Chapter 1: The Call of the Past
Notes:
First of all, to new readers—chapters 1 to 6 are a bit messy. I wrote them while under the pressure of exams, and my mind was all over the place. I hope you can be patient with them.
You can skip chapter 7 since it's just a bonus after a two-month break from writing.
Now that I'm an unemployed final boss (just graduated and waiting for my results), I can focus on improving each chapter and making them better.
So… enjoy?
Just a Warning:
This fic doesn’t have any romantic relationships and is heavily focused on the plot, with a twisted tone. It’s not exactly dark, but it does include elements like gaslighting, manipulation, and a few twisted characters. So, keep that in mind!Disclaimer:
Blue Lock was created by Muneyuki Kaneshiro (writer) and Yusuke Nomura (illustrator).I merely owned some of plot I guess. Since it more like an AU? Dunno.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The sun was low in the sky, casting long, golden rays over the quiet streets of Isagi Yoichi's neighborhood. His steps fell in a steady rhythm against the pavement, hands tucked casually into his pockets as he walked aimlessly. The distant hum of cars and the occasional chatter of pedestrians drifted by, but none of it registered in his mind. His focus was nowhere. He walked absentmindedly, moving through his familiar surroundings like a ghost, unaware of the world shifting around him.
His thoughts were far, far away—lost in the fog of routine and the dullness that had settled over his life. There was a time when everything burned brightly with excitement, but now? Now, it all seemed so monotonous, so pointless.
Isagi walked past a small park, barely noticing the vibrant greenery or the sounds of children playing on the swings. His eyes flickered briefly over a soccer ball rolling along the grass. A boy chased after it with enthusiasm, kicking it with all the strength his tiny legs could muster. The ball flew awkwardly through the air, spinning uncontrollably before bouncing to a stop a few meters away.
Soccer.
For a brief moment, the memory of the sport flickered in Isagi's mind, like a long-forgotten flame trying to reignite. He slowed his pace, his gaze following the boy as he ran after the ball again, laughing as he kicked it once more, his movements clumsy but filled with passion.
Isagi’s chest strangely tightened unexpectedly. It wasn’t like he hated soccer. No, that wasn’t it. But somewhere along the line, the love he had once felt for the game had dulled. What was the point? He wasn’t the type to chase dreams blindly. He had learned too early that everything was nothing more than a glorified other like team sport where everyone relied on each other—too much, in fact. There was no room for genius. There was no room for someone like him.
A vibration in his pocket broke his train of thought, the soft buzz pulling him back to the present. He blinked, as if waking from a dream, and lazily pulled his phone out. The screen lit up with a name he hadn't seen in a long time.
Ego Jinpachi.
The corner of Isagi’s lip twitched upward, not quite a smile, more of an ironic grimace. He hadn’t spoken to Ego in years. Yet, he hadn’t deleted the number either. Why? Maybe for the sheer audacity of it all. The memory of Ego, that cocky, eccentric man who once claimed he would revolutionize Japanese soccer, still lingered in his mind like a bad joke. And now, Ego was reaching out to him.
Ego Jinpachi (Text Message): Meet me. Urgent. Same place as always. 3 PM.
Isagi glanced at the time: 2:45 PM.
“Same place as always?” he muttered to himself, chuckling softly.
He knew exactly where that was—the small, unassuming café downtown where he and Ego had met a few times in the past. The kind of place that didn’t stand out. Ordinary, really. Just like Isagi had become.
Without much thought, his feet turned, and he started walking toward the café, still somewhat detached, still wrapped in the strange fog of indifference that had followed him for so long.
The café was half-empty when Isagi walked in, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hanging in the air. It was a quiet afternoon, and the gentle clinking of cups was the only sound besides the occasional murmur of customers. Isagi spotted Ego immediately, seated by the window, dressed as casually as always, yet somehow managing to look out of place with his sharp eyes and crooked smile.
Isagi approached the table, taking a seat across from him without a word. They sat in silence for a moment, the air between them heavy with unsaid things. Ego’s gaze remained fixed on Isagi, his fingers brushing lightly against the side of his coffee cup.
“I didn’t think you’d show up,” Ego said finally, his voice low and calm, but there was a hint of amusement lurking beneath it.
Isagi shrugged. “You’re persistent. Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve seen someone so invested in getting me to play soccer again.”
Ego chuckled in the most unsettling way, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Still sharp with the sarcasm, I see. But let’s cut to the chase. Japan’s U-20 team. Sae Itoshi. You’ve heard of him, I’m sure.”
Isagi’s brow furrowed slightly at the mention of Sae. He hadn’t followed the soccer world closely, but even he knew the name. It was hard not to. Sae was a prodigy, the kind of player who made waves internationally, a star.
“And?” Isagi replied coolly, leaning back in his chair to mirror Ego’s posture.
“Blue Lock is going to face them. But they need someone to make a difference.” Ego’s eyes gleamed with the intensity of a man who lived for the game, who breathed its every moment. “They need you, Isagi.”
Isagi’s expression didn’t change, but something in his chest stirred—a faint pulse, a flicker of what once was.
“I’m not interested,” he said flatly, though the words came out slower than intended. “Soccer is a waste of time.”
Ego smirked. “Is it, though? Or are you just afraid of showing them what real genius looks like?”
Isagi narrowed his eyes at the challenge, the bait hanging in the air between them. He had always hated the way Ego could get under his skin, push just the right buttons to make him think twice.
Ego continued, leaning forward now, voice dropping lower. “You’re smarter than this, Isagi. You know as well as I do that talent is meaningless without the right environment. Soccer is more than a team game. It’s a battlefield, and you—” he pointed directly at Isagi, “—could dominate it.”
There was a long silence as Isagi stared out the window, eyes distant. For a moment, the sound of that soccer ball being kicked by the boy in the park came back to him. The flicker in his chest grew a little stronger.
“I’m not some pawn for your twisted experiment,” Isagi said after a moment, though there was less conviction in his voice.
“No, you’re not,” Ego agreed. “You’re the king I’ve been waiting for.”
Isagi scoffed at the cringe choose of words, but there was something in Ego’s words that caught him off guard. King? He didn’t think of himself that way. He wasn’t Sae Itoshi. But the idea… the thought of proving himself, of proving his genius on the field, in front of everyone—
Maybe that was enough, or so he thought.
Ego raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
Isagi sighed. “I’ll think about it.”
Ego grinned. “That’s more than I expected.”
As the waiter approached their table, Isagi glanced at the menu, realizing he hadn’t eaten all day.
“I’ll have the steak sandwich,” he said without hesitation. Then, as the waiter turned to Ego, Isagi blurted out, “He’s paying.”
The waiter nodded, and Ego’s amused chuckle filled the space between them.
“You’ve got some nerve, Isagi,” Ego said, shaking his head with a grin.
“I figured you owe me,” Isagi replied, leaning back in his chair, that faint smirk now fully visible on his lips.
And so, with the weight of their conversation hanging in the air, the two sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. But something had shifted. Something was pulling Isagi back toward the ga me, toward the world he had left behind.
And maybe, just maybe, he would answer the call.
Isagi sat there, quietly picking at the last remnants of his sandwich, his mind swirling with conflicting thoughts. The conversation with Ego had stirred something in him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time—the faintest spark of excitement. But at the same time, there was a bitterness that wouldn’t leave him alone. Soccer had taken up too much of his life already. He wasn’t about to let Ego drag him back into that world of obsession and impossible expectations.
The silence between them stretched on as Ego patiently sipped his coffee, waiting for Isagi to speak. His eyes, sharp and calculating, never left Isagi’s face. Ego wasn’t the kind of man to pressure people outright; instead, he liked to plant seeds, confident that they would eventually grow into what he wanted. But Isagi wasn’t interested in being someone else’s pawn. Not again.
After a long moment, Isagi finally spoke, his voice calm but laced with a steely edge.
“Fine,” he said, pushing his plate aside and meeting Ego’s gaze head-on. “I’ll do it. But let’s get one thing straight—I’m not following any of your rules, and I’m sure not subscribing to your whole ‘egoist’ nonsense.”
Ego tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Oh? Is that so?”
Isagi nodded, his expression firm. “Yeah. I’ll help you this one time. I’ll play for Blue Lock, go up against Sae, whatever. But after that, I’m done. I’m not getting sucked back into this. Not for your ideals, not for your twisted experiments. Once it’s over, I’m walking away. For good.”
Ego leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the table as he considered Isagi’s words. The smirk never left his face, as if he had expected this all along. His eyes gleamed with that same maddening confidence, the kind that made Isagi feel like he was being toyed with.
“Fair enough,” Ego said, his tone casual, as if they were discussing something as simple as the weather. “I never expected you to play by my rules, Isagi. In fact, I wouldn’t want you to. That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?”
Isagi narrowed his eyes slightly, his jaw tightening. He hated how effortlessly Ego seemed to manipulate every situation, twisting words to suit his agenda. But Ego’s agreement felt too easy, too convenient.
“You’re okay with that?” Isagi asked, his voice skeptical. “You’re not going to try and push me into your whole ‘egoist’ mindset?”
Ego let out a soft chuckle, shrugging lazily. “You misunderstand me, Isagi. I don’t need to push you into anything. I’ve seen what you can do on the field when you let go of all those ridiculous notions of teamwork and sacrifice. When you play for yourself, when you play to win—you’re unstoppable. You don’t need me to tell you that.”
Isagi frowned, his fingers tapping restlessly against the table. He didn’t like where this conversation was going, didn’t like how Ego always managed to make it seem like he was in control. But deep down, a part of him knew there was truth in Ego’s words. When he played soccer, when he truly let loose, there was something different—something powerful—that took over.
But he wasn’t about to admit that. Not to Ego. Not to anyone.
“Like I said,” Isagi replied evenly, “I’m doing this on my terms. No more of your lectures about egoism or genius or whatever. I’m not interested in your philosophy.”
Ego waved a hand dismissively, as if the whole topic was beneath him. “Suit yourself. I don’t care about how you label it, Isagi. As long as you get the job done, that’s all that matters.”
For a moment, Isagi considered pushing back further, but he knew there was no point. Ego was like quicksand—the more you fought him, the deeper you sank. Better to keep things simple and leave it at that. He’d help out with this ridiculous scheme, face Sae Itoshi, and then be done with soccer for good.
That was the plan, at least.
“Alright,” Isagi said, standing up from the table. “I’ll play for Blue Lock, but once this is over, I’m out. No more games. No more calls.” He repeat.
Ego smiled lazily, lifting his coffee cup in a mock toast. “As you wish.”
Isagi turned to leave, but as he reached the door, Ego’s voice called out to him one last time, that familiar taunting edge to it.
“Don’t think you can fool yourself forever, Isagi. You might say you’re walking away, but we both know the game is already in your blood.”
Isagi paused, his hand resting on the door handle. For a brief moment, he considered responding, but then he simply shook his head and pushed the door open, stepping out into the fading afternoon light.
Whatever Ego thought he knew about him didn’t matter. Isagi was in control. And this time, he’d play by his own rules.
No one else’s.
As the door swung shut behind him, Isagi couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of finality, but also—ironically—an odd sense of beginning. A chapter had closed, and another, no matter how much he resisted, was already starting to unfold.
Isagi stared out of the car window, his mind miles away from the dense forest they were driving through. He had no idea where he was or why Ego had sent for him personally, but he wasn’t particularly interested in the details either. The winding roads, the trees blurring past—it all felt like some strange dream. Typical of Ego to send him to the middle of nowhere for something cryptic and overly dramatic.
The car eventually stopped in front of a sleek, futuristic facility, its structure hidden among the trees. The only indication of what the place was came from the Blue Lock logo plastered across the front doors. Isagi’s eyebrows rose slightly at the sight, but he didn’t have much time to process it before he was ushered out of the car and into the building.
He was met with silence as he was led through dimly lit halls that twisted and turned like a maze. The atmosphere was cold, sterile, almost unsettling. He didn’t bother asking questions. Instead, he drifted through the corridors absentmindedly, his thoughts still stuck on Ego’s ridiculous proposition from the day before.
They eventually stopped at a door, and the staff member motioned for him to go inside after he finishes changing his outfit. Isagi stepped in without a word, his expression blank, not even bothering to look around at first. It wasn’t until the door shut behind him with a soft click that he realized something was…off.
The room was massive—a full-sized indoor soccer field stretched out before him, the artificial turf perfectly maintained. He blinked, finally coming to a stop in the middle of the room. His eyes swept over the space, and that’s when he noticed the others.
Five people, standing at various points on the field, all wearing weird tracksuits similar to his own. Isagi frowned, tilting his head slightly as he took in the scene. Who in the world were these people?
They didn’t look familiar. Not even a little bit. Their faces didn’t ring any bells, and Isagi had never been one to keep up with professional players. He could feel their eyes on him, but he couldn’t be bothered to figure out why.
Something about the whole setup felt…off.
Instinctively, Isagi turned on his heel and began walking toward the door. He had no idea who these people were, and frankly, he didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out. There was an ominous energy in the air, and his gut was telling him that staying in the same room with these five people was a mistake.
Before he could reach the door, however, a voice crackled over the speaker system, causing him to freeze in place.
“Leaving already, Isagi? And here I thought you’d be more curious about the competition.”
Isagi’s face scrunched up in annoyance as Ego’s voice echoed through the room. He let out a frustrated sigh, slowly turning his head toward the ceiling as if looking for the source of the voice.
“What is this, Ego?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Ego’s voice continued, unaffected by Isagi’s clear irritation. “In front of you are five of the world’s finest players. Each one of them represents the peak of what the soccer world has to offer. Your task is simple—defeat them. One-on-one. All of them.”
Isagi blinked, his mind stuttering as he processed the words. He glanced back at the five figures on the field, now realizing that they were eyeing him with thinly veiled curiosity or, worse, amusement.
“Wait, what?” Isagi muttered, disbelief creeping into his voice. “World-class players? What are you talking about?”
Ego didn’t respond immediately, but the silence that followed seemed louder than any explanation he could have given. Isagi’s gaze slowly shifted back to the players on the field. World-class, huh? Somehow, that piece of information didn’t make him feel any better.
His eyes darted to the door behind him, a sudden urge to leave overpowering his thoughts. In two long strides, Isagi made his way back to the door, waiting for the door to slide open before attempting to push the door to slide open. But nothing happened. One word popped inside his mind.
Locked.
Of course, it was locked.
“Are you serious?” he muttered under his breath, banging on the door once, as if expecting it to miraculously open. “Ego, this is ridiculous. Let me out.”
The only response was the faint crackle of the speaker as Ego’s voice returned, dripping with amusement. “Come now, Isagi. This is a rare opportunity. Surely you’re not going to run away from a challenge, are you?”
Isagi gritted his teeth, his fist tightening against the door. “You expect me to fight five world-class players? By myself? Do you hear how stupid that sounds?”
From behind him, a voice broke the tension—a low, smooth voice, clearly not Japanese.
“Heh, I knew it. Japan really does produce third-rate players.”
Isagi’s entire body went still, the words sinking into his bones like a weight. Third-rate? Did that guy just call him third-rate?
He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the group. It was one of the taller players that stand beside a very massive frame and extremely tanned skin, his arms casually crossed over his chest, looking down at Isagi like he was nothing more than an insect. The guy smirked, clearly pleased with his jab.
“You heard me,” the man said in accented English. “No wonder Japan’s soccer scene is a joke. You’re proving it right now.”
Isagi’s chest tightened, a flare of anger sparking in his gut. He wasn’t particularly proud of Japan’s soccer ranking, but being called third-rate by someone who didn’t even know him? That was something else entirely.
He clenched his fists, taking a step forward, his eyes locked on the man who had spoken. In perfect English, he fired back, his voice cold and measured.
"Three,” Isagi said, his words slicing through the air.
The man raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting Isagi to respond in English. “What?”
“I’ll fight three of you,” Isagi continued, his expression hard. “And I’ll win. I don’t have the patience to play around with all five of you.”
The room went silent for a beat, the other players exchanging looks. The man who had spoken earlier scoffed, a mocking smile pulling at his lips, the tanned skin fat man of buldge muscles snickers.
“Three, huh? Confident for a third-rate.”
Isagi ignored the comment, his focus entirely on the challenge ahead. He didn’t care about Ego’s ridiculous games, and he didn’t care about these so-called world-class players. But one thing was for sure—he wasn’t about to let someone walk all over his pride.
Inside the monitoring room, bathed in the glow of numerous screens showing various angles of the field, Ego sat in his usual slouched posture, a cup of coffee in hand, while Anri Teieri stood next to him, her eyes fixed on the main screen displaying Isagi and the five world-class players.
Anri's brow furrowed in thought as she watched Isagi step up, his shoulders squared with a determination she hadn’t quite seen before. He was in fact someone she never met before.
"Ego, are you sure about this?" she asked, glancing down at the man lounging in his chair. "I mean, I dont know why Isagi has potential as you said, but why throw him in with world-class players? You’ve barely given him time to catch his breath, let alone adjust."
Ego didn’t move his gaze from the screen, his expression one of cool indifference. He took a sip from his cup before answering, his voice as dismissive as ever.
"Potential isn’t something you give time to grow, Anri. You light a fire under it and see if it burns everything in its path."
Anri halt, before crossed her arms, unconvinced. "But he seems like doesn’t even know who these players are. He’s walking in blind."
"Exactly," Ego replied with a lazy grin. "That’s the whole point."
She blinked, tilted her head, curious. "What do you mean?"
Ego finally turned to look at her, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Isagi isn’t like the others. He doesn’t need names, fame, or stats to understand what he’s up against. And I’m throwing him into the deep end because that’s where he thrives." Cryptically said Ego the emo.
