Beyblade Fan Fiction ❯ Sooryavansham: The Dynasty of the Sun ❯ Prologue ( Prologue )

Hello! I'm Sholay and this is my first Beyblade fic!

-;cheering;-

Thank you, thank you, I know you love me…

-;Someone boos;-

…

Anyway, before you start my fic there are some important things to note:

· This story is mostly written in 1st person point of view. Changes in view point will be denoted with a ooo and will generally change to 3rd person unless stated otherwise (don't worry, it will be obvious).

· Finally this story takes place after the FIRST SEASON. In other words, no Daichi, no Zeo and no Hilary… unless I decide to include them…

· The story is rated PG-13 for violence, some mature subject matter (though in no detail) and some bad words by incorrigible hotheads (looks pointedly at Johnny)

Everything else should be clear, so go ahead and start reading!

Disclaimer: No, Beyblade and all related characters do NOT belong to me… Nor do any songs you might read within this text. The story plot and all bunnies involved DO belong to me so feel free to feed them but please do not touch! Also please note that this is the work of fiction, political stands, culture, law, and other ideologies do NOT reflect the world of today. These points are purely my creation and although I do some research while creating this story (such as looking up Russian cuisine), I don't delve too far into politics or belief systems, therefore I create my own.

Also, most chapters have a song mentioned, whose lyrics fit with the chapter. Originally I had the lyrics interspaced with the story. But finally decided against this, as the site has now banned music lyrics (phooey), feel free to listen to the song as you read the chapter though! This chapter, is 'One Step Closer', by Linkin Park

I reloaded this chapter to change a few details, such as adding the dates, sorry if that confused anyone! Reviewer comments are in the next chapter!

 

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Sooryavansham: The Dynasty of the Sun

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By: Sholay

 

Summary: After the world championships in Russia, Kai just wanted to vanish. Then one day, inevitably, Kai is drawn back and ensnared in an intricate web of magic and legends, recounting heroes of old; and controlled by none other than Voltaire.

 

Prologue: ,` '',

. . . . . . . . . . `

. . . . . . . . . . .`,.,.' Falling

“I never expect a soldier to think.”—George Bernard Shaw

 

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I cannot take this anymore

 

I'm saying everything I've said before

 

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December 20, 1997

 

For as long as I can remember I have never had a name. When I was younger I was either `runt' or `boy'. Then, as I grew older I graduated from `runt' to `pipsqueak'.

 

When I was 6, I was taken to a place called `The Abbey'. I stayed there for 3 years and as time progressed I was given many statuses, not names. I was called things that ranged from the lowly `Subject 01857', which was one of the numbers given to those not worthy of titles, to the highly respected `Tovarisch' or `Hoodojneek', which were Russian for `comrade' and `artist' respectively.

 

I always envied those who were allowed to keep their names at the abbey. Those who were stronger, older and showed promise; people like `Tala, Bryan or Spencer' were allowed to keep their names. I showed these qualities as well, even more so since I already had my own bitbeast upon arriving. However, I never had a name to call my own and once I had been marked with the `Blue-Fourth' I would never have been able to keep my name even if I had wanted to. After all, at the Abbey one was merely a tool, only useful when needed and discarded when broken; and tools don't need names, do they?

 

When I was 9, I left the Abbey, forgoing my past and my memories in the process. I awoke in a new country with a new language that I could not speak and could not begin to understand; the writing was not only foreign but completely alien to me: nothing more then obscure sounds and meaningless lines scratched on a piece of paper. I didn't know who I was or where I came from. All I had was the worthless ability to speak Russian and strange blue markings on my face that refused to come off despite my best efforts.

 

None the less I managed. I even found people who were willing to help me. However, even then was I at a loss: the first thing anyone would ask me was my name. I could never recall one, nor could I recall my nationality or place of birth. For all I knew I could have sprung out of the gutter one day, and, I think, that's precisely what they thought of me. In effect, I was never claimed by a family, not even those who wished to adopt children.

