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Free was described as a lot of things. He’d heard people call him peculiar, off putting, distinctive. He’d heard others call him powerful, awe worthy, hardworking.
None of them were actually false statements. He worked hard to get to his awe worthy position as the most powerful blader in the world. He did it through peculiar and unheard of battle tactics, a distinctive bey, and training routines that would seem off putting to anyone who didn’t understand the complexities of being the best- of being the champion.
Free recognized that the key to success wasn’t diligence, though it helped. The key to success was understanding that other people didn’t have the answer. The only way to become strong was to carve your own way. You couldn’t blend amongst the crowd, you had to stand up and make yourself heard. You couldn’t accept how things are done, you had to do them your own way. You couldn’t sit still and hope that success came, you had to fight tooth and nail just to see a mere glimmer of it and then you had to fight harder.
Free had found his own way. He found it through hours of pulls ups in the forest. He found it through his own stained screams as he moved boulders in the blazing heat. He found it through the pain and desperation of a battle.
It wasn’t often that Free found people who actually put up a fight against him, who gained his attention. When it did happen, Free couldn’t help but smile. A battle was much more fun to win if his opponent didn’t lose seconds after it started. During such a battle, Free truly experienced what made him fall in love with beyblading. He felt his bond with Fafnir strengthen and he felt his own spirit ignite in a fiery passion. His desire to win ran rampant and, suddenly, it was like nothing else mattered.
The exhilaration was addicting.
“Oh, no, Free,” Kris rushed over to him, her eyes filled with concern and a frown on her face. “Not again.”
She lifted up his left arm, inspecting it. Deep bite marks were littered up and down his forearm and bicep. Thin lines of blood were gathering down to his bent elbow, dripping onto the carpet below. She sighed.
“Free, I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t hurt yourself like this anymore?”
“We did,” Free said, cocking his head to the side as he blankly watched her grab a first aid kit. “But I can’t help it. In the middle of a battle, it’s like my spirit takes over and I just can’t focus. The pain helps me focus.”
Kris grabbed a white towel and held it under his arm as she throughly cleaned the bites with an alcohol wipe. She was gentle and caring in her administrations, looking up at him every few seconds to make sure she wasn’t hurting him. He’d just stare right back.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Kris covered each bite with a square bandaid, knowing not to restrict his mobility with bandages. “I can’t keep seeing you like this.”
She was sniffing and a tear ran down her cheek. Free frowned, “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Kris said, putting the first aid kit on her desk. She opened a drawer and pulled out a long, dark green, fingerless gauntlet with a brown strap and gold buckle. She turned to him and offered it. “It’s not much but it might help you stop hurting yourself. At the very least, it’ll cover the scars and marks.”
Free slowly took the gauntlet and pulled it up his left arm, securing the buckle that reached his shoulder. He bent and moved his arm, testing the restrictions, or lack thereof. It didn’t hinder his movements that badly and he could probably get used to the odd feeling of it covering his arm.
“How do I look?” he asked, looking up at Kris with a smile.
“You look like the Free that I know,” Kris responded, lacing her hands together happily.
Free may have been described as a lot of things but he didn’t think that really mattered. He was Free De La Hoya and that’s all that really mattered.