Anri considered his words, her gaze drifting back to the screen. "But still… five world-class players. You think he can really hold his own?"
Ego’s smirk widened. "He’ll do more than that. Watch."
Anri heard the declaration from Isagi, she glance at Ego, didn't said anything or intervene. A silent agreement of Isagi words. A permission.
Back on the field, the atmosphere had shifted dramatically. The initial tension had evolved into a smoldering challenge, with Isagi standing alone, facing down the five world-class players who eyed him like a wolf pack sizing up its prey.
One of them, a tall figure with sharp features and long legs, also tanned but lighter than the other, stepped forward first—Loki, a striker known for his speed and agility. His reputation as one of the fastest players in the world had earned him a fearsome status on the field.
Without a word, the ball was kicked into play, and Loki took possession instantly, his movements fluid and almost otherworldly. He darted past Isagi with a speed that seemed impossible to track, leaving a trail of air in his wake.
But Isagi didn’t panic. His eyes followed Loki’s movements, analyzing each subtle shift in his opponent’s body language. Isagi moved into position, his feet light but deliberate, already predicting where the ball would be next.
Loki zipped across the field, but the moment he lined up his shot for a goal, Isagi was already there, intercepting with a perfectly timed block. The foreign player’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second as Isagi stole the ball cleanly, twisting away from him in one fluid motion.
Loki tried to recover, but it was too late. Isagi was already moving, a sharp burst of acceleration carrying him toward the goal. Without hesitating, Isagi lined up his shot and sent the ball flying into the top corner of the net with pinpoint precision.
"One," Isagi muttered under his breath, barely breaking a sweat.
The field went silent for a moment, the other players exchanging glances. Loki, recovering his composure, narrowed his eyes, clearly not expecting Isagi to move like that.
The next player stepped forward—a small, muscular midfielder with a towering presence of professional air around him. He didn’t say anything, just positioned himself between Isagi and the ball with an imposing stance. Isagi didn’t falter, though. His mind was already calculating the next move, the next opportunity.
The whistle blew, and the ball was in play again. This time, Isagi moved first, charging straight toward the midfielder, who braced himself for impact. But just before they collided, Isagi feinted to the left, spinning around the player’s slim figure with deceptive grace. The midfielder’s size worked against him as he stumbled to adjust, giving Isagi the split second he needed to slip past.
With a sharp pivot, Isagi blasted the ball into the goal once more, his shot clean and powerful.
"Two."
The midfielder cursed under his breath as Isagi jogged back to the center of the field, his expression still calm and focused.
The last three players seemed more cautious now, watching Isagi with a mix of curiosity and calculation. They weren’t underestimating him anymore. One of them, a lean winger with razor-sharp reflexes, called out something in a foreign language, his tone light but competitive. It was clear they were no longer holding back.
Isagi didn’t care.
The ball was kicked into play again, and this time, the last of the player—who called him a third rate—came at him simultaneously as soon as the time whistle. The coordination was impeccable, the movements fast and precise. A clearly sight trying to overwhelm him with sudden pressure, but Isagi’s mind worked faster.
He dodged the first tackle, weaving between with minimal effort. His eyes flicked toward the goal, calculating the distance, the angle. The third player recover quickly, and lunged at him, trying to cut off his shot, but Isagi was already a step ahead.
He didn’t just aim for the goal—he aimed for the exact spot the robot ai goalkeeper would be weakest, taking into account the attempt defender’s positioning, the angle of approach, and the spin on the ball. In a flash, he shot.
The ball sailed past the attempt last defender and slammed into the back of the net.
"Three," Isagi said quietly, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.
The players stared at him, stunned into silence. Even Loki, who had been watching the entire time, couldn’t hide the look of mild surprise on his face.
Isagi dusted off his hands, turning toward the locked door at the far end of the room.
"Ridiculous," he muttered. "What a waste of time."
But just as he approached the door again, the sound of clapping echoed through the room, followed by the unmistakable voice of Ego over the speakers.
"Well done, Isagi. You’ve passed the first test."
Isagi paused.
"My what first? What—"
Notes:
Remember, you can just straight out skip chapter 7, since I felt a burning shame reading that one.
[Edited on February 20, 2025.]
Chapter Text
It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the halls of Blue Lock. The remaining players who had survived the grueling trials of the program were gathered in a large auditorium. The air was thick with tension, buzzing with the kind of anticipation only seasoned competitors could feel—the room, much like the program itself, was cold, sterile, and foreboding. The walls were adorned with sleek, minimalist decor—stark whites and grays that only heightened the sense of isolation and focus. The players sat in metal chairs, some fidgeting in place, others crossing their arms, eyes forward, waiting for something—anything—to break the silence.
Among the crowd were the faces of those who had fought tooth and nail to remain in Blue Lock. Every person in that room had earned their place: Rin Itoshi, sitting near the front, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his cold eyes fixed ahead, betraying no emotion. Not far from him sat Barou Shoei, his posture stiff, his muscles taut as though he were prepared to spring into action at any moment. Bachira Meguru was bouncing slightly in his seat, unable to contain his excitement, while Nagi Seishiro sat slouched, looking bored and uninterested, his gaze wandering aimlessly across the room
Suddenly, the large screen behind the podium flickered to life, casting a bright light that illuminated the center of the room. The chatter ceased immediately as every head turned toward the screen, their focus now on the imposing figure who appeared—a man with a lean build, glasses that glinted under the harsh lighting, and a permanent expression of calculated indifference: Ego Jinpachi.
He stood at the podium in his usual, nonchalant manner, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Beside him stood Anri Teieri, who looked composed, yet her eyes flickered with anticipation as she scanned the room. Ego let the silence stretch for a few more seconds, basking in the attention of the players who were now hanging on his every word.
Then, with a sharp breath, he began.
“You pathetic diamonds in the rough,” he said, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. His eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the room. "Let me be clear. You are all here because you survived Blue Lock's selection process—but surviving doesn’t mean you're complete. Far from it." He took a step forward, his hands still buried in his pockets, his face devoid of any warmth or empathy. “You're raw. You’re unfinished. Your potential is the only thing keeping you from being cast aside like the failures you've beaten. And that’s why today, we’re moving one step closer to your evolution.”
A murmur rippled through the players, each one of them feeling the weight of Ego’s words. His eyes scanned the crowd, and for a brief second, his gaze seemed to linger on some of them.
Kira Ryosuke, who had survived by sheer tenacity and skill, frowned. He leaned forward slightly in his seat, trying to make sense of where this was going. He hadn’t forgotten how Ego had dismissed him once, but he was still here—still fighting to prove his worth.
Ego, noticing the ripple of unease, smirked slightly. “You've all grown,” he continued, his voice now taking on a darker edge. “But that growth isn’t enough. Just like how you fight the top high class players, in the coming weeks, you will face a challenge that will push you beyond anything you've ever known. A challenge that will decide whether you truly have what it takes to become the striker Japan needs.”
The room tensed. Some of the players leaned forward in anticipation, while others, like Rin, remained stoic. "As all of you know of the U-20 Japan National Team," Ego announced, his tone sharp. “The very team that represents everything you're here to destroy. They are the embodiment of the old, pathetic ways that have led Japanese soccer into mediocrity. And now, they will be your opponents.”
At the mention of the U-20 team, murmurs broke out among the players. Barou's lips twisted into a scowl, while Bachira’s eyes lit up with excitement. Rin, however, remained still, though there was a flicker of something behind his cold gaze—before disappear soon after. Kira leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowed, already calculating what this announcement meant.
Ego’s voice cut through the chatter once again. "To make matters more interesting, they've brought someone. Someone who will now play for the U-20 team for the match that'll fight against us by the invitation of Japan Football Union to ensure the U-20 team.” He clicked a button on the podium, and the screen behind him shifted to show the image of Sae Itoshi, again.
The reaction was instant. Several players scowl, while others shot glances toward Rin, whose eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The tension in the room spiked: they weren’t just facing any team—they were facing Sae Itoshi, a prodigy, a genius, someone whose talent was already recognized on the global stage. Just like how they had fight against the one Ego set in on the end of the second selection.
"Sae will be joining the U-20 Japan team for one reason: to crush you,” Ego declared, his voice dripping with disdain. “The Japan Football Union doesn’t believe any of you have what it takes. They're not wrong. As you are now, you’re nothing but amateurs compared to the rest of the U-20 team and Sae Itoshi.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. The silence in the room was palpable.
Then, with a slight shift in his posture, Ego's smirk widened. “But…” he added slowly, “I'm going to give you a weapon. A striker who can lead you, push you, and most importantly, force you to level up. Because right now, you’re still far too weak to beat the U-20 team as you are. You all aware of that.”
The players bristled at his words, but none of them dared to speak, they were aware enough of the harsh truth coming from Ego. The anticipation and tension was thick in the air, each one of them wondering who Ego could possibly mean.
Ego’s eyes glinted with something close to amusement as he finally motioned to the side. “Let me introduce you to your new teammate. A player who, despite being a wild card, will be essential to your victory.”
From the shadows, Isagi Yoichi stepped into the light.
"Isagi Yoichi."
The collective gaze of the room snapped toward him, all of the players does not recognizing him. Others, like Barou and Rin, simply stared, assessing him with cold, calculating eyes. The atmosphere shifted, growing tense and heavy. Isagi’s presence commanded attention, even if it wasn’t immediately clear why Ego had chosen him.
Before Ego could continue his speech, Isagi raised a hand. The movement was calm, but his expression was anything but. His eyes, sharp and almost unsettling, scanned the room before landing on the crowd of players. A faint smile played at the corner of his lips, though it lacked the sense of warmth.
"I’m going to make this simple," Isagi said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "If any of you don’t trust me to play in this match, we can settle it right here and now. There are 23 of us left in this room. Let’s fight it out. A full team without holding back." As if he already noticed of their distrust, he immediately proposed.
The room erupted.
"You’ve got to be kidding me," Barou growled, his eyes narrowing as he stood from his seat, the disdain clear on his face. "You think you can just walk in here and make demands? You're not the king here." His posture was rigid, his pride visibly stung by Isagi’s sudden directness.
Others weren’t far behind in their reactions. "What arrogance," Rin muttered, though his cold, calculating expression barely shifted. His tone was low, but there was no mistaking the disdain laced in his words.
Across the room, Kira nodded in agreement, though his reaction was more controlled. "Maybe we should hear him out," Kira said, his voice even. "But don’t think I’m letting my guard down. If he’s really that confident, then he should be willing to prove it."
Bachira, ever the playful one, leaned back in his seat with a grin plastered on his face. "A fight, huh? Sounds fun to me," he said, his excitement palpable.
"Magnificent, " Aryu exclaimed, striking a dramatic pose as he twirled his hair. "The battle of aesthetics shall be glorious."
Isagi didn’t react to the chaos around him. His eyes slowly shifted and locked on Barou, his earlier smile widening just slightly.
"Barou," he called out, his voice calm yet commanding. "You’re on my team."
Barou’s glare intensified, his fists clenching as he stood up immediately from his chair. "Why would I play on your team, you little—"
Isagi cut him off, his voice even and precise. "You want to be the king, right?" He paused, feige ignorance of the heated glare directed to him. "So then you can prove yourself when you play as part of a team with me." Isagi trailed off, humming. "Or... are you afraid?"
The provocation hit its mark.
Isagi's fingers drummed impatiently on the table, his gaze drifting toward the large window that stretched across one side of the room. The soft, ambient light pouring in did little to soften the sharp tension between him and the other two figures in the room—Anri Teieri, sitting across from him, her fingers tapping through slide after slide of a seemingly endless presentation, and Ego Jinpachi, standing near the corner with his arms crossed, observing with his usual detached air.
The hum of the projector filled the silence. Isagi leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, an irritated frown pulling at the corners of his lips. His patience was wearing thin.
"Can we skip this nonsense?" Isagi cut in, his voice sharp as he interrupted Anri mid-sentence. His eyes barely glanced at the screen where the names and stats of the remaining players flashed by. He didn't need to see their states—he didn't need that nonsense when he can fight them head on instead. Whatever nonsense of knows your enemy this was—it wouldn't set through his head.
Anri paused, momentarily caught off guard by Isagi’s bluntness. She exchanged a glance with Ego, who didn’t move, didn’t react—his usual blank, almost bored expression remained unchanged.
"This isn’t nonsense, Isagi," Anri replied, her tone firm but not unkind. She clicked the remote, moving to the next slide. "We’re discussing the potential of your teammates—the ones you’ll have to help if we want to win against the U-20 team. Every player still in Blue Lock has something they’re lacking, and that’s why—"
"I know that already," Isagi cut her off again, the frustration seeping into his voice when she repeat that sentences again for who knows how many. He shifted in his seat, resting his chin on his hand as he shot a glance toward Ego. "What I don’t understand is why I have to be involved. I’m not a coach, you are Ego. I’m not their babysitter."
Ego’s lips twitched slightly—a hint of amusement, maybe, or something more calculating. He pushed off the wall, taking a slow step toward the center of the room, hands still buried in his pockets. The air seemed to grow heavier as Ego approached, his gaze settling on Isagi with a piercing intensity.
"That’s exactly why you’re here, Isagi," Ego said, his voice low, deliberate. "You’re not a coach. You’re not here to coddle them. You’re here because you’ve proven yourself to be adaptable—a player who can see the bigger picture, who can turn the tides of a game with the right move."
Isagi’s eyes narrowed, the irritation on his face slowly giving way to something colder, more calculating. The more he stayed with the older man, the more he is like him. He doesn't like that, one bit. The guy rubbed him again in the wrong possible way. As Ego wasn’t flattering him. This wasn’t about praise. Hence, there was always something more behind Ego’s words—a trap, a hidden agenda.
"So what?" Isagi shot back, his tone biting. "You want me to be their stepping stone? To just help them level up like I’m some sort of final boss in a video game?"
Ego’s smirk grew, just a fraction, as though he had been waiting for Isagi to say exactly that. He stepped closer, the echo of his footsteps resonating in the quiet room fully out from the corner of the room.
"That’s exactly what I want," Ego confirmed, his voice cool and measured. "In this phase of Blue Lock, the players don’t just need to survive—they need to evolve. And you, Isagi Yoichi, are the perfect catalyst for that. They’ll use you as their measuring stick, their challenge to overcome. That’s how this works."
Isagi’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. "So I’m just a tool for them to use?" he muttered, his voice low, barely masking the offense he felt.
Ego shrugged nonchalantly, his gaze never wavering from Isagi’s. "You’re more than just a tool. You’re the standard they need to surpass. If they can’t, they’ll fail. And if you can’t push them to that level, then you’ll fail too."
Isagi’s eyes flickered with something—annoyance, yes, but also a flash of understanding. This was just like Ego. Nothing was ever straightforward. But that didn’t mean Isagi wasn’t playing his own game.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes narrowing as they locked with Ego’s. "You’re not just testing them," Isagi said, his voice quieter now, but more dangerous. "You’re testing me too, and I assumed this is my second test. You want to see if I can handle being the one they aim for."
Ego didn’t deny it. He simply smirked, a subtle but telling shift in his expression.
"Everything is a test, Isagi," Ego said calmly. "But the question isn’t whether you’ll success. The question is whether you’ll rise even higher because of it. You’ve already climbed far beyond what's expected. Now let’s see if you drag the others up with their own level."
The room seemed to buzz with the weight of Ego’s words. Anri remained silent, watching the exchange with a tension that simmered just below the surface. She knew Ego well enough to understand his methods, but even she couldn’t help but feel the intensity between the two and unable to understand the conversation that lay bare in front of her.
Isagi held Ego’s gaze for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. His mind was racing, weighing the situation, calculating his next move. He wasn’t stupid—he knew Ego was trying to push him into a corner, to make him into accepting this role. But he also knew that there was something to be gained here. Something more than just playing the part of the “final boss.”
Finally, Isagi leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly. The faintest of laze smirks tugged at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
"Fine," he said, his voice cool, measured. "I’ll do it. But don’t think for a second that I’m doing this for them. I'm doing this for the favour you had asked."
Ego’s smirk widened just slightly, as though he had anticipated that response. "Of course," he said simply, his tone almost approving. "After all, that’s what being a striker is all about. They'll do whatever it takes to win. Even if it means you using them and break them to reach that level of unstoppable."
Isagi rose from his seat, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape against the floor. He gave one final glance at the presentation on the screen—the names of the players, their stats, their potential. He didn’t need to read any of it. He already knew what he had to do.
"I’ll pick the ones I need," Isagi said, more to himself than to anyone else. He turned toward the door, his hand resting on the handle for just a moment before he paused.
Without looking back, he added, "But don’t expect me to play nice."
Ego’s chuckle echoed softly through the room as Isagi left, the door closing behind him with a quiet thud.
Anri, who had been silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke, her voice soft but tinged with concern. "Do you really think this will work, Ego?"
Ego’s eyes remained on the door for a moment longer before he turned back to her, his expression unreadable. "It doesn’t matter if it works the way he thinks it will," he said, his voice calm, almost casual. "All that matters is that by the end of this, Isagi will either break their limits—or they be broken by him."
Anri frowned slightly, her unease clear, but she knew there was no point in arguing. Ego had already set the pieces in motion. Now, all they could do was wait and see how the game unfolded.
Isagi’s eyes remained locked on Barou, that same faint, unsettling smile still playing on his lips as the memory of the meeting lingered in his mind. He had made his decision then, and now, it was time to put it into action.
"You’re on my team, Barou," Isagi repeated, his voice steady, unwavering.