 

When I was 10, things began to change: a man who claimed to be my `grandfather' took me to his home. He wasted no time before barking out his rules. First and foremost, I was never to address him as Grandfather. To me, he was `Sir' or `Master Hiwatari'. Of course, in public it was an entirely different matter. Image was everything to the man and he expected me to act accordingly: to call him `Grandfather' lovingly and to act polite to all the dignitaries; a difficult feat for a 10 year old kid who couldn't remember how to use a fork and knife.

 

We became acquainted with each other. It wasn't long before he told me I would carry his last name, `Hiwatari'. I could not understand why I should have that name since I could not even recall being related to the man. From the name `Voltaire' it was obvious he was French, and his last name sounded distinctly Japanese. But I was from Russia, so how could we be connected?

 

In spite of my curiosity, I never questioned Hiwatari's motives. Comments or questions that were irrelevant or even minutely disconcerting to the eccentric man were punishable by a lot worse than a slap and a sharp reprimand, saying nothing of the words that he deemed as outright insolence. For the time being, I accepted the name `Hiwatari'.

 

Along with my new last name, I also acquired a first name. I was called `Kai', which —in some of the languages Grandfather made me learn— has a large variety of meanings; some of which include: `fire', `strength', `ash', `demon', `destruction', `domination' and (strangely enough) `sea'. Coupled with the completely unassuming last name `Hiwatari', which means `to walk over fire or hot coals', I was altogether perfectly appropriated to play the role of puppet.

 

Of course, the name was a mere accessory to mask the tool. After all, without a name I could not legally participate in any of the tournaments Voltaire so desperately wanted me to conquer. No tournaments meant no wins, and no wins meant an extremely large failure on my part. Personally, I really did not want to anticipate the punishment for a failure that large.

 

I entered many tournaments: fighting, fencing, kendo, taekwondo, karate, archery, swimming… the list went on.

 

And I won them all.

 

I'm not sure exactly how I won. It might have been luck, or it might have been the fear of my grandfather's wrath that drove me. But I couldn't deny though that I knew what I was doing;

 

exactly what I was doing.

 

Sure, I learned physical education with my private tutors at Voltaire's house. Sure, I excelled at it, but PE was mostly gymnastics. I had never learned specific forms of fighting, or how to string a bow, or even how to swing a sword.

 

All these qualities came intrinsically, almost as though I had learned them long ago; before I came to Japan.

 

I chose not to dwell on these things too long. Instead I savored my victories. Surely grandfather would be proud of me now. He would be happy, and we could finally be a real family.

 

Unsurprisingly, I could not have been more wrong. Voltaire, spurred on by what I had done, didn't even acknowledge that I had achieved something. No sooner had I come home with my trophy was it snatched out of my hands and thrown to the side. I was then unceremoniously dumped on the streets.

 

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Everything you say to me

 

Takes me one step closer to the edge

 

And I'm about to break

 

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April 16, 1998

 

By the time four years had passed I had become the best streetblader in Japan. I had established myself among other Beybladers by creating a gang of tough, gutter rats. At the time I found the irony quite sardonic. It hadn't been that long ago that I had been scorned for the very thing I was now revered for.

 

We stole blades, destroyed them, then did it all over again. Of course, unbeknownst to my teammates, all of this was done under the strict supervision of my grandfather. I despised what I was doing, who I had become, but by that time I had learned how to block out every emotion, even self-loathing.

 

It wasn't long before Voltaire forced me into another tournament, this time a regional beyblading tournament. I won with ease, the competition… laughable. What intrigued me was the vast multitude of names I encountered, each one individualizing a specific person; each one painstakingly chosen after hours of consideration by loving people.

 

I wanted a name like that, not one pieced together by an old man's selfishness; nor one that set an inexplicably high bar that I had to hold up a incessant, lifelong struggle to reach.

 

When I was 14, I returned to the tournament, expecting to gain the championship as easily as I did the year before. What I did not expect was to hear that the top four bladers would move on, forming the team that would represent Japan in a world tour, eventually leading up to the world championships.

