She was a legend in the Beyblade world—until one stormy night changed everything. Now, hiding under a new name, she tries to find peace… but her storm is far from over.
The rain that night didn't just fall—it poured like heartbreak.
It wasn't gentle. The sky wept violently, unleashing a storm as if the heavens themselves mourned something sacred. Lightning scarred the night, thunder cracked through the earth.
But inside the stadium, no storm could reach them.
Here, the crowd roared louder than the wind. Here, the clash of Beyblades—the heartbeat of competition—drowned out every cry.
And she stood at the center of it all.
She—Fellicita.
The girl with fire in her eyes and a storm in her soul.
She smiled when the odds were against her. She didn't play to win.
She played to feel alive.
Every flick of her wrist sent her Beyblade whirling like thunder, carving through the arena with fierce precision. The energy crackled around her. Her opponent, skilled and determined, met her storm with one of his own.
It became a battle of storms.
And then—it happened.
A wild ricochet.
A jagged piece of metal flew free from the arena.
It struck her. Pierced her jacket—and her chest.
Time stopped.
She staggered. Her hand went to her chest, now blooming red. Her breath hitched. But she didn't fall. Her eyes remained locked on the spinning top.
She had won.
But it didn't feel like victory.
The arena froze.
Gasps echoed. Her opponent stood stunned.
Her mother screamed her name and leapt the barricade.
Medics rushed in.
But she didn't collapse.
She walked. Slowly. Painfully.
One step. Then another.
She left the stage on her own feet.
Because she was her own storm.
The world blurred—sirens, cold steel, hospital lights.
She slipped into darkness.
Weeks later.
The hospital room was sterile. Machines hummed softly. Her chest ached dully, but her heart hurt worse.
Her family hovered like shadows:
Her mother gripped her hand as if it were life itself.
Her father stood stiff in the corner, blinking back tears
Her twin brother Felix sat beside her, smiling through worry.
And at the foot of her bed stood her grandpa, silent and stoic, a strength in silence—
While her grandma whispered prayers under her breath, eyes filled with quiet fear.
No one spoke.
Until she did.
"Well… that's *one* way to end a championship."
They laughed. Through tears.
She was still herself. The girl who smiled through storms.
Days passed.
Wounds healed. But her soul needed more time.
Then Felix spoke.
"Take my name," he said gently. "Take a break. No expectations. No spotlight. Just rest."
She nodded.
Not to hide.
Not to run.
Just… to breathe.
A new city. A new name. Felix.
She wore a hoodie, kept her long hair hidden, but her spark remained. She didn't change. She didn't stop being her.
No more Beyblades—not yet. The storm was resting.
But when she smiled too brightly, or when her eyes lit up at a challenge, or when she laughed louder than anyone in the room—
You'd know.
The storm hadn't ended.
It had just taken a different shape.