Barou stared back at him, the defiance clear in his eyes. For a moment, it seemed like he would refuse—his pride wouldn’t let him bow to anyone, especially not someone like Isagi.
But before Barou could voice his protest, Isagi’s next words cut through the air like a knife.
"Shows me what'll it really means to be a king."
The challenge was clear, and it hit Barou exactly where Isagi intended it to. The tension in the air crackled between them, but after a long, tense silence, Barou finally scoffed, his lips curling into a snarl.
"Fine," Barou growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll shows you who is beneath who."
Isagi’s smile widened just slightly, his eyes glinting with a calculated edge and satisfaction.
" You will," he said softly, almost to himself. "Whether you realize it or not. Whether you wanted it or not."
Isagi’s gaze lingered on Barou for a moment longer, watching the subtle shift in his expression—resistance, pride, a simmering anger that was just barely held in check. It was exactly what Isagi wanted. Isagi can see that Barou's strength wasn’t just in his physical prowess or his ability to bulldoze through opponents as far he remembers Anri's words. It was his ego, his desire to be the king, that made him dangerous. But it was also his weakness—something Isagi planned to exploit.
He turned away from Barou without another word, his eyes scanning the remaining players standing before him. Some of them stared back at him with wide eyes, a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. They all knew Isagi had been named the captain for this test, and that meant he had the power to choose. To pick who would stand beside him and who would be left behind.
Isagi’s fingers twitched at his side as his thoughts raced. He needed more than just raw talent. He needed players who could adapt, who could follow his lead, even if they didn’t realize it yet. Players who, like him, had learned to survive through their ability to evolve.
His gaze shifted toward Nagi Seishiro, sitting near the edge of the group, his usual lethargic expression masking the raw, unpolished talent lurking beneath. But there was something else too, something more personal that Isagi considered as he pointed toward him.
"Nagi," Isagi said simply, his voice cutting through the tense air. Nagi’s head tilted slightly, his white hair falling over one eye as he gave Isagi a half-hearted glance, his hands tucked lazily into his pockets.
"Huh?" Nagi blinked, as though he had just woken up from a nap. He didn’t say much else, though. It wasn’t in his nature to question—he simply nodded, stepping forward to stand closer to Isagi, his movements slow, unhurried. He didn’t need to ask why he was chosen. He didn’t care about that. All that mattered was that the creep Ego has been gazing on him when the blue haired teen said his name, a silent beckoning to follow without any words, and that was enough for him move.
As Nagi stood beside him, Isagi’s eyes continued to flicker through the group, his mind working at a rapid pace. The next name came to him as easily as the first.
"Chigiri."
Hyoma Chigiri’s crimson hair caught the light as he glanced up, a flash of surprise crossing his face before it was replaced by his usual cocky smirk. He pushed off the chair where he had been sitting, his movements fluid and graceful, isagi immediately note the speed evident even in the smallest of gestures.
"About time you picked someone with real talent," Chigiri teased, though there was no real malice behind his words. His eyes gleamed with excitement—the anticipation of what was to come, the chance to run freely again. Isagi didn’t mind the attitude. Chigiri’s speed was unmatched, and his confidence only added to the unpredictability he brought to the game.
Isagi offered no response to Chigiri’s comment, merely nodding as the striker joined the growing group beside him. The pieces were falling into place, but there was more to consider.
He scanned the rest of the room, picking through the remaining players like pieces on a chessboard. Each move was calculated, deliberate, as his eyes landed on Bachira Meguru next.
"Bachira."
The wild grin that spread across Bachira’s face was immediate, his golden eyes lighting up with an almost childlike excitement. He bounded forward without hesitation, his movements loose and carefree, as though the entire selection process was nothing more than a game to him. In a way, it was. For Bachira, the thrill of playing, of chasing that feeling of connection on the field, was everything.
"Yesss! This is gonna be fun!" Bachira practically purred, his excitement palpable as he joined Isagi’s team. His energy was infectious, but Isagi didn’t let it distract him. Isagi could tell that Bachira is unpredictable, a sign of a chaotic style of play, that alone would be a crucial asset. The fact that personally indicates his thrived in situations where others hesitated, where order broke down and instinct took over. It was exactly the kind of wild card Isagi needed.
One by one, the names continued to come to him, his choices deliberate, careful, each player adding a new dimension to the team he was building.
"Rin Itoshi."
Rin’s cold, emotionless gaze locked onto Isagi’s the moment his name was called. There was no reaction, no shift in expression, but the tension between them was unmistakable. Isagi knew exactly what he was doing. Sae Itoshi is a player whose very presence pushed him to his limits, that would include Rin Itoshi as well. But that was also what made Rin essential. With Isagi was in control. He would see and use Rin’s talent to his advantage.
Without a word, Rin stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Isagi’s as he took his place on the team. The unspoken challenge hung heavy in the air, but Isagi welcomed it.
He continued to pick the rest of the team with the same calculated precision, like Kiyora for example. Nevertheless, he continue.
"Tokimitsu."
The nervous energy that radiated from Aoshi Tokimitsu was palpable, the only person he remembers from Anri's presentation, and Isagi knew better than to underestimate him. Tokimitsu’s anxiety often masked his raw strength, his ability to overpower opponents when pushed to his limits. Isagi would make sure to push him—force him to break through that fear and become something more.
Tokimitsu hesitated at first, his hands trembling slightly as he stepped forward, but Isagi’s gaze was steady, unwavering. He knew Tokimitsu could handle the pressure. He just needed the right kind of push.
"Hiori."
Looking at Hiori Yo’s calm, almost detached demeanor contrasted sharply with the intensity of the others, but Isagi saw something in him that others often overlooked—a quiet intelligence, an ability to read the game in ways others couldn’t. Hiori was the kind of player who could see the bigger picture, who could connect the dots that others missed. He would be invaluable in orchestrating the flow of the game.
Finally, Isagi picked the last player.
"Gagamaru."
Another one that Isagi able to glimpse of Gagamaru Gin from Anri’s presentation, maybe the only one he had paid attention into, his hulking frame and imposing presence were impossible to ignore. Gagamaru didn’t need much direction—his instincts between the posts were sharp, and his athleticism made him a formidable last line of defense. Isagi trusted him to hold the backline, giving the rest of the team the freedom to attack without hesitation.
With his selections complete, Isagi stepped back, surveying the group that stood before him. Each player brought something unique to the table—strengths that, when combined, would create a team that could adapt, evolve, and push past their limits.
But more than that, Isagi had chosen them because he didn't knew how to used their weaknesses. And that what most thrilling about. He didn't even know their name if it wasn't for Anri's presentation, and his mind has taken a small glimpse of the meeting. He only recalled their brief personality and characteristics that Anri has introduced, their complexity was a way to tell their playstyle alone. He could experiment them. And He would push them, force them to confront their flaws, their egos, and their fears while he explore them.
The faint, unsettling smile from earlier returned to Isagi’s lips as he glanced over at Barou once more, the unspoken challenge between them still simmering beneath the surface.
"Let’s see how far all of you and the rest can go ," Isagi murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.
The air inside the room grew heavy as Isagi’s selections concluded, leaving behind a palpable tension among the players who had not been picked. Their eyes flicked toward him with varying degrees of disappointment, frustration, and, in some cases, outright disbelief. The auditorium, once filled with whispers and low murmurs, now fell into an oppressive silence.
Reo Mikage already stood stiffly among the unchosen, his gaze fixed on the floor as if searching for something to ground him. The moment Isagi had called Nagi’s name, a strange tightness gripped his chest. He had expected—no, counted on—being chosen alongside Nagi. They were supposed to be a pair, a perfect combination of his strategy and Nagi’s instinct. Yet, now he was left standing alone, watching as his longtime partner casually joined Isagi’s team without even sparing him a glance.
Reo’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white. A knot of frustration twisted in his gut, but he didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Not with Ego’s eyes on him, that cold, analytical gaze that seemed to cut through the room like a knife. Ego hadn’t said a word directly to him, but the look was enough. It told Reo everything—to be silent.
Reo swallowed hard, forcing down the bitterness that bubbled up in his throat. His pride screamed at him to say something, to protest, but the weight of Ego’s silent judgement kept him rooted in place. He had no choice but to accept it, though it burned him from the inside.
Across the room, Kira Ryosuke stood similarly still, his brows furrowing as he processed the situation. Isagi hadn’t picked him. He was no stranger to disappointment in Blue Lock, but this? This felt different. Isagi was introduced by Ego, which mean that Isagi is worthy the acknowledgement.
Kira’s lips pressed into a thin line as he let out a slow breath. He wasn’t one to dwell on emotions, but this rejection felt personal—but the fact that Isagi looking at him like some dust without even a backward glance.
He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to keep his composure. Despite the feeling of inadequacy gnawing at him, Kira reminded himself of one thing—this wasn’t over. There was still time to prove himself, still time to rise above this setback.
Reo, on the other hand, couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on him. He glanced up at Nagi, who was now standing lazily among the chosen players, his disinterest in the situation almost insulting. Nagi hadn’t even looked back at him. The realization hit Reo hard—had he always been this invisible to Nagi? Had their partnership meant so little?
His chest tightened, a mixture of anger and betrayal swelling inside him. But as he shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny of Ego, who still hadn’t moved from his spot, Reo knew he couldn’t show any weakness. Not here. Not now. Ego would see it as a flaw, something to exploit. And Reo couldn’t afford to be seen as weak, not when his entire future hung in the balance.
Forcing his expression into a neutral mask, Reo swallowed the resentment. He wasn’t the only one feeling the sting—the offense as if he wasn't even worth to be choosen. Other players around him exchanged glances, some muttering under their breath, others standing frozen in place, unsure of what to do next.
Barou, who had begrudgingly joined Isagi’s team after being provoked, cast a sidelong glance at the unchosen. A sneer tugged at his lips, though his expression was as unreadable as ever. He relished in his superiority, basking in the knowledge that he had been picked. But even he couldn’t deny that the atmosphere had shifted. The power dynamics in the room had changed, and the players left out knew it.
Beside Kira, Aryu Jyubei adjusted his hair with an exaggerated flourish, his usual confidence dimmed. He wasn’t as outwardly shaken as some of the others, but the disappointment in his eyes was clear. He had expected to be among the chosen, his glamorous style and aerial prowess making him a strong candidate. Yet, here he stood, watching as the teams formed without him whilst he formed with the other unchosen.
"Well, I suppose this just means I’ll have to shine even brighter," Aryu muttered to himself, though there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
As the rest of the players remained in awkward silence, Ego stepped forward, his ever-present grin widening slightly as he observed the room. The tension was exactly what he had expected—no, what he had wanted. This was how players were forged, through adversity, through challenge. He thrived on their frustration, their hunger for validation. It was exactly what would push them to grow.
"I see some of you are feeling left out," Ego said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Good. That’s what I want. If you’re feeling weak, if you’re feeling unwanted, that’s because you are. Right now, you’re nothing more than extras in this grand stage of football. But that doesn’t mean you’re done."
His eyes swept over the unchosen players, to others like Reo, who tensed visibly under the scrutiny.
"You’ll get your chance to prove yourselves—if you’re strong enough to survive. But understand this," Ego continued, his tone sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. "No one here is irreplaceable. Not even the ones I’ve chosen. You want to stand where they stand? You want to be part of the team? Then evolve. Show me you deserve it."
Reo’s hands twitched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. The words stung, but they also ignited something within him. Ego’s challenge was clear. If he wanted to reclaim his place, to prove that he was more than just Nagi’s partner, he had to step out of the shadows and rise on his own.
Kira, too, felt the weight of Ego’s words settle in his chest. He clenched his jaw, determination hardening in his eyes. He wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.
As the tension in the room reached its peak, Isagi remained silent, his eyes drifting over the unchosen players with a calm, almost detached expression. He had expected this reaction, the simmering frustration, the hurt pride. But this was exactly what they needed. This was Blue Lock. How... Admirable. Isagi mused in lamented.
Still, Kira Ryosuke, never one to back down from voicing his thoughts, crossed his arms and stepped forward, his expression serious but laced with frustration. His sharp gaze flicked toward Isagi, eyes narrowing in disbelief at the way the teams had been formed. There was a pause before he spoke, his voice cutting through the tense silence left by Ego's words.
"Isagi-kun, why did you pick almost all the strongest powerhouses?" Kira's voice had a hint of accusation. "You’ve got Rin, Barou, Nagi—those three alone could wipe the floor with the rest of us. Even if this isn’t an official match, what’s the point? Isn’t this just an easy win for you? How does this prove anything?"
His question hung in the air, drawing the attention of the other players who hadn’t been picked. Some nodded subtly in agreement, their own doubts rising. Kira’s words weren’t unreasonable. From a surface-level perspective, it looked like Isagi had stacked the odds in his favor, building a team that could dominate without much effort. Even Barou, standing off to the side, raised an eyebrow, his usual sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Isagi didn’t respond immediately, letting Kira’s words sink in. Instead, he maintained that unsettlingly calm expression, his eyes calm but thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, considering his response, though beneath that facade, a mind was already calculating his next move.
Slowly, Isagi's faint smile returned, the kind that wasn’t meant to comfort, but to unsettle. His eyes met Kira's, unwavering, and then he spoke, his tone low but deliberate.
"You think this is about picking the strongest players, Kira?" Isagi’s voice held an edge, but there was something almost disarming about the way he delivered his words—measured, logical. "Sure, I picked Rin, Barou, and Nagi. They're powerhouses, as you said. But you're missing the point."
He took a step forward, his gaze sweeping over the other players, lingering for a moment on Rin, who stood with his arms crossed and gaze fixed on the floor, uninterested in the drama.
"Tell me, Kira," Isagi continued, his voice gaining momentum. "What happens when you put three of the most egoistic players together? You think they'll cooperate perfectly, right?"
There was a pause as Kira frowned, visibly processing Isagi’s words, but Isagi didn’t give him time to interject.
"By the look at it, I can just tell that Barou refuses to pass. Rin only cares about proving he’s the best. And Nagi? He looks like doesn’t care about anything unless someone push or give him to do so." Isagi’s gaze flicked to each of them as he spoke, his words sharp and precise, exposing the individual flaws of his chosen teammates without hesitation.
"If I wanted an easy win, I wouldn’t pick players who are more likely to fight against each other than with each other."
Kira’s eyes widened slightly, his stance shifting as he processed the underlying message in Isagi’s words. He hadn’t thought about it that way—about the inherent challenge of controlling the chaos that came with players like Barou, Rin, and Nagi.
Isagi continued, his voice steady but carrying an air of authority. "This isn’t about power. It’s about ego. The stronger the players, the harder it is to make them work together. That’s the real challenge."
He took another step forward, now standing closer to Kira, his eyes locked on him with an intensity that made it hard to look away. "You said I picked the strongest players, but strength alone doesn’t win games. It's how you use that strength. It’s about creating a team, not just gathering the best pieces."
Kira shifted uncomfortably, but Isagi didn’t stop. "By the time this match is over, either we’ll have learned how to work together, or we’ll have exposed every weakness we have as individuals. That’s what Ego wants to see. He doesn’t care about whether we win or lose this practice match. He cares about who grows the most."
The room was silent, the other players watching intently. Kira’s frustration had dimmed, his confidence shaken as Isagi’s words began to sink in. He had walked into this argument thinking Isagi had made a selfish, thoughtless decision, but now he wasn’t so sure. There was a method to Isagi’s madness, and it became clearer the more he spoke.
Isagi’s eyes softened just a fraction in the most unsettled way when they curve in crescent, and his tone shifted slightly, still calm but now with a subtle challenge laced underneath.
"Tell me, Kira. Would you rather be part of a team where you’re comfortable, where you know your role? Or would you rather be part of a team that forces you to grow, forces you to find new strengths?" His smile stretcthed and widened, just enough to make Kira question his own doubts.
Kira, though silent, couldn’t help but feel Isagi’s words. It wasn’t overt, but there was no denying that Isagi was steering the conversation exactly where he wanted it to go. And yet, it made perfect sense.
The other players remained quiet, watching the exchange closely. Some, like Reo, stood rigid, their minds already racing with the implications of Isagi’s words. For Reo, the separation from Nagi now felt even more significant. It wasn’t just a matter of strategy—it was about growth. The discomfort he felt wasn’t just personal—it was the price of becoming stronger.
Even Barou, who had been smirking to himself moments before, now seemed more focused, his ego tempered, if only slightly, by the realization that he wasn’t the only challenge on the field. He knew that Isagi’s words were true—his refusal to pass, his obsession with being the sole king on the field, these were weaknesses that could destroy a team. But Barou, ever prideful, would never admit it aloud.
Rin, however, remained unmoved, his cold gaze now locked on Isagi. He understood what Isagi was doing, the way he was shifted the situation, controlling the narrative. But Rin didn’t care. He was here for one reason only—to prove that he was the best, regardless of what Isagi or anyone else said.
Kira finally spoke, his voice lower now, tinged with a reluctant acceptance. "I get it," he muttered, uncrossing his arms. "You’re not just building a team to win—you’re building a team to challenge yourself."
Isagi didn't nodded, letting Kira's assumption and misunderstood continue, his expression softening just slightly. "Exactly. And if you want to stand on the same field as them, snd to prove yourself, you’ll have to do the same."
Kira fell silent, the weight of Isagi’s words pressing down on him.
Notes:
[Edited on February 20, 2025.]
Chapter 3: Unseen Pressure
Notes:
Isagi's team:
Gagaramaru,
Rin,
Barou,
Hiori,
Kiyora,
Isagi,
Nagi,
Tokimitsu,
Chigiri, + Robot as goalie.Kira's team,
Kira,
Yukimiya,
Karasu,
Nanase,
Igarashi,
Niko,
Raichi,
Tsurugi,
Milage,
Aryu + that robot as goalie.
