left the locker room in silence, eventually.
The corridor outside was quieter now—most of the noise from the stadium had dulled to a distant hum, like a storm behind a thick wall. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the tiled floor, and no one said much. Boris kept to himself, eyes down, his thoughts a mess of sharp edges and conflicting weights.
Too much had been said.
Too much hadn't.
Behind him, he could hear Tala and Sergei exchange a few muted words—something casual, insignificant, just noise to fill the cracks.
But Boris couldn't focus. Couldn't let go of the tension coiled under his skin.
And then, as they turned a corner into one of the quieter hallways branching off from the main corridor, he spotted a familiar figure.
At the far end, partially obscured by a column, stood Alex. Still flushed and visibly agitated from their argument, her hands moved in sharp, staccato gestures as she spoke to her companion—
Volkov.
Boris stopped in his tracks.
The others followed his gaze instinctively. Tala went still beside him, Sergei a beat later.
Volkov replied calmly, close—too close—and then he placed a hand on Alex's shoulder. It wasn't harsh or aggressive. It was… gentle. Like comfort. Then, without hurry, he nudged the blonde forward, and the two of them slowly disappeared down the far end of the corridor.
Boris's stomach twisted.
The air between the three of them grew heavy again.
Tala's voice sliced through the quiet, low and hard.
"I don't like this."
Sergei exhaled slowly and hummed grimly beside him.
Boris remained silent.
Written: April, 2025
A/N: There's this funny thing—I picture a scene with specific characters, I start deliberately writing that scene… and then the characters decide to go a different way, or take it to the extreme, and boom, blink once—drama is already there.
This chapter is the result of that: me letting the characters act on their own.
Bruh. ༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ
Anyway—what do you think? Who do you think will fight for the Bladebreakers against the Majestics?
Also, I hope the flashback dialogue wasn't too confusing. Originally, I wrote a full scene for that part, but it felt redundant—and this chapter turned out to be the longest one anyway, even without it.
The next chapter will mainly focus on Boris & Alexa. I hope you're looking forward to reading it as much as I'm excited to write it!
Lastly, thank you again so much for the passionate reviews you send me—I love every single one. ❤️ I hope you'll never break this great habit! Unfortunately, I can't reply to guest reviews on this platform, but I truly appreciate them nonetheless.