 

I tried to leave the tournament, my grandfather's depraved intentions clear in my mind for the first time. I knew he wanted the power of the world strongest blades, the bitbeasts. Using this power he could, quite literally, control the world.

 

I imagined the world under Voltaire's foot. I could not allow him to get his Mephistophelean hands on such power. I would not allow it.

 

And so I ran. I admit, even I was surprised at how far I got before I was caught. I reached the neighboring city, and was almost at the train that would take me to the other side of the island, when I was spotted.

 

I gave them a good fight—it must have taken at least fifteen of them to bring me down—but they caught me none the less.

 

When I was brought back to Voltaire I remained defiant. I refused to be his myrmidon, his servant. After a few of my wonderful, loving grandfather's `lessons' however, I soon changed my mind.

 

At the tournament, I once again encountered a curiosity. The three top bladers, aside from myself, were holders of sacred bitbeasts, just as I was. They were fair bladers, not much experience, but an acknowledgeable amount of potential.

 

I also noticed their names, each one describing their respective blader perfectly: first there was Max, a slightly annoying, overactive, hyper kid who smiled much too often. His bitbeast was a strong, defensive, water-wielding turtle called Draciel, whose name gave the impression of a silent unrelenting strength.

 

Next there was Rei: a quiet, reserved youth; who, when given the chance could be quite caustic and sometimes even whimsical. Even so, he still retained a quiet patience for onerous situations… an example of these would be Tyson's eating habits. Rei's bitbeast was Driger, a surreptitious earth-based white tiger specializing in blitzkrieg (rapid, lightning fast attacks).

 

Finally there was Tyson, an obnoxious, dogmatic, egotistical, impulsive, self-absorbed, gluttonous boy if there ever was one. Tyson's bitbeast was a huge dragon that could manipulate the winds. It had a semblance to a serpent and was named… imaginatively enough, Dragoon—a very candid name for a very candid behemoth.

 

Indeed. Now, I would present my own bitbeast. Her name is Dranzer. She is a radiant phoenix with glorious scarlet and golden plumage and a shimmering red tail that whispers in the wind as she soars through the air. I named her the day I met her. I no longer remember how we met, since the memory was long since torn from me, but I still believe the name suits her. It brings the impression of fire, strength and courage, qualities she loves to show generously.

 

… Qualities I seem to be lacking as of late.

 

Perhaps it is a futile struggle of mine. It is possible that I was never meant to have a name. A name has to be given by someone who cares for you when you are very young. God knows I've never had any of this type of people.

 

When you grow older, a name is what separates you from everyone else. It gives you individuality and it allows another a closer look at your very soul. Of course, for as long as I can remember, I was taught not to show emotion. Along with emotion, reactions and individuality were weaknesses that would be exploited. Every time these weaknesses showed, punishments were dealt.

 

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Over and over again

 

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November 30, 1998

 

Being `the best', having the `most power', that was all that mattered. Of course, logically, both these things are merely comparisons to other people. How one ranks oneself, on a global scale, is entirely dependent on everyone else. Ironically enough, dependence is the one thing my Grandfather always despised.

 

It is at this point in my life, one year after the fateful events of the Russian Championships, that I have reached an impasse. Sans family, sans friends, sans purpose or life-I remain here… I remain… nameless.

 

— (Excerpt from the journal of internationally renowned prodigial beyblader: Kai Hiwatari, former Captain of the Bladebreakers)

 

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-End of Prologue-

 

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AN:

So, did you like it? Remember that this is only the prologue, which sets the stage. The rest of the story will be much different. Anyway, constructive criticism is welcomed and encouraged. You can even tell me if I used a word wrong…

Ah yes, and the word Sooryavansham actually DOES mean `Dynasty of the Sun' in… well, I'll let you guys guess which language I'm talking about. I'll give you a hint: it is NOT Japanese. Heh, maybe I'll be able to incite some reviews…

That's all for now folks and I'll see you in chapter one!