Who didn't joined in,
That dude with white hairs and strands of green hair playboy dude, he state he isn't interested in the drama and just wanted to watch the drama on the monitoring room with clear HD view, Kurona the shark and Wanima the crocodile dude.
You can skip this chapter. Since it was only a match. And I'm trying to test the water.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The anticipation in the room crackled as the players took their positions on the field. Isagi’s team, clad in dark jerseys that seemed to reflect their fierce determination, lined up against Kira’s team, who looked equally as motivated, ready to prove they belonged on the same field. The air was tense with excitement and nerves, an electric buzz coursing through every player as they sized up their opponents, mentally preparing for the game ahead.
Isagi stood in the center of his team, his usual calm demeanor in place, but there was an undeniable intensity to his gaze as he scanned the field. His teammates shifted with barely contained energy, some of them waiting for his instructions, expecting him to detail some kind of strategy. But when he finally spoke, his words were simple and direct.
“Do whatever you want in this game.”
A ripple of shock went through his team, with Tokimitsu’s mouth dropping open slightly in disbelief. He fidgeted nervously, glancing at the others as though he needed someone to confirm he’d heard right. Beside him, Hiori looked equally surprised, his brows knitting together as he tried to decipher Isagi’s words. Chigiri's eyes narrowed, the faintest frown tugging at his lips as he watched Isagi’s calm expression. Kiyora simply adjusted his stance, ready to launch into the game, though his face betrayed a hint of wariness.
But others—like Barou, Rin, and Nagi—accepted Isagi’s declaration without question, each of them relishing the freedom it implied. For them, this was a chance to push boundaries, test limits, and play without restrictions, one—certainly, Nagi—even content on the thought of not doing anything. Barou even smirked, his prideful demeanor evident as he let out a low scoff, clearly reveling in the opportunity to play his way.
Rin’s eyes gleamed with a competitive edge, while Bachira bounced on his toes, the wild grin on his face showing that he was more than ready to throw himself into the game. Gagamaru’s expression was focused, his intense gaze fixed on the opposing team, mentally preparing himself to defend the goal alongside the robotic goalie.
As the referee blew the whistle, the game began, and both teams surged forward, clashing in an explosive rush. Kira’s team had the ball first, with Nanase dribbling it past the halfway line before passing it to Raichi, who muscled his way toward Isagi’s side of the field, his eyes set with fierce determination.
Isagi’s team, however, struggled to form a cohesive defense. With each player following their own instincts, they found themselves out of sync. Hiori hesitated, glancing between Raichi and Kira, unsure whether to intercept or fall back. Tokimitsu, overwhelmed, hung back anxiously, his hesitation creating a gap in the defense. Chigiri, sensing the opportunity slipping away, attempted to close the gap with his speed, but it was too late.
Kira’s team moved in swiftly, their movements practiced and coordinated. Reo, freed from Nagi’s presence, was trying to play with an intensity he hadn’t shown before, orchestrating his team’s attacks with sharp passes and carefully calculated movements. He slipped the ball to Yukimiya, who gracefully sidestepped Bachira before sending it back to Kira. Kira took the shot, sending the ball sailing past the designed programe of the goalie and into the net with a decisive strike.
The scoreboard lit up, showing Kira’s team with the first point. A surge of triumphant cheers erupted from the sidelines as the opposing team celebrated their early lead, their faces beaming with satisfaction.
Isagi’s team, meanwhile, felt the sting of that initial goal. Tokimitsu’s shoulders slumped, his face flushed with embarrassment, while Hiori’s brows knitted further together in frustration. Chigiri let out a frustrated sigh, his jaw clenched as he glared at the ground, clearly irked by their lack of cohesion.
But Isagi’s expression remained unchanging. He watched quietly, absorbing the dynamics of the game, observing how each player’s personal style was clashing with the rest. He could feel the tension between Barou and Rin, the way each was vying to be the one who took control, neither willing to compromise.
As the game resumed, Isagi’s team tried to regroup, but Kira’s team pressed their advantage, their strategy unyielding. Aryu towered over the field, using his height to block passes and disrupt plays, his graceful movements somehow managing to counter even Chigiri’s speed. Karasu, meanwhile, picked apart Isagi’s team’s defense, anticipating their moves and intercepting passes with pinpoint accuracy.
Raichi, with his intense energy, became a relentless force, charging down anyone who attempted to make a play. He intercepted a pass aimed at Bachira, immediately sending it to Niko, who, with his tactical mindset, spotted an opening and passed to Yukimiya this time.
Yukimiya's movements were calculated, his gaze focused as he approached the goal, each step filled with purpose. He dodged past Barou, whose frustration was evident as he growled under his breath, and lined up another shot. Gagamaru dove, but the ball slipped past him, striking the back of the net once more.
The score was now 2-0, and Kira’s team’s confidence was visibly growing. Reo glanced over at Nagi, a subtle smirk on his lips, as though silently asserting his independence. Wanting Nagi to look at him.
Nagi, however, remained unfazed, his focus solely on the game, though a slight twitch of his eyebrow hinted at a hint of annoyance. Feeling like he was being rubbed in the wrong ways possible.
The game continued, and Kira’s team continued to dominate the field. Yukimiya, with his fluid footwork, maneuvered around Tokimitsu and Hiori, slipping through their defenses with ease. His elegant style contrasted sharply with Raichi’s aggressive approach, yet somehow, they worked together seamlessly.
Isagi’s team, however, was plagued by their individualism. Barou stubbornly refused to pass, attempting to muscle his way through multiple defenders, only to be blocked and stripped of the ball. Rin, clearly frustrated, made several attempts to take control, but his relentless focus on proving himself meant he rarely cooperated with his teammates, and his solo efforts were intercepted by Karasu or Aryu.
Bachira, ever the free spirit, tried to weave his way through the defense, but his erratic playstyle clashed with the structure of Kira’s team, resulting in turnovers. Hiori, caught between his desire to support and his lack of assertiveness, found himself struggling to make an impact, while Tokimitsu’s nerves only worsened, causing him to falter at crucial moments.
The third goal came swiftly, courtesy of a flawless play between Niko and Karasu. Niko’s tactical acumen allowed him to exploit a gap in Isagi’s team’s defense, and he sent a perfectly timed pass to Karasu, who didn’t hesitate to take the shot. The ball soared past Gagamaru, and the scoreboard reflected yet another point for Kira’s team.
With the score now 3-0, frustration was beginning to brew within Isagi’s team. Chigiri clenched his fists, his jaw set in irritation as he exchanged a brief, annoyed glance with Barou, who looked equally disgruntled. Tokimitsu’s face was a shade of red, his hands fidgeting as he muttered apologies under his breath.
Isagi, however, remained composed, observing each player’s reaction, the tension building between them, the frustration simmering beneath the surface. This was exactly what he’d anticipated. He knew that their lack of teamwork would expose their weaknesses, and now, those flaws were laid bare for everyone to see.
The game resumed, and Isagi’s team attempted to push forward once more, but their lack of coordination only led to more missed opportunities and turnovers. Every failed play only served to boost Kira’s team’s confidence, their teamwork growing stronger as they adapted to each other’s strengths.
Reo, emboldened by his newfound independence, orchestrated the plays with precision, finding ways to utilize Yukimiya’s agility and Aryu’s height to their advantage. His passes were crisp, calculated, and perfectly timed, allowing his teammates to make seamless transitions and maintain their lead.
As the halftime—it just merely half of the game and the opponent gained more goals—whistle blew, Isagi’s team gathered together, their expressions a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. The scoreboard showed a decisive 4-0, and the reality of their situation was sinking in. Each player’s ego and individual style had clashed, leaving them vulnerable and disjointed.
But not to Isagi.
As Hiori stood on the field, the harsh heated of the tension in the air beat down on him, and the sound of the referee’s whistle echoed in his ears. The game had started off poorly, and with each passing minute, the reality of their situation began to weigh heavily on him. With the scoreboard showing 4-0 against Kira’s team, Hiori felt a surge of frustration mixed with helplessness.
Hiori glanced around at his teammates, trying to assess the unfolding chaos. Barou was at it again, stubbornly attempting to bulldoze his way through defenders, completely ignoring the opportunity to pass. His pride was palpable, the way he puffed out his chest as he pushed forward, almost daring anyone to get in his way. Hiori rolled his eyes, exasperation gnawing at him. Why can’t he see that this isn’t a one-man show? The selfishness was maddening; it was as if Barou thrived on proving he was the best player on the field, but Hiori knew that kind of playstyle would only bring them down.
Rin, too, was an enigma however. He moved with a cold precision, his focus narrowed as he chased the ball with an intensity that was admirable yet frustrating. Why does he have to be so withdrawn? Hiori mused, watching as Rin dribbled past a defender only to lose possession moments later. He’s so talented, but his reluctance to collaborate… it’s like he’s actively resisting the idea of teamwork. The way Rin's brows furrowed with irritation each time he made a mistake only added to Hiori's growing frustration. He needed to understand that they were in this together; there was no room for individual glory on a team destined for greatness.
Chigiri’s speed was impressive, but Hiori couldn’t help but feel that he often relied too much on it. Watching Chigiri sprint past defenders, Hiori admired his agility but also noted how Chigiri sometimes neglected to make strategic plays. It’s all about rhythm, he thought, recalling their practice sessions. Chigiri’s quick feet and sharp movements were fantastic, but he needed to sync them with the rest of the team. He should know when to slow down, when to read the play instead of rushing in blindly. Hiori sighed, wishing for a moment that he could communicate these thoughts without seeming confrontational.
Then there was Bachira, who always brought an infectious energy to the field. His wild, unpredictable style could be both exhilarating and chaotic. Hiori admired Bachira's creativity, but in this game, it felt like chaos was winning. Bachira darted around the field, making flashy moves that occasionally dazzled their opponents but often left Hiori shaking his head in disbelief. We need structure, not just flair, Hiori thought, frustrated as Bachira made yet another attempt to dribble past a wall of defenders, only to lose the ball once again by Raichi.
Hiori's gaze landed on Tokimitsu, who seemed completely overwhelmed by the intensity of the game. He watched as Tokimitsu’s face flushed with anxiety, his body language signaling a struggle to find his place. Hiori felt a pang of sympathy; he understood the pressure of being in a high-stakes environment, especially when the spotlight was on them. If only he could find his confidence, Hiori thought, wishing he could offer some words of encouragement. Tokimitsu hesitated too often, allowing Kira’s team to capitalize on his indecision.
Kiyora was trying his best to keep the defense organized, but it felt like a losing battle. Hiori noticed him shouting instructions, his arms flailing as he gestured towards the formations. Hiori appreciated his effort but couldn’t shake the feeling that Kiyora was just as confused as the rest of them. We’re all over the place, he concluded, his frustration mounting.
And then there was Nagi, who leaned casually against the goalpost with an air of indifference that infuriated Hiori. What is he even doing? Hiori thought, watching as Nagi seemed more interested in observing than participating. The laziness was grating. “Can’t you even pretend to care?” Hiori muttered under his breath, knowing full well that Nagi had the potential to change the game if he just applied himself. The lack of effort was infuriating, especially when the stakes were this high.
Turning his attention back to the opposing team, Hiori felt a rush of another admiration mixed with frustration. Kira’s team was playing with a level of synergy that Hiori could only dream of achieving with his own. Their movements were fluid, almost instinctual, a testament to their trusted in each other. Every time Kira received the ball, there was an unspoken communication between him and his teammates. Hiori noted the way they moved in unison, constantly shifting positions to create openings. That’s how it’s done, he thought bitterly, wishing his team could find that kind of rhythm.
As Kira's team scored yet another goal, Hiori clenched his fists. The confidence radiating from the opposing team was almost palpable. Reo’s sharp passes and strategic movements were orchestrating their attacks, leading Kira’s team like a well-tuned orchestra. Hiori felt a swell of determination rise within him; they had to rise to the occasion. If we don’t start working together, this will only get worse, he thought resolutely.
As the halftime whistle blew, signaling a much-needed break, Hiori gathered with his teammates, his heart racing as he tried to catch his breath. The scoreboard displayed 4-0, a stark reminder of their struggles. The mood was tense, and the frustration in the air was almost suffocating. Hiori caught the expressions of his teammates—Barou’s scowl, Rin’s stony silence, Chigiri’s clenched fists. It was clear that everyone felt the weight of the game pressing down on them.
We can’t let this continue, Hiori thought, a resolve building within him. They needed to come together, to shed their individualistic tendencies and forge a true team dynamic. The game was far from over, and if they wanted any chance of turning it around, they had to find a way to cooperate.
As Hiori took a moment to catch his breath, he couldn’t shake off the nagging thoughts swirling in his mind, particularly about Isagi. While the others were focused on their mistakes and the relentless pressure from Kira’s team, Hiori found himself fixated on the way Isagi moved—or rather, didn’t move—on the field.
Isagi’s presence was almost ethereal, gliding around the pitch with a casual air that belied the intensity of the match. It was as if he was in a world of his own, jogging slowly, almost lazily, while the rest of the team struggled against their opponents. Hiori couldn’t help but feel a twinge of irritation mixed with curiosity. What is he doing? It was infuriating to see someone seemingly so detached from the chaos, and yet there was something undeniably compelling about the way Isagi observed everything around him.
With every kick of the ball, Hiori noticed Isagi’s keen gaze, fixed not on the opposing players, but on his own teammates. It was as if he was dissecting their every move, assessing their strengths and weaknesses without ever directly engaging in the play. Why does he keep watching? Hiori puzzled, feeling an inexplicable pressure in his chest. It was unsettling, as if Isagi’s eyes were a spotlight, illuminating every flaw, every hesitation. Hiori could almost feel Isagi's presence behind him, a silent critique weighing heavily on his shoulders.
The longer Hiori watched Isagi, the more it unnerved him. Every time he glanced back, searching for the validation of a teammate or an acknowledgment of his effort, he found Isagi’s gaze locked onto someone else—Barou, Chigiri, or even Bachira. It was like a game of cat and mouse, where Hiori felt like he was constantly one step behind, forever trying to catch Isagi’s attention but never quite managing to do so. The intensity of Isagi’s focus made Hiori question his own position on the team.
Am I even doing enough? Am I standing out?
As the game progressed, Hiori felt his own confidence waning. The notion that Isagi was keeping score in some silent, personal way made Hiori doubt his own abilities. What if he sees him as weak? That thought lingered like a dark cloud in the back of his mind. Whenever Hiori made a mistake, Isagi’s gaze seemed to sharpen, an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes that sent a shiver down Hiori’s spine. The sense of paranoia grew with each passing moment, and Hiori found himself glancing over his shoulder more often than not, searching for a glimpse of Isagi’s expression.
Hiori couldn’t deny that Isagi had a magnetic quality about him. There was a reason why he—and perhaps other as well—looked to him as a leader, even when he wasn’t overtly trying to take charge. The way Isagi moved, or the way he lingered near the action but never quite entered it, was intriguing. It was a calculated strategy that Hiori couldn’t fully grasp. Instead of forcing his way into the play, Isagi positioned himself as a crucial observer, waiting for the perfect moment to capitalize on the situation. It was frustrating to watch someone so effortlessly gauge the pulse of the game while Hiori felt himself caught in a chaotic whirlwind.
What is he seeing that I’m not? Hiori pondered, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Every time he tried to push himself forward, to prove his worth on the field, Isagi’s dispassionate gaze made him second-guess his instincts. Was he even contributing? Hiori felt a pang of resentment bubble up. He wanted to ask Isagi, demand to know why he wasn’t pulling his weight, why he seemed to flit around the edges of the play rather than dive into the fray. But he knew that wasn’t Isagi’s style—he can feel it.
Instead, Isagi maintained an almost unsettling calm, adjusting his positioning based on the flow of the game. Hiori watched as Isagi would catch the eye of one teammate, nodding slightly, making subtle gestures that seemed to guide them without ever saying a word. It was as if Isagi had an invisible thread connecting him to each of them, pulling the strings from a distance while they floundered. Hiori envied that ability. He felt tethered to the ground while Isagi danced around like a leaf in the wind, unbothered by the chaos of the storm raging around them.
As the clock continued to tick down, Hiori found himself growing more restless. With every pass that went awry, every defensive blunder, he felt Isagi’s gaze on him, assessing, calculating, and judging. It was unbearable, the pressure building like a weight on his chest. I have to do better. I have to show him I’m not a liability, he thought, clenching his fists. The stakes felt impossibly high, and with every minute that passed, Hiori realized he was not only playing against Kira’s team but also battling his own self-doubt.
The realization hit him harder than a tackle. Isagi’s calm demeanor wasn’t an indication of detachment but rather a focused strategy that Hiori struggled to understand. Instead of merely running around, Isagi was constructing a mental map of the field, analyzing the ebb and flow of their play and the opposing team’s movements. Hiori was merely reacting, while Isagi was anticipating. That difference gnawed at him, igniting a flicker of resolve amidst his confusion. Or maybe it wasn't, maybe it was the way around, maybe, just maybe— no, maybe it's not it?
As Hiori tried to shake off the doubt, he understood that Isagi's observant nature could be a source of strength for the team if they harnessed it properly. If only they could find a way to communicate effectively, to build on each other's strengths. It wouldn't be about isolating himself or focusing solely on his own performance. It would be about melding their play styles, creating a new dynamic that could catch Kira's team off guard.
Taking a deep breath, Hiori resolved to do just that. He might not know exactly how to harness Isagi's analytical approach, or what he was he even thinking but he would start by focusing on his own role on the team. Instead of letting Isagi's watchful gaze intimidate him, he would channel that energy into proving himself-both to Isagi and to the team as a whole. The game wasn't over yet, and if there was one thing he could do, it was to ensure that when Isagi looked in his direction, he would see someone ready to step up.
With a renewed sense of purpose, Hiori nodded to himself, his resolve solidifying like steel. He would not fade into the background. He would fight for his place, not just for Isagi's approval, but for the team, for the chance to turn the tide and show everyone what they were truly capable of.
As the match continued to unfold, Hiori felt a growing urgency in his chest. The atmosphere on the field was electric, and the weight of the game pressed down on him like a thick fog. Each player's movement felt magnified-every breath, every flick of the ball, every shout from the sidelines echoing in his mind. Hiori glanced around at his teammates, the mix of their talents creating a strange tapestry of synergy and tension.
Barou was as unpredictable as ever, a tempest of raw power and confidence that at times bordered on recklessness. Hiori watched him clash with Kira, the two titans colliding with a ferocity that sent shockwaves through the ground. Barou's arrogance fueled him, but it also made Hiori uneasy. Could he really rely on someone who thrived on chaos? Hiori felt a need to adapt, to become something that could anchor the team amidst the madness.
Then there was Rin. His playstyle was a different beast entirely-focused, calculated, and surprisingly elegant. Hiori admired the way Rin effortlessly maneuvered through the chaos, weaving around defenders with a grace that made it look like he was dancing rather than playing soccer. Hiori wished he could emulate that precision, but every time he tried, he felt himself caught in Barou's wake, overwhelmed by the tempest of energy surrounding him.
Chigiri, too, added another layer of complexity to the team. The speedster's bursts of pace could leave defenders scrambling, but Hiori felt a frustration bubbling up when he saw Chigiri hesitate at crucial moments, as if waiting for the perfect opportunity rather than seizing the initiative. Hiori wanted to shout at him to just go for it, to trust his instincts and let his speed carry him forward. But as he glanced at Chigiri, he understood the internal struggle-the pressure of expectations weighing down on each of them.
Bachira was the wild card, embodying the unpredictable spirit of the game. Hiori admired his flair and creativity but often felt out of sync with his exuberance. While Bachira danced around defenders, Hiori found himself fighting to keep pace, trying to translate the artistic chaos into something tangible. It was like trying to catch water in his hands-every time he thought he had a grip on the flow, it slipped through his fingers.
Then there was Nagi. Hiori couldn't quite wrap his head around him. The way Nagi stood languidly behind the play, seemingly disinterested, grated on Hiori's nerves. Why was he just standing there, hands on hips, watching as if the game was merely a passing spectacle? Did he not realize the stakes? Did he not care? Each glance in Nagi's direction felt like a reminder of what Hiori feared he might become-someone who simply observed rather than participated.
The tension escalated as Kira's team pushed harder, and the score began to tilt unfavorably. Hiori could feel frustration building within him like a tightly coiled spring, threatening to snap. He couldn't stand by and watch as their chances slipped away. Determined to break free from his spiraling thoughts, he forced himself to focus, to engage with the unfolding drama on the field.
But just as Hiori was about to push forward, the tide turned dramatically. Kira's team had scored their fourth goal, and Hiori's heart sank. As the cheers from the opposing team reverberated through the air, he caught sight of Isagi. A flash of movement drew his attention away from the field, and Hiori's breath caught in his throat as he processed what he was witnessing.
In an instant, the atmosphere shifted. Isagi was now on the opposite team, a formidable presence that had seemingly materialized from thin air. Hiori blinked, disbelief washing over him like a cold wave. Was he dreaming? No, it was real. Isagi was right there, a storm contained within calmness, his demeanor both unnerving and captivating.
Then, in a heartbeat, everything froze. The field quieted, as if time itself held its breath, and Hiori could feel the tension in the air shift dramatically. Isagi had grabbed tightly onto Igarashi, the tension between them palpable, like a wire stretched to its breaking point. Hiori's heart raced as he witnessed the calm amusement in Isagi's eyes, a flicker of thrill dancing there that sent chills cascading down his spine.
"You play foul style, aren't you?" Isagi said, his voice low but dripping with an unsettling mix of amusement. The tone held a strange calmness that was at odds with the chaos of the game, like the eye of a storm. The smile that spread across his face was anything but friendly-creeping, slow, and utterly chilling.
In that moment, the already chaotic scene transformed into something more sinister. Hiori felt the weight of Isagi's words linger in the air, a challenge that seemed to echo throughout the pitch. The stakes had risen, and the tension escalated to a boiling point, the game morphing into something far more dangerous. Hiori's heart raced as he braced himself for the impending chaos, feeling the thrill of the game surge through the air like a current, uncertain of what would come next but knowing that whatever it was, it would be monumental.
Kiyora had always prided himself on his ability to read the dynamics of a game, to anticipate where the ball would go and how his teammates would react. Yet Isagi was an enigma-his focus was disconcertingly directed at Kiyora's own team, as though he were studying them rather than the opposition. Every time Kiyora felt Isagi's gaze upon him, it was like being pinned under a microscope. A sense of uneasy crept over him, gnawing at the edges of his confidence.
"Focus on the game," Kiyora muttered under his breath, yet his thoughts continued to spiral back to Isagi. There was something primal about the way Isagi engaged with the match, a predator watching from the shadows as his prey moved unaware of the danger lurking nearby. It wasn't just about winning or losing for Isagi; it felt like a game of chess, where each player was a piece on a board and Isagi was doing them to achieve some unforeseen end.
Kiyora tried to shake off the lingering unease, he couldn't help but feel as if he were dancing on a tightrope, one misstep away from tumbling into chaos. The pressure mounted with every moment that passed, and Isagi's presence loomed large, a specter of uncertainty in the back of his mind.
Why did it feel as if Isagi were dissecting the team, evaluating their every move as if he were preparing for something far greater than just winning a match? Kiyora's heart raced as he contemplated the implications of Isagi's detached observation. It was as though Isagi was building a strategy that transcended the game, a plan that involved his own teammates to exploit their strengths and weaknesses.
Kiyora stood at the edge of the midfield, his senses heightened as he surveyed the field. The chaos of the match surged around him like an unstoppable tide, every moment crackling with potential. As he dribbled the ball lightly at his feet, he couldn't shake the growing tension in his chest. His heart raced, not from fear but from the weight of responsibility that came with being the linchpin of his team. With every pass and play, the balance of the game rested precariously on his shoulders.
He glanced to his left, where Barou roared with confidence, practically daring the defenders to come at him. Kiyora could see the raw power in Barou's movements, the way he commanded respect and attention. Yet, while Barou's tenacity was admirable, Kiyora knew that the brute force alone wouldn't guarantee success. Barou was a force of nature, but he could also be reckless, charging headlong into challenges without a second thought. Kiyora had to find the right moment to feed him the ball, the perfect opportunity where Barou's aggression could be an asset rather than a liability.
On his right stood Rin, his aura exuding an air of cool confidence that was hard to ignore. Kiyora had always been drawn to Rin's calculated style of play-the way he seemed to effortlessly read the field, knowing exactly where to position himself for the most impactful plays. Rin had the finesse and creativity that could unlock defenses, but Kiyora felt the pressure of ensuring that Rin was in the right space to receive the ball. Choosing him meant relying on Rin's vision and skill to finish the play, but there was a risk involved. Would Rin be able to seize the moment when it mattered?
Kiyora's mind raced as he dribbled down the field, weighing his options. He could feel the eyes of his teammates on him, the weight of their expectations hanging heavily in the air. Every player was keenly aware that the match had reached a critical juncture; the score was slipping away, and they needed a catalyst to change the tide. But the choice was agonizing, and with every moment that passed, Kiyora felt the urgency mount.
He instinctively looked toward Barou, whose expression was fierce and determined. In that moment, Kiyora could almost hear the roar of the crowd in his ears as Barou demanded the ball. The image of Barou bulldozing through defenders surged in Kiyora's mind-a whirlwind of power that could rattle any opponent. But he also remembered the times Barou had taken unnecessary risks, leaving Kiyora exposed and out of position.
His gaze shifted to Rin, who was now positioned further up the field, scanning the landscape like a predator. Rin's movements were elegant, each stride purposeful and deliberate. Kiyora admired his approach, a dance that could dismantle defenses with ease. Yet, as he considered passing to Rin, he couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty. What if Rin wasn't in the right mindset? What if he hesitated? The balance of the team felt delicate, and Kiyora's role in that dynamic weighed heavily on him.
"Choose wisely," he muttered to himself, feeling the sweat bead on his brow. He was the pivot point, the one who needed to stabilize the chaos, but the pressure was intense. The two powerhouses before him were nearly equal in his mind, each offering their strengths and weaknesses in equal measure.
With the game pressing on, Kiyora began to notice the shifting dynamics on the field. Barou had drawn the attention of two defenders, creating a small opening behind him. Kiyora's heart leapt; this might be the moment he needed to capitalize on. But then Rin made a sharp cut, breaking through the line of defenders with a fluidity that took Kiyora's breath away.
He whispered a curse, torn between the two. Should he pass to Barou and risk being let down, or should he trust Rin's instinct to seize the chance? The clock was ticking, and Kiyora could feel the anxiety in his chest tighten as the split-second decision loomed.
In that brief moment of hesitation, the world around him seemed to blur, every sound fading into the background. All he could hear was the rhythmic pounding of his heart, urging him to make a choice. Barou's ferocity called to his desire for power, while Rin's elegance resonated with his longing for precision.
Just then, Kiyora spotted an opening, a gap in the defense that could be exploited. Without thinking, he made his decision. He shifted his weight, pivoting slightly as he made eye contact with Rin.
"Rin!" he shouted, feeling a surge of confidence.
With a swift motion, Kiyora sent the ball hurtling toward Rin, a perfect pass that cut through the tension like a knife. As the ball sailed through the air, Kiyora held his breath, hoping he had made the right choice.
In the split second that followed, the ball was blocked by no other than Raichi, it was sudden and unexpected that Rin's eyes widened as well, his body coiling like a spring ready to unleash its energy. But just as the moment felt ripe with potential, chaos erupted in a way Kiyora hadn't anticipated. It was too fast when Raichi passed the ball and the fourth goal for the opponent thing could be heard by the whistle.
The field erupted in a cacophony of shouts and cheers, the chaos swirling around him, but all Kiyora could feel was that unnerving chill. It was this dissonance that began to seep into his mind, and as he maneuvered through the game, every brush with Isagi's gaze pulled him deeper into a whirlpool of uncertainty.
And then, as if to seal that feeling, the fourth goal from the Kira team shattered the tension in the air. Kiyora witnessed Isagi suddenly appear on the other side of the pitch, grabbing Igarashi with a grip that seemed both casual and threatening.
"You play foul style, aren't you?" Isagi's voice cut through the tension like a knife, an edge of amusement lacing his calm tone. The unsettling smile that stretched across his lips sent a wave of unsettles down Kiyora's spine, a twisted grin that seemed to amplify the chaos surrounding them.
The moment felt unexpected, uneasy, almost dreamlike as Isagi continue grabbed Igarashi, a storm of tension crackling in the air and talk something to Igarashi. Kiyora suddenly felt the world around him grow quiet, all eyes drawn to Isagi and the words that slipped from his lips that was unheard and only for Igarashi.
The smile spread further across Isagi's face, and it was anything but reassuring. In an instant, Kiyora felt the balance of the game tipping once more, the delicate equilibrium he'd strived to maintain unraveling into an unpredictable chaos. What had begun as a struggle to decide between power and precision had transformed into something much darker, the stakes raised higher than he could have ever imagined.
Kiyora clenched his fists, a mix of uncertainty coursing through him. This game had just taken a turn into the unknown, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they were all about to be swept away in the tide of whatever was coming next.
Isagi gripped Igarashi's shoulder in a vice, a low hum slipping from his lips as he sensed the burning intensity of eyes upon him. "I mean, they're not wrong," he muttered under his breath, not reacting to the pale expression on Igarashi's face, whose wide eyes, filled with fear and confusion, stared at him. Isagi stared back. Another smile stretched out, soft and delicate, almost.
"But they're not correct either," Isagi murmured, before tapping Igarashi on the shoulder. His eyes never left Igarashi, his full attention now on the other teen. The air around him shifted—intrigued, perhaps.
"Now, where were we...?" Isagi tilted his head to the side, flicking his fingers after a moment. "Ah, yes. Your playstyle."
"Let's talk about it." Isagi smiles again, lips went beyond spreading out the impossible, Igarashi squirm under his gripped, "Let's talk about how I love it."
Notes:
[Edited on February 20, 2025.]
Chapter Text
In the heart of Tokyo, Japan, nestled within a district renowned for its elegance and exclusivity, there stands a hotel that epitomizes luxury. Its towering form, a beacon for the elite, draws countless high-profile individuals, from renowned artists to corporate moguls, each eager to bask in its opulence. The lobby alone is a vision of grandeur, boasting polished marble floors, gleaming chandeliers that cast intricate patterns upon the walls, and a steady hum of conversations in multiple languages as influential figures brush shoulders. Outside, the air buzzes with the quiet purr of high-end vehicles pulling up, their doors opening to reveal well-dressed passengers who stride confidently toward the hotel’s grand entrance.
A few blocks down from this symbol of prestige, tucked between other high-end establishments, lies a restaurant that rivals even the hotel in luxury. Its name glows softly in the night, lit in understated gold letters that suggest sophistication without arrogance. Unlike the hotel, which is often a whirlwind of activity, this restaurant seems to emanate a calm energy, a quiet reserve that promises exclusivity. Large windows reveal the flicker of candlelight from within, a subtle invitation to those seeking not just a meal but an experience.
Inside the restaurant, the ambiance is nothing short of exquisite. The lighting is warm, carefully curated to flatter both the décor and the patrons within, casting a gentle glow over everything. High ceilings give the room an airy feel, while richly textured walls, adorned with modern art and tastefully minimalistic décor, add to the sophisticated atmosphere. The hum of conversation is softer here, respectful of the privacy each guest enjoys. At the back of the restaurant lies a series of private rooms reserved for VIP guests. Each room is designed with luxury and privacy in mind, granting those within a reprieve from prying eyes and bustling crowds.
One particular private room, larger and more elegantly furnished than the others, is situated on a higher floor. The walls on one side of the room are made entirely of glass, providing an unobstructed view of the Tokyo skyline. At night, the city lights shimmer like stars against the backdrop of the dark sky, an urban constellation that stretches far into the distance. The room itself is appointed with a large, polished wooden table, its surface gleaming under the soft light from above. The table is set for five, each place meticulously arranged with fine china, crystal glassware, and silverware that catches the light with a subtle glint. Napkins, folded into precise shapes, rest beside each plate, while glasses stand at attention, ready to be filled with the finest selections from the restaurant’s extensive wine list.
A diverse array of dishes, both Western and most, traditional Japanese, adorns the table, a feast laid out with the artistry that befits such a high-end establishment. Plump, glossy sushi pieces are artfully arranged beside delicate tempura, each golden piece crisp and hot. Nearby, plates of seared steak and fresh seafood, glistening under the lights, share space with an assortment of meticulously prepared side dishes. Steam rises in gentle wisps from a bowl of miso soup, while a basket of freshly baked bread, its crusts golden and enticing, waits at one end of the table. The variety is both visually stunning and mouthwatering, an indulgent spread crafted to please even the most discerning of palates.
The soft sound of jazz music plays faintly in the background, its smooth notes providing a soothing rhythm that fills the space without intruding on the privacy of conversation. Subtle floral arrangements in minimalist vases add a touch of color to the room, their delicate scents blending with the tantalizing aromas from the feast laid out. The restaurant staff moves quietly, almost imperceptibly, attending to details without disrupting the tranquility. Occasionally, a server enters the room, refilling glasses or adjusting a dish, each movement performed with a grace and precision that speaks to their training.
Through the glass wall, the city below bustles with life, but in this private sanctuary, all is calm and refined. The view is nothing short of breathtaking, capturing the neon lights of Tokyo’s nightlife as they pulse and flicker, a distant reminder of the energy and chaos outside. Inside, however, the mood is serene, a haven for those gathered around the table to enjoy an evening of privacy, luxury, and fine dining. The city, vibrant and alive, serves as the perfect backdrop for this exclusive setting, a silent testament to Tokyo’s blend of tradition and modernity, elegance and energy. Here, in this secluded corner of luxury, the night feels timeless, suspended between the glimmering lights outside and the soft, warm glow within.
Along the quiet, dimly lit hallway, footsteps echoed softly, announcing the approach of a figure whose presence was unmistakable even in casual attire. The man, tall and broad-shouldered, moved with a calm confidence that made heads turn. His tanned skin was an unusual sight in such a setting, a mark of countless hours spent under the sun, and his choice of attire—relaxed yet undeniably stylish—suggested a man comfortable in any environment, high-class or otherwise.
As he reached the door to the private room, he paused momentarily, resting a hand on the handle. Behind the door lay the quiet murmur of voices, perhaps even laughter, and the gentle clink of glasses and cutlery against porcelain. With a subtle breath, he turned the handle, and as the door swung open, the hum of conversation grew louder, only to fall into a hush as the occupants turned toward the newcomer.
A man with sunlit blonde hair and striking green eyes was the first to notice him. A warm smile broke across his face, and he lifted a hand, waving in a friendly, almost theatrical gesture. “Julian!” he called, his voice carrying a melodic Spanish lilt that added warmth and flair to his English. His expression was one of genuine pleasure, as though the simple act of seeing this late arrival had brightened his evening.
Another one, seated comfortably with a slightly irreverent posture, was the shortest of the group. This one was a vivid character, with hair dyed in multiple colors that almost shimmered under the room’s soft lighting. His chubby, cherubic face was offset by a pair of piercing eyes that missed nothing, giving him an appearance both approachable and sharp. He glanced up, unimpressed, and with a bluntness that seemed characteristic, muttered, “Look who finally shows up.”
The remaining two in the group offered their own silent greetings. One, with a head of dirty blonde hair that seemed perpetually tousled, barely acknowledged the entrance, instead responding with an unimpressed huff, his gaze settling on the newcomer with a mix of amusement and impatience. Meanwhile, the fourth individual, a towering figure with a darker complexion and an imposing, muscular build, was utterly engrossed in his meal, scarcely lifting his gaze. His presence alone was enough to fill the room, and the faint sound of silverware meeting porcelain punctuated his silent acknowledgment.
Julian Loki responded with an easy smile, his eyes taking in the group before he offered a low, respectful nod. “Apologies for the delay,” he said smoothly, his voice calm and genuine, if not slightly amused by the mix of reactions. He stepped further into the room, his movements unhurried but deliberate as he closed the door quietly behind him, sealing out the world beyond and immersing himself in the tranquil intimacy of the gathering.
He moved toward the table, where the lone empty seat awaited him. Each step was accompanied by a soft rustle of fabric, and as he neared his spot, he inclined his head once more, a slight bow to the group as if acknowledging not only his lateness but his appreciation for the company. Lowering himself into the chair, Julian settled in with a sense of ease, his posture relaxed yet refined, a natural blend of grace and casual elegance.
The subtle ambiance of the room resumed, filling with the soft murmur of resumed conversations and laughter. Julian glanced around the table, meeting each gaze in turn, silently noting the various expressions and personalities that painted the scene. The blonde, still grinning, was quick to engage him, while the others remained in their own worlds, each adding a unique presence to the room. Julian’s late arrival had momentarily disrupted the rhythm, but now, with everyone present, the evening could unfold in earnest.
Dada Silva, the massive Brazilian with skin bronzed by the sun, set down his fork with a clatter, the sound cutting through the soft chatter at the table. He swallowed a hefty mouthful of food, his shoulders rolling back as he let out a deep, booming laugh that reverberated around the private room. “Couldn’t wait, I had to dig in,” he announced unapologetically, his voice resonant and rich, carrying a hint of pride. “I don’t have the patience to wait around when there’s a meal like this in front of me.”
Julian Loki’s mouth curled into a small, amused smile as he reached for a plate, a knowing glint in his eye. “I get it, Dada,” he replied smoothly, his voice quieter yet firm, a contrast to Dada’s loud presence. Julian began to help himself to the array of dishes on the table, selecting a few with careful precision, his movements deliberate and graceful. Each item he added to his plate seemed chosen for both taste and presentation, a habit honed from years of attention to detail on and off the field.
Around the table, the other players watched, each with their own air of authority. They weren’t just any group of friends; their names carried weight, celebrated in stadiums around the world.
There, sat Leonardo Luna, the Spaniard with sunlit blond hair and bright green eyes, a man who seemed to embody grace and elegance. Known as "The Scion of Royale," he was a player for Spain’s famed Royale Madrid and a distinguished figure in the Spain National Team. Leonardo exuded a relaxed confidence, his every movement subtle yet practiced, a calm that came from his mastery on the pitch. A faint smile played on his lips as he watched Julian serve himself, his hands loosely clasped in front of him, posture poised yet casual.
To Leonardo’s right sat Adam Blake, the Englishman with a shock of dirty blond hair and a cool demeanor. Adam was England’s powerhouse, currently one of the top scorers in the Premier League, a relentless goal machine for both his club and the national team. Unlike Leonardo’s casual elegance, Adam’s presence was marked by a slight edge, a kind of quiet ferocity that radiated from him even in this relaxed setting. He regarded the others with a distant, almost disinterested look, his focus somewhere beyond the table, as if strategizing for a game yet to come.
Next to Adam was Pablo Cavasoz, the Argentinian with an unmistakable personality. His hair was a riot of colors, dyed in vivid shades that made him stand out even in this room filled with world-class talent. Known for his unapologetic style both on and off the field, Pablo was a force in the Argentina National Team, a player who blended creativity with raw talent. As he sat with his elbows on the table, Pablo’s expression was impish, his gaze flitting between his teammates as though ready to jump in with a quip or a laugh at any moment.
And finally, there was Julian Loki, the young French prodigy, seated among these established giants. Representing Paris X Gen and the France National Team, Julian had earned his place as one of the world’s brightest rising stars, often referred to as a "supernova" in the French league. Despite his youth, Julian’s calm confidence set him apart, his poise matching that of the veterans around him. He carried himself with a quiet power, the same composure he brought to the field, and his eyes held a steady determination that hinted at his ambition.
The table itself was an array of colors and textures, dishes arranged with a kind of artistic flair that matched the culinary prowess Tokyo was known for. Steam rose in delicate wisps from several plates, mingling with the aromas that filled the room—rich, savory, and enticing. Conversation flowed in short bursts between bites, the group’s camaraderie palpable, a shared understanding linking them despite their differing personalities. Their talk drifted from casual topics to hints of the world they dominated, the arena of football, each man’s achievements a testament to the dedication and skill they had cultivated.
Julian, as he listened, noted the subtle nuances in each of his companions—the laughter in Leonardo’s eyes, the hard-set line of Adam’s jaw, the playful light in Pablo’s gaze, and the unwavering solidity in Dada’s stance. He had come to know them not just as players but as individuals, each with his own quirks and strengths, bonded by the same love for the game that had brought them to this point. Here, in this private room in Tokyo, surrounded by the city’s vibrant energy, they shared a moment of camaraderie and respect, an evening set aside from the pressures and lights of the stadiums where their names were celebrated.
As the initial quiet between them eased into a comfortable rhythm, Leonardo Luna leaned back in his chair, the soft leather creaking slightly, and gazed around the room with a casual curiosity. With a faint smile, he broke the silence. “So… when's everyone heading back home?” His tone was relaxed, almost musical, as he glanced at each of them in turn, his green eyes bright with interest.
Adam Blake, ever direct, shrugged as he picked at his plate with little more than a glance at Leonardo. “I’ll be here another week or so. I've had a called that England’s playing a couple of friendlies with Japan’s league teams, and I thought I’d stay a while.” He glanced at Julian, smirking slightly. “What about you, Loki? Sticking around Tokyo much longer?”
Julian grinned, a touch of amusement sparking in his eyes. “ I’m supposed to be back in France next week for training, but the schedule aren't confirm yet, so I'd be staying here more than a week.” He cast a glance out the window, the Tokyo skyline glittering in the distance. He adjusted his silverware, casually pouring himself a glass of water. “Besides, Japan has its charms. Might as well enjoy them while I can.”
Pablo, always a bit more animated, chimed in next. “Probably not for too long, beside, ’ve been hitting up the arcades every night,” he confessed, laughing as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Tokyo’s arcades are insane. I almost got kicked out of one for beating some kid in a dance game.” He gestured animatedly, mimicking his exaggerated dance moves with his hands. “But hey, the crowd loved it.”
Leonardo raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, and chuckled. “It seems like you've finished with your little tour, and look, you’re out there becoming a dancing sensation now.”
"Tokyo’s got a vibe you don’t find anywhere else.” Pablo's tone was playful, yet his eyes hinted at the intense focus he often wore on the pitch. “Been checking out some games too."
Leonardo shook his head, his grin widening, before glancing over to Dada, who seemed heard the conversation, but still focused more on his food.
As the attention shifted to him, Dada shrugged, a wide smile spread on his lips, swallowing another bite before he spoke in his deep, resonant voice. “I’m just here for the food, man. If I’m not eating, I’m training.” He lifted a forkful of food as if to make his point, his eyes narrowing with mock seriousness yet hinted with playfulness. “Tokyo’s got some of the best food I’ve ever had. I don’t see why I need to rush back to Brazil. Then again, I'm not going to stay long like Pablo.”
Julian chuckled, nodding in agreement. “Can’t argue with that. The food here is… incredible.” He gestured toward the spread in front of them—delicate sushi rolls, bowls of steaming ramen, and cuts of premium steak served with intricate garnishes.
Leonardo nodded thoughtfully, his gaze shifting out the window at the glittering Tokyo skyline, then added with a grin, “Though, don’t think I haven’t been watching our matches. Royalé Madrid’s training schedule won’t slow down for anyone.”
Pablo rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Of course, The Scion of Royale, never really off duty, eh? Next, you’ll be telling me you’re out scouting for Japanese players for the Spanish league.”
Leonardo laughed, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Japan’s youth teams have some promising... talent, I'd admit. But right now, I’m just enjoying the little break that I had after Blue Lock.”
Adam, always a bit more reserved, tilted his head slightly. “And what do you all think of Blue Lock?” His voice carried a curious edge, his gaze steady, his gaze sweeping over the table as if inviting them to share their thoughts.
Dada Silva chuckled, his deep voice echoing through the room. “They’ve got some good players, I’ll give them that,” he said, leaning forward. “Watching these kids try to survive the program? They’re hungry.” He took a drink, his eyes sharp. “Some of them look promising, especially that kid Rin.”
“Ah, Rin Itoshi,” Leonardo murmured, nodding in understanding. “Makes sense. Sae’s little brother, right?” His green eyes twinkled with amusement as he glanced at Julian. “Genius must run in the family. Sae’s been causing quite a stir in Royalé Madrid.”
Julian, now fully attentive, leaned forward, placing his arms on the table. “We've seen Rin's playstyle,” he replied thoughtfully. “He’s got that same drive as Sae—maybe even more intense. They’re both talented, but in different ways.” His voice held a note of intrigue, a hint that he had perhaps been keeping a closer eye on the Japanese players than he let on.
Adam added, “He’s got an instinct for reading the game. He moves a bit like Sae, too.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “They’re not clones, though. Rin’s got his own thing going on. His style isn’t as polished as Sae’s, but it’s raw, almost… ferocious.”
The group fell silent for a moment, each reflecting on the players they had observed, the untapped talent within Blue Lock. These were players who, despite their lack of experience, possessed an intensity that the veterans recognized. The program itself is a fascinated—a setup designed to forge the next generation of strikers through sheer, brutal competition.
Pablo leaned back, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I’ll admit, I was skeptical of the whole concept. Locking players in, making them fight each other? You didn't even know the end of the result yet,” he said, nodding slightly. “It’s… intense.”
Dada nodded in agreement. “They’re producing something here. Some of these kids are like diamonds still in the rough, but with time…” He trailed off, gesturing with his fork as if to emphasize the potential he saw.
The conversation shifted, each man offering their take on the program, the promising talents, and the strange, intense experience that Blue Lock provided. The talk of raw skill and determination brought a spark to the table, reminding each of them why they had risen to the heights they had—through that same hunger and drive that Blue Lock now instilled in its players.
As the conversation drifted from the Blue Lock program and its players, a name came up that made each of the men at the table exchange knowing glances—Isagi Yoichi.
Julian leaned back in his chair, a smile tugging at his lips. “Isagi Yoichi… he looks so normal it’s almost deceiving. You’d think he’s just another average player if you just took a glance at him.” He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “But then you actually go up against him…”
Leonardo laughed, nudging Julian with his elbow. “Oh, I remember you were the first one to challenge him, weren’t you? Thought your speed would leave him in the dust.”
“Yeah,” Julian admitted. “I figured there was no way he’d keep up." After all, Julian had outrun some of the fastest defenders in Europe, so it’d be easy. Even got the title as the world's faster striker. Julian's gaze grew distant as he recalled the game. “But he is a mind-reader or something. Every time I changed direction, tried to fake him out, he’d already be there, waiting.”
Leonardo hummed, intrigued. “So, what did he do? Just react faster than you?”
Julian shook his head. “No, that’s the thing as you've seen it yourself. He wasn’t just reacting. It was like he knew where I’d go before I even decided. He baited me a few times, too—made it seem like there was space to sprint through, and the second I took it, he’d cut off my angle. He has vision—like, insane vision. Reads the field like he’s seeing a bird’s-eye view of it.”
The table was silent for a moment, absorbing Julian’s words. Each of them had faced their share of tactical players, but Isagi’s technique sounded almost… unsettling.
Then Pablo chimed in, leaning forward with a smirk. “Yeah, after Julian, I thought I’d give it a shot. Figured his vision couldn’t handle some good old South American flair.” His colorful hair caught the light as he gestured animatedly. “But the kid was a step ahead again. I tried my best dribbling tricks, pulled out every feint I know, and he still managed to strip the ball off me.” He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know if it’s instinct or strategy, but he knows exactly when and how to press. His timing’s perfect.”
Dada, listening intently, raised an eyebrow. “So he’s a defensive player?” wanting to heard what the other thoughts, since he was there himself, and couldn't quite figure if the kid is all rounder.
Pablo shook his head, a gleam in his eyes. “No, that’s the scary part. He only defended to throw me off balance. Once he got the ball, he was all offense—aggressive, decisive."
Adam crossed his arms and leaned in, eyes glinting as he recalled his own 1v1 with Isagi. “I thought I’d overpower him, show him what a top striker from the Premier League can do. I thought if I went straight for a shot with force, there’d be no chance he could handle it.”
Leonardo hummed again. “It didn't work.”
Adam nodded. “Not in the slightest. The kid saw through it. I had the angle to score, but he managed to position himself in such a way that he completely cut me off—almost like he knew my playbook better than I did. He kept his positioning perfect, shifting just enough to control my options, leaving me no clean shot.”
Dada laughed, clapping his hands together. “He made all three of you look like amateurs!”
Adam shot Dada a glared. Julian merely nodded. “And it wasn’t luck. He has this presence on the field—it’s not just skill or talent. It’s how he thinks. It’s like he has a map of the entire field in his mind, everyone’s positions, and how they’ll move.” He took a sip of water. “The way he adapts, too, it’s as if he knows each of us individually—our habits, our tendencies. It’s unsettling but impressive.”
Dada finally finished his plate, his deep voice resonating through the room. “The kid has heart of ego and pride like us, too,” he said simply. “And a mind that’s sharp enough to beat three of the world’s best, one after another.” He smirked. “He’s not just reading plays. He’s reading people.”
They all fell silent, Isagi had managed to win without ever flaunting physical prowess.
Julian glanced around the table. He then slowly added, “He’s not the biggest, not the fastest, but he’s a player that makes you feel like you’re playing against your own mind,” he said quietly.
Pablo chuckled, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he looked at Adam across the table. “Speaking of our matches with the kid,” he started, smirking, “didn’t you call him a ‘third-rate player’ when we first met him? Just to rile him up?”
Adam’s jaw clenched as he glared back, a bit of color rising to his cheeks. “That wasn’t my idea,” he retorted defensively. “Ego asked me to say it. Said it’d… test Isagi’s ‘mental resilience’ or something. He wanted to see if the kid could handle the pressure.”
Leonardo burst out laughing, clapping Adam on the shoulder. “Oh, sure. So, you just happened to go along with it? I bet you enjoyed watching Isagi’s reaction a little too much.”
Adam crossed his arms, his expression tight, he defended himself. “Look, I didn’t know the kid at that point. For all I knew, he’d be exactly what I said—a third-rate player, out of his depth with the likes of us.” He sighed, casting a glance out the window as if reliving the moment. “But he didn’t even flinch. Just stared right back at me like he’d already figured me out. I could see it in his eyes flicker with offend. And when we got on the field, he went at me like he had a score to settle.”
Julian leaned back, a calculate hummed could be heard. “So, in other words, he made you eat your words.”
Adam huffed. “Yeah, alright, maybe he did. But that’s what I mean. That kid is not some average player. He takes what you throw at him and uses it like a weapon.” He paused, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “If anything, Ego knew exactly what he was doing. That whole ‘third-rate’ bit wasn’t for Isagi’s mental resilience—it was just to make the kid pissed off.”
The table erupted into laughter as Pablo raised his glass. “To Ego’s twisted plans,” he toasted, “and to Isagi for making us all realize he’s anything but third-rate.”
Inside the sterile, expansive training facilities of Blue Lock, the fluorescent lights cast a cold glow across the field. The air was thick with the mingled scents of exertion and determination, sweat and grit staining every inch of turf where the Blue Lock players had given everything they had—and failed to keep up. Among them, a single figure remained standing, a dark blue head of hair shimmering with the sheen of sweat. His breaths were steady, but his posture was tense, muscles coiled beneath his drenched training gear.
Isagi Yoichi glanced around, taking in the aftermath of his test match against the other players. Barou, the “King” himself, knelt on one knee, his pride seemingly the only thing keeping him from collapsing fully. His fists were clenched, his gaze fixed on the ground as though refusing to acknowledge defeat. Even Rin Itoshi, usually stoic and impenetrable, was bent forward, hands on his knees, face twisted in a mix of frustration and exhaustion. Around them, others lay sprawled on the field, gasping for breath, their bodies refusing to obey their pride any longer. Some of the medical staff were already entering the field, hurrying to assist the most worn-out players.
Yet Isagi stood apart from it all, the only figure upright amidst the chaos he’d left behind, as if untouched by the storm he had unleashed. A faint smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he assessed the scene, a quiet sense of satisfaction rising within him. The scoreboard loomed behind him, bold and unforgiving, displaying a definitive 6-4 in his favor—a stark reminder of the difference between him and everyone else here.
He let out a soft scoff, his expression tightening. He had spent more energy in this match than he had in any game in recent memory, each bead of sweat trickling down his neck serving as a testament to the intensity he had unleashed to “teach” them. It had been Ego’s request, after all. He was here to instill discipline and push these players beyond their limits. And while he couldn’t deny the thrill he’d felt in dissecting each of their weaknesses, driving them into corners they hadn’t thought possible, it had left him—dare he admit it—spent.
The unpleasant stickiness of sweat clung to his skin, and he grimaced slightly, catching the faint tang of sweat lingering around him. His hair, usually well-kept and immaculate, clung damply to his forehead, stray locks matted to his temples. He swiped his hand across his forehead, casting a look of distaste at the moisture that clung to his palm. As much as he had enjoyed the process, the result left him feeling... well, grimy. His gaze shifted briefly to the doorway leading to the locker rooms and showers.
It was time to leave.
Without a glance back, he started toward the exit. The others would pick themselves up, eventually—whether that be physically or mentally, he didn’t care. His steps echoed against the polished floors, boots meeting turf, the weight of his presence parting the crowd of staff. Some of them looked up at him, their faces unreadable, wondering, perhaps, at the force that had taken down Blue Lock’s most promising players.
The doors slid open before him, and a rush of cool air met his skin. He paused briefly, letting the sensation wash over him, washing away the lingering tension in his muscles. He’d done his job today—more than enough. A faint spark of forced anticipation—hardly he wanted to admit— tingled in his chest as he thought of the next challenge, the next chance to push them even further. But right now? Right now, he needed a shower.
As the laughter settled into a comfortable silence, Julian glanced out through the glass wall. The city lights of Tokyo sprawled beneath them, stretching far and wide like stars dotting a dark sky. The view was mesmerizing, and for a moment, he felt a strange sense of calm, something that was a rare luxury amidst the whirlwind of their lives.
Julian Loki’s phone vibrated subtly in his pocket, he slipped a hand under the table to retrieve it, careful not to draw attention from the others. While Dada, Pablo, Adam, and Leonardo continued their easy banter, Julian’s expression shifted slightly as he read the message that popped up on his screen.
“There's no information about that person."
Julian’s gaze sharpened. “How… strange,” Julian mumbled slowly to himself, his tone fill with confusion.
The words were brief, almost cryptic, but to Julian, they carried a weight only he understood. He stared at the message a moment longer, his thumb hovering above the screen as if to respond, but he paused, letting the information sink in.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the phone, his expression carefully neutral. Beneath the composed façade, though, his mind was already racing, connecting details, wondering what new piece of the puzzle he had just been given— that wasn't one at all.
His eyes met Leonardo’s. Leonardo’s green eyes held a subtle glint that's hard to pinpoint of what emotions. Julian noted the faintest flicker of something before disappear in his friend’s face.
Leonardo didn’t say anything, didn’t break the ongoing conversation between the others around them, Pablo was chuckling over a joke Dada had made, and Adam listened, his usual half-smirk in place as he interjected every now and then. It was as if nothing had changed in the room, yet Julian and Leonardo’s awareness had shifted.
Notes:
[Edited on February 20, 2025.]
Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights hummed softly the automated doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the sterile, high-tech space within, revealing the familiar, stark environment. The room’s cold, clinical atmosphere felt almost oppressive, with its pale walls, a rectangular table dominating the center, and a large screen mounted on one wall. The polished surface of the table gleamed under the harsh lighting, reflecting the neat stacks of files and the faint glow from Ego’s ever-present laptop.
Isagi stepped inside with quiet confidence, his movements unhurried. His appearance was markedly different from the last time he had entered this room. Now, freshly showered, he looked composed and refreshed. The damp sheen of sweat from the intense match was replaced with the crisp cleanliness of a man who had just stepped out of a warm bath. His white shirt, neatly ironed, hung loosely on his frame, offering a freedom he hadn’t felt in hours. Gone was the suffocating Blue Lock tracksuit that clung to his body like a second skin during the match. He couldn’t help the small sense of relief that came with being free from it.
As he walked further into the room, his shoes made soft tapping sounds against the tiled floor. His gaze immediately locked onto Jinpachi Ego, who sat at the far end of the table. Ego’s figure, as always, was hunched slightly over his laptop, his fingers steepled as he observed Isagi through the reflective glare of his glasses.
“I was told you called for me,” Isagi began, his voice calm and devoid of any inflection. “What do you want?” His tone was direct, cutting straight to the point as his eyes remained fixed on Ego, unblinking and sharp.
The air in the room felt tense, though Isagi himself radiated an air of indifference. He stood with his hands loosely at his sides, his posture relaxed but attentive, the faint scent of soap lingering in the air around him.
To his right, Anri Teieri stood by the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her wide eyes were fixed on Isagi, an expression of disbelief etched across her face. It wasn’t what she had expected. He didn’t look anything like someone who had just endured a grueling match. There was no sign of fatigue, no droop in his shoulders, no labored breathing. He was pristine, composed, and almost eerily detached, as though the events of the match hadn’t affected him at all.
Anri didn’t say a word, but her stare was loud enough. Isagi could feel the weight of her gaze, her disbelief practically tangible. It was as if she was trying to reconcile the calm figure before her with the chaos he had unleashed on the field just hours ago.
Isagi ignored her, his focus unwaveringly on Ego. He had no interest in addressing whatever thoughts were running through Anri’s mind. She could speculate all she wanted; it didn’t matter to him.
Ego leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the desk. “We need to talk about strategy,” he said, his voice sharp and to the point. “The U-20 match is coming up, and after what you pulled on the field today, you’ve seen the players’ states firsthand. We’ll need to factor that into our planning.”
Isagi’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He considered Ego’s words for a moment, his mind turning over the implications. He straightened his posture, tilting his head ever so slightly.
“No,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Not now.”
Ego’s fingers paused mid-tap, his head tilting slightly as if to signal curiosity. “Excuse me?”
“They’re not ready,” Isagi said, his tone steady and unyielding. “There’s no point in talking strategy when the players are in the state they’re in right now. Postpone the discussion.”
Ego’s lips curled into a faint, calculating smirk, his eyes gleaming behind the reflection of his glasses. “And what exactly do you propose to do in the meantime?”
Isagi’s gaze remained steady, unwavering. “I need to handle something with the players first. They won’t be of any use to us like this. Let me deal with them.”
There was a moment of silence as Ego studied Isagi, his expression inscrutable. Then, after a beat, he gave a single, sharp nod. “Fine. Do what you need to do.”
Isagi inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the agreement, but he didn’t move to leave just yet. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the table, scanning the files neatly stacked there. Without looking up, he spoke again.
“I’ll need their files,” he said, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “And their performance data from the match. I didn’t focus enough during the first meeting. I’ll need to go over it properly.”
Anri blinked, finally breaking out of her stunned silence. “You—” she began, but Isagi was already moving.
He strode toward the automated door without waiting for a response, his movements smooth and purposeful. His stopped just out from the sensory reached, and without looking back, he added, “Have it ready.”
Then, he walks, letting the door slide open, and close behind him, he was gone, leaving Ego and Anri alone in the silence of the meeting room.
The door clicked shut behind Isagi, the sound resonating faintly in the stillness of the room. For a few moments, neither Jinpachi Ego nor Anri Teieri spoke. The air seemed to hum with an unspoken tension, a lingering trace of the calm yet commanding presence Isagi had left behind.
Anri’s gaze remained fixed on the door, her brows slightly furrowed as she tried to process the surreal interaction she had just witnessed. Her arms, previously crossed in contemplation, dropped to her sides as she exhaled a slow breath. The faint hum of Ego’s laptop filled the room, his focus unwavering as his fingers danced over the keys, the screen reflecting faintly in his glasses.
Finally, Anri broke the silence, her voice hesitant yet curious. “Does… Isagi usually act like that?”
Ego didn’t glance up from his laptop, his attention firmly rooted in whatever data he was analyzing. His posture remained relaxed, his chair tilted slightly back, but there was an edge of calculation to his demeanor, as if his mind were constantly working three steps ahead. “Not quite,” he said, his tone as sharp and clipped as ever. “If anything, he’s more controlled here than usual.”
Anri blinked, her confusion evident as she turned fully toward him, taking a step closer to the table. “Controlled?” she repeated, her tone laced with disbelief. “That was controlled?”
Ego’s lips curled into a faint smirk, the corners of his mouth twitching upward just enough to be noticeable. “Relatively speaking, yes. What you saw just now is a tamer version of Yoichi Isagi.”
Anri’s brows knit together, her expression a mixture of curiosity and unease. She leaned against the table, resting her hands lightly on its edge as she tilted her head slightly. “I don’t understand,” she admitted, her voice softer now. “He seemed so… calm, almost indifferent. Is that really unusual for him?”
Ego’s fingers stilled on the keyboard, and he finally turned his gaze toward her, the faint glow of his screen catching the sharp angles of his glasses. His expression remained neutral, but there was a glint of something—amusement, perhaps, or a faint trace of exasperation.
“Usually, after a match, Isagi is colder,” Ego began, his voice steady, each word deliberate. “Detached to the point of appearing lifeless. He doesn’t speak to anyone. He moves like he’s on autopilot, his mind already elsewhere, analyzing every detail of what just happened on the field. That’s what I’m used to seeing.”
Anri’s eyes widened slightly at his explanation. She straightened, her hands gripping the edge of the table tighter as she processed his words. “Lifeless?” she echoed, her tone tinged with concern. “Why would he be like that? He just had an incredible match. You saw it—he dominated the field. How could someone act like that after such a performance?”
Ego’s huffed, hinted with a subtle sharper, as though he found her reaction predictable. “Because for Isagi, a match like that isn’t about adrenaline or celebration. It’s a task—a challenge he has to conquer. From the moment he steps onto the field, his mind is running at full capacity, analyzing every move, every player, every shift in the game. It’s exhausting. Mentally draining.”
Anri’s gaze softened, her fingers relaxing their grip on the table as she absorbed Ego’s explanation. “So that’s why he seemed… different?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “He wasn’t as detached as you described.”
Ego leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing loosely over his chest as he regarded her. “Exactly. Normally, after a match that demanding, he wouldn’t even bother with pleasantries. He’d be too consumed by replaying every detail in his head. The fact that he’s more… present, let’s say, is surprising.”
Anri frowned, her thoughts racing as she tried to reconcile this new information with the Isagi she had just seen. “But why?” she asked after a moment, her gaze drifting toward the door as if expecting an answer to walk back through it. “What’s different this time? Why isn’t he acting like that now?”
Ego tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. For a moment, he didn’t answer, his eyes narrowing as if piecing together a puzzle in his mind. “It’s hard to say,” he admitted finally, his tone more contemplative than usual. “It could be any number of things. Perhaps he’s adapting. Or maybe he’s realized that detachment isn’t as effective as he once thought.”
Anri crossed her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line as she considered his words. “Or,” she ventured cautiously, “maybe he’s just hiding it better. You said he analyzes everything. Maybe he’s doing the same with himself.”
Ego’s smirk deepened, a glint of approval flashing in his eyes. “Possible,” he conceded, his tone carrying a note of acknowledgment. “Isagi is a creature of strategy, after all. If he’s acting differently, it’s for a reason. Whether that reason is for his benefit or ours remains to be seen.”
The room fell silent again, the hum of the laptop filling the space once more. Anri remained by the table, her gaze distant as she mulled over Ego’s words. She couldn’t shake the image of Isagi’s calm, composed demeanor—the way he had walked in without a trace of fatigue, the unwavering focus in his eyes. There was something almost unnerving about it, a sense that there was far more to him than met the eye.
Ego returned his attention to his laptop, his fingers resuming their rhythmic tapping. “Don’t overthink it, Teieri,” he said, his tone dismissive but not unkind. “Isagi is an anomaly, yes. But that’s what makes him valuable. He doesn’t play by the rules—on or off the field.”
Anri glanced at him, her brows furrowing slightly. “Valuable,” she murmured, her tone thoughtful. “I just hope that whatever’s driving him doesn’t end up consuming him.”
Ego didn’t respond immediately, his focus fixed on the screen before him. But after a moment, he spoke, his voice quieter this time. “That,” he said, “remains to be seen.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, a subtle reminder of the fine line Isagi walked between brilliance and self-destruction.
Then, as the faint hum of the room returned as Anri stared at Ego, her curiosity slowly shifting into something more significant. Her gaze was steady, her arms she leaned back against the table. The earlier exchange lingered in her mind, but a new question bubbled to the surface, one she couldn’t ignore.
The silence between them stretched for a moment longer, tension lingering in the air like an unfinished thought.
“How do you know him that well?” she started, her voice soft but persistent, like a gentle prod against a locked door. “You seem to understand his habits, his reactions… How long have you known Isagi?”
The rhythmic tapping of Ego’s fingers on his keyboard came to an abrupt halt. His posture, usually casual in its own stiff, methodical way, froze, his back rigid against the chair, and for a fraction of a second, the room felt heavier. He didn’t look up, but his fingers hovered over the keys, suspended mid-action as if debating whether to continue. His glasses caught the glow of the laptop screen, obscuring his eyes, but his expression betrayed nothing. The pause stretched uncomfortably, drawing Anri’s attention further.
“Ego?” she pressed gently, tilting her head. “How long?”
The faintest shift in his demeanor was almost imperceptible, but it was there—a slight tightening of his shoulders, a calculated inhale. Then, without a word, he resumed typing, his usual calm and efficiency returning. Yet, the movement felt different, as if forced, a distraction from something deeper; by not answering her immediately. Instead, letting the sound of the keys clicking filled the room, a shallow rhythm that did little to mask the weight in the air.
Under the cover of a somber Tokyo night, the kind where the city’s brilliance blurred with the weight of the rain. The downpour bathed everything in glistening reflections, lights from towering skyscrapers shimmering in fractured pools on the ground. Each droplet carried with it an eerie sense of stillness, even as the streets bustled with distant activity. Somewhere in the heart of it all, the faint sound of a siren pierced through, growing louder, pulling attention towards one of the football fields nestled amid the urban maze.
The field, partially illuminated by the buzzing glow of floodlights, appeared almost dreamlike. Rain struck the ground in a rhythmic cadence, broken occasionally by the sharp splash of hurried footsteps. Shoes struck water, scattering the perfect mirror of city lights into chaos. The figure moved swiftly, the long strides purposeful, cutting through the night toward the source of the noise.
There, behind the growing crowd, stood the scene of commotion: emergency vehicles flashing red and blue, their lights casting shadows that danced across the slick pavement. Paramedics rushed to and fro, their shouts mingling with the crackle of police radios and the muffled murmur of curious onlookers. A figure lingered at the edge of the commotion, silent yet insistent. He didn’t blend in—tall, almost unnervingly so, his frame cutting a distinct silhouette against the glow of the lights. His face was hidden beneath the hood of a raincoat, the falling droplets rolling off its surface in steady streams.
The crowd pressed closer, their murmurs growing. Yet when he stepped forward, an officer extended an arm, “Stay back,” one officer barked, his tone firm, barring entry with the practiced authority of someone used to managing chaos. He wasn’t the only one turned away; the field's boundary had become an impromptu barricade. But this figure didn’t retreat. His height afforded him a view others lacked, and he strained to see past the wall of uniforms.
What he saw froze him in place.
At the center of the scene stood a figure, a boy, no older than sixteen, drenched from head to toe, rain clinging to the sharp edges of their sports gear. Blue hair, darkened and matted by water, framed a face that seemed carved from stone. A small tuft of hair atop their head defied the rain, sticking up as if untouched by the storm. One eye was hidden beneath damp bangs, but the other... the other stared with an intensity that pierced through the chaos, fixed unwaveringly on the interior of an ambulance where medics worked frantically.
The boy didn’t move. He didn’t flinch when a nearby figure, clad in the same athletic uniform, broke free from the grasp of two workers. The second boy screamed something—a name, a plea—but the words were lost in the cacophony. He thrashed against those holding him back, desperation bleeding from every motion.
"Yoichi!"
—But the first boy, the one with the blue hair, didn’t even glance at the commotion. His focus remained solely on the ambulance, as if tethered to whatever—or whoever—was inside.
The tall figure—Ego, though his name had yet to be whispered in this fragmented recollection—felt the world shift as the boy’s eye, the lifeless, dilated pupil, almost lazily, turned to meet his. The connection was immediate and suffocating, an unspoken gravity that swallowed the noise around them. The blaring sirens dulled, fading into the background like a forgotten melody. The frantic movements of paramedics and police officers slowed, their shapes blurring as if seen through a rain-streaked lens. Even the crowd's hushed murmurs evaporated. In this suspended moment, it was as though only two people existed—the tall man and the boy with the stormy gaze.
There was almost no recognition in those eyes. No anger, no sadness, no hope. Just emptiness—a void so profound it threatened to pull the observer into its depths. The rain kept falling, streaking down the boy’s face, though it was impossible to tell if the moisture clinging to his cheeks was only rainwater. The man—Ego—didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The connection held him captive, a thousand questions racing through his mind yet not one able to break free.
And then, just as abruptly as it began, the spell was broken. A shout from the officers, a hurried motion to close the ambulance doors, and the boy turned away, his gaze snapping back to the vehicle as if the moment had never happened. The lifelessness lingered in his posture, his shoulders sagging under an unseen weight. Before the workers moved to shield the boy, ushering him toward a waiting vehicle. The police tightened their perimeter, forcing the crowd, and Ego, back. The ambulance pulled away, sirens wailing anew, leaving behind a hollow stillness that settled over the scene.
Ego remained rooted to the spot, the image of that boy—blue hair, lifeless eye, drenched uniform—seared into his mind. The crowd began to disperse, the rain continuing its relentless descent, but he didn’t follow. Instead, he stood there, staring at the place where the ambulance had been, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.
The weight of that fleeting moment pressing heavily against his chest.
That was the last time he saw him. The last time their eyes met.
Two years ago, on a rainy night in Tokyo, Ego Jinpachi had crossed paths with Isagi Yoichi, and that remained the last ever since.
Ego’s fingers stilled again, the memory fading as he returned to the present. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the screen as if it held all the answers he refused to voice. Anri, sensing the shift in atmosphere, leaned forward slightly, her curiosity now tinged with unease.
“Well?” she prompted softly.
Ego didn’t look up. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual, laced with an enigmatic undertone that sent a shiver down her spine.
“I know him,” he said, his tone deliberate, each word carrying weight. “Enough to understand him. But still not enough.”
Anri frowned, her confusion evident. “What does that mean?”
Ego’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, though it lacked any real humor. His fingers resumed their rhythmic dance over the keys, dismissing the question with an air of finality.
“It means,” he said, “that Yoichi Isagi is a puzzle even I haven’t fully understand.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, leaving Anri with more questions than answers.
Anri hesitated, her curiosity outweighing her usual restraint. She shifted her weight slightly, her fingers lightly drumming against the edge of the table. Ego remained engrossed in his laptop—or so it seemed—his glasses catching the dim light of the room as his fingers continued their deliberate typing.
With conscious, She started again, "Well that was quite vague." this time a bit hesitate, “You speak like you’ve observed him for years, but I’ve never heard you mention him outside of Blue Lock. When did you first meet him?”
Ego’s fingers paused again, this time lingering above the keys. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, a movement so subtle that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Anri did. She watched as he stared at the laptop screen, his eyes narrowing slightly as if seeing something far beyond the data in front of him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said finally, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.
The faint hum of the hallway lights accompanied Isagi’s measured footsteps as he strolled down the corridor of the Blue Lock facility. The sterile walls, pristine and unblemished, seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions, their bright white surfaces illuminated by the harsh fluorescent glow overhead. His stride was steady, casual, almost lazy, as though he had no particular purpose—though the sharpness in his gaze told another story.
The air was cool, tinged faintly with the antiseptic scent of the infirmary nearby. It didn’t take long for him to arrive. The automatic doors slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing a large, sterile room. It was spacious, designed to accommodate a significant number of players, and as he stepped inside, the sight before him confirmed his assumption.
Rows of beds lined the walls, each one occupied by a player in various states of recovery. Some sat upright, chugging water or engaging in hushed conversations. Others lay back, their eyes closed, faces pale and drawn. Staff members flitted about, their movements efficient but unobtrusive. The murmur of low voices, the occasional clink of medical equipment, and the hum of machines created a soft background noise.
Isagi’s nose wrinkled slightly as his gaze swept over the room. A few players were still wearing their tracksuits, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to their skin from sweat and exertion. The faint odor of lingering exhaustion clung to the air, though he refrained from commenting. Instead, his expression remained neutral, his steps slow and deliberate as he ventured further inside, his posture relaxed as though taking a leisurely stroll through a park.
The atmosphere shifted the moment the players noticed him. One by one, conversations ceased, heads turned, and all attention fell on him. The room, which had been alive with the quiet energy of recovery, grew still. The tension was palpable, crackling faintly like static in the air.
Isagi stopped, his eyes scanning the room, indifferent to the sudden weight of their gazes. He caught the subtle tightening of shoulders, the way some players gripped their sheets or cups a little harder. Their exhaustion seemed to morph into something else—unease, irritation, or perhaps a mixture of both.
Then, without invitation or hesitation, he shrugged. The motion was light, almost dismissive, as though brushing off an unseen burden. “I’m just here to visit,” he said plainly, his tone even, devoid of warmth or malice.
The words did little to ease the tension.
“Cut the chase,” Barou snapped, his deep voice cutting through the silence like a knife. His tone was sharp, dripping with disdain. “What are you really here for?”
Isagi didn’t react immediately. He stood there, his gaze drifting lazily over Barou before his lips curled into a smile. It wasn’t a kind smile, nor was it cruel. It was something in between, stretched across his face with an unsettling calm, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
A low hum escaped him, a sound that was neither agreement nor denial. His gaze shifted across the room, taking in the other players. “Relax,” he murmured, his voice soft yet cutting, sharp enough to slip through the tension like a blade. “I said I’m just visiting.”
The words weren’t a reassurance. If anything, they only deepened the unease.
His eyes flicked toward Barou once more, lingering just long enough to dismiss him without a word. Then, almost as if addressing the room as a whole, Isagi spoke again, his tone casual yet laced with something deeper, something that made the air grow heavier.
“It’s a sad sight, though, isn’t it?” he said, his voice carrying a slow, deliberate rhythm. “All of you… collapsed after a single match. Both teams. Tired and exhausted.”
The words hung in the air, their meaning ambiguous. His expression didn’t change, but the weight of his gaze swept across them like a predator sizing up its prey. There was no clear malice in his tone, no overt mockery, yet the players couldn’t help but bristle. The words felt like a judgment, but they couldn’t discern whether it was pity, or petty disdain.
Before anyone could respond, Isagi continued. His tone shifted subtly, carrying an almost imperceptible undercurrent of happiness, as though he truly found joy in what he was saying in an instant.
“But in the span of two hours,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, “all of you managed something remarkable.”
The room remained silent, the players frozen as his words unfolded.
“You discovered your weaknesses,” he said, his gaze sweeping over them once more. “Weaknesses you’ve carried for years—your entire lives, even. Weaknesses you’ve been too blind or too afraid to see.” His smile widened slightly, though the chill in his eyes remained. “And yet… in just one match, they were laid bare for you. Isn’t that… wonderful?”
The words were spoken softly, almost tenderly, but the impact was anything but gentle. It was as though he had reached into their chests and twisted something vital.
The players shifted uncomfortably, glancing at one another as if to confirm they weren’t alone in their unease. It made them question whether his words were genuine or a veiled insult. Was this his way of offering them encouragement, or was it some cruel mockery, a knife disguised as kindness?
Isagi’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew ever so slightly, as though he knew the effect his words had and reveled in it. “Weakness,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is the greatest teacher, don’t you think?”
His words hung in the air, their meaning slippery and ambiguous, leaving the players unable to determine whether they were meant to feel gratitude, shame, or something else entirely. The silence that followed was suffocating, each player caught in the web Isagi had so carefully spun.
The smile remained on his face as he stood there, his presence both calm and unnerving. He waited, as if daring anyone to respond, to challenge him. Yet no one spoke, the tension rendering them mute.
And in that silence, Isagi’s words lingered, echoing in their minds, cutting deeper than they’d care to admit.
The cafeteria hummed with quiet efficiency, the faint mechanical sounds of vending stations blending seamlessly with the quiet cafeteria. Fluorescent lights cast a clinical glow over the room, reflecting off the polished steel surfaces of the high-tech food dispensers. Isagi stood in front of one such machine, a tray in hand, his sharp gaze flicking across the digital menu displayed on the screen.
The machine was sleek and modern, its interface responsive as Isagi scrolled through the options. Every movement he made was deliberate, his focus unbroken as he read through the descriptions of various meals. His hand hovered briefly over one choice before sliding to another, his thoughts weighing each option with the same intensity he reserved for the pitch. The card given to him by the staff rested lightly in his other hand, ready to be swiped once he made his selection.
The faint aroma of freshly prepared food wafted through the air, but Isagi paid it little attention. His focus was entirely on the task before him—an odd quirk, considering the mundane nature of choosing a meal, yet characteristic of his meticulous nature.
He was seconds away from making his final decision when a soft, tentative voice broke through the ambient noise. “Excuse me,” the voice said, polite yet hesitant, carrying an unmistakable undertone of nervousness.
Isagi didn’t react immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, his body language unchanged, as though he hadn’t heard the speaker. But after a beat, he responded, his voice calm and detached, with no trace of irritation or interest. “Yes.”
He knew exactly who it was before even turning. The voice had an accent—a thick, unpolished cadence that spoke of rural origins. Its drawl carried the distinct flavor of Ibaraki Prefecture.
Nanase.
The name passed through Isagi’s mind like a fact to be filed away, unimportant but noted. He could picture the boy already: polite, slightly awkward, with a persistent streak of determination that was almost admirable if it weren’t so misplaced.
But Isagi didn’t turn to confirm. Instead, he pressed a button on the menu screen, finalizing his choice. The machine whirred softly as it processed his request. Sliding the card into the scanner, Isagi finally acknowledged Nanase’s presence with a brief glance over his shoulder.
Nanase stood a few steps behind him, his posture stiff but polite. He looked exactly as Isagi expected—nervous yet earnest, his hands clasped in front of him like a schoolboy about to ask his teacher a question. The faint sheen of sweat on his brow betrayed a mix of apprehension and determination.
Isagi returned his attention to the machine, watching as his tray began to fill with the selected items. Whatever Nanase wanted, it could wait. For now, Isagi’s focus was on his food.
“Excuse me, Isagi-san,” Nanase repeat, his voice careful and polite, yet tinged with an anxious undertone. The words were soft but unmistakable, each syllable betraying his Ibaraki accent.
Isagi pushed a final button on the machine, his tray now complete, before slowly turning around. His arms folded across his chest, he let his eyes settle on Nanase. For a moment, he said nothing, his sharp gaze appraising the younger player. Nanase stood stiffly, shoulders slightly hunched, his face a mix of nervous determination. The slight twitch in his fingers betrayed his discomfort.
“What do you want?” Isagi asked, his tone flat, almost indifferent.
Nanase hesitated, licking his lips as though searching for the right words. “I... I was wondering if you could train me,” he finally said, his voice steadying by the end of the sentence.
Isagi tilted his head slightly, studying Nanase. The cafeteria lights cast a pale glow on the boy’s earnest face, emphasizing the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. It wasn’t the question itself that surprised him—he had expected someone to approach him eventually—but the timing.
It was too soon.
Isagi’s presence in the match had been calculated, a performance designed to unsettle and expose weaknesses. Most players would need time to process what had happened. For their ego and pride was smashed as he settled them with the hand of shame and one need to recover with sometimes. Yet here Nanase was, standing before him, seemingly recovered enough to ask for his help.
“What do you want to train?” Isagi asked, his tone light but probing.
Nanase blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the question. He stammered, “Well, I thought... I mean, you should already know—”
“Wrong,” Isagi interrupted sharply, his arms tightening across his chest. “What do you want? Do you want to be the strongest? Or are you just looking to survive this?”
Nanase faltered, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for an answer. The question had clearly thrown him, but Isagi didn’t let up. His eyes bore into Nanase’s, cold and unrelenting, as though daring him to give the wrong response.
“I...” Nanase finally began, his voice quiet but resolute. “I want to be strong enough to survive.”
The words hung in the air, stark and unembellished. Isagi’s gaze remained fixed on Nanase, his expression unreadable. A flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. For a moment, he stood silent, arms still crossed, as if weighing Nanase’s response.
Déjà vu.
The thought crept into Isagi’s mind unbidden, bringing with it a faint, fleeting sense of discomfort. He couldn’t place the feeling, but it lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
Finally, he nodded, the movement slow and deliberate. “Fine,” he said, his tone devoid of enthusiasm but laced with a quiet finality.
Nanase’s face brightened slightly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Isagi cut him off with a curt gesture.
“Eat first,” Isagi said, turning back to retrieve his tray from the machine. “Then we’ll train.”
Nanase blinked, startled by the abrupt shift, but nodded quickly. “O-of course,” he said, stepping aside to let Isagi pass.
Isagi glanced over his shoulder, scanning the room. “Gagamaru,” he called, his voice calm but commanding.
The taller player appeared almost instantly, his silent presence catching Nanase off guard. Nanase stiffened, his eyes widening in surprise—he hadn’t even noticed Gagamaru standing nearby.
“Find us a table that wasn't too seen,” Isagi instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Gagamaru nodded, his expression as unreadable as ever, and moved to obey. Isagi, meanwhile, turned back to Nanase, his gaze cool and steady.
“Let’s go,” he said simply, leading the way without waiting for a response.
Nanase hesitated for only a moment before following, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t quite articulate. Something about Isagi’s demeanor unsettled him, but he pushed the feeling aside. For now, he would focus on what lay ahead.
The peace of quiet around the cafeteria was intrupt for a split second when Rin Itoshi entered the room, his presence annoyingly command attention.
Isagi had barely set his tray down when the sharp smack of palms hitting the table reverberated in the air. He stilled, his body freezing mid-motion as he turned his gaze upward, slowly, deliberately. His expression flickered with annoyance, a sharp twist of his lips betraying the disbelief simmering beneath his carefully maintained composure.
And there he was—Rin Itoshi, towering over the table with his piercing teal eyes glaring down at Isagi like he was trying to bore a hole straight through him. Rin’s tracksuit was still on, a testament to his single-minded obsession, the sweat clinging to his disheveled appearance only enhancing his unyielding intensity.
Isagi’s first reaction wasn’t intimidation—it was disgust. His nose wrinkled involuntarily, his brows furrowing as his lips curled in disdain.
"You’ve got to be kidding me," Isagi muttered under his breath, the words barely audible but dripping with contempt.
Rin’s presence was like a spotlight in the room. His sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead, the sheen on his neck catching the fluorescent lights, highlighting the tense line of his jaw and the faint vein pulsing against the skin. Yet even in this disheveled state, Rin somehow maintained an infuriating handsomeness. The sharpness of his features, the dark lashes framing his cold, narrow eyes, the broad shoulders perfectly accentuated by his athletic build—it all felt annoyingly effortless.
And that height.
Isagi’s irritation deepened as his gaze swept over Rin’s figure. At sixteen, Rin already had the physique of a professional athlete, tall and sculpted like a model fresh off the runway. It grated on Isagi in ways he wouldn’t admit out loud. At the same age, he had been shorter, wiry, still growing into himself—not like this unfairly polished prodigy standing in front of him.
Rin leaned forward slightly, his glare unrelenting, the tension in his jaw visible as he clenched his teeth. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, the words clipped and cold, carrying an almost physical weight.
“Fight me. One-on-one.”
This youth reeks desperation again.
Isagi clicks his tongue. What a hassle.
Notes:
In here, Isagi is the same age as Sae, eighteen. I need the age for the plot, and adding one year should be good. Insanely so.
I like philosophy, so if some sentences you dont understand, specifically words that come out of Isagi and others mouth. Asked immediately, I would be happy to explain.
Isagi appreciate—understand the nature of ones beauty, if he find one he would compare immediately to himself.
Isagi really doesn't like to be intrupt, yet, by the look of it, it seems this wouldn't be the first time when he surrounded with weird people. Unaware he was an unhinged himself.
Me, unable to pick between Isagi Yoichi, or Yoichi Isagi, just like many other, decided to just used both and rolled with it like how I went with football and soccer.
Also me, not liking to edit or check grammar or any plot hole in a chapter, just smash the pressed button post after one time check, yettt.
At the recent blue lock spoiler manga, you could say I was happy that some personalities I had envision to Isagi was canon, yey.
Chapter Text
Rin’s glare was unrelenting, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he waited for an answer. His demand—blunt and raw—hung in the air between them like a drawn blade.
“Worked up, aren’t you?” Isagi mused, his voice calm but with an edge sharp enough to cut. “Over what exactly? Losing? Or something else?”
Rin’s expression didn’t shift, but the faint twitch of his brow betrayed him. Isagi noted it, storing the reaction like a chess piece he’d just moved into position.
“You know, Rin,” Isagi continued, his tone casual as though they were discussing the weather, “for someone who prides himself on being composed, you look pretty desperate right now. Barging in here, sweat dripping, demanding a fight like your life depends on it.”
“I’m not desperate,” Rin snapped, his voice low and taut, like a wire about to snap.
“Oh?” Isagi tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “Then what is it? A grudge? Some misplaced sense of pride? Or…” His words slowed, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful, almost pitying. “...does this have something to do with him?”
Rin stiffened, his shoulders locking into place as his jaw tightened. Isagi’s smirk returned, smaller now, but no less dangerous.
“Hit a nerve?” Isagi asked, his tone light, almost teasing. “I mean, it’s no secret, right? The great Rin Itoshi—always in the shadow of his big brother. The prodigy. The genius. The guy everyone wants to be but no one can touch.”
“Shut up,” Rin growled, his voice barely above a whisper, but the intensity behind it was enough to make Nanase that was nearby flinch.
“Why should I?” Isagi pressed, his tone growing colder, sharper. “You stormed in here, demanded my time, and now you want me to stay quiet? You came here because you thought fighting me would prove something. To who? To me? To yourself? Or…” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower, “...to your brother?”
Rin’s fists slammed onto the table again, the sound reverberating through the cafeteria. His teal eyes burned with fury, but Isagi remained unfazed, his smirk unwavering.
“Careful, Rin,” Isagi said, his voice calm, his words deliberate. “You’re starting to look unhinged. Not a good look for someone trying to prove they’re better than their brother.”
“This has nothing to do with him,” Rin spat, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.
“Doesn’t it?” Isagi countered, his tone cutting through Rin’s denial like a blade. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like everything you do is about him. Chasing his shadow. Trying to outshine him. Trying to prove to the world—and maybe to yourself—that you’re more than just Sae Itoshi’s little brother.”
Rin’s glare was like ice, sharp and frigid, but Isagi met it head-on, unflinching.
“Here’s the thing, Rin,” Isagi said, his voice softening just slightly, enough to make the next words sting all the more. “I’m not your brother. And fighting me won’t change the fact that he’s not here. You want to prove something? Do it on the field. Not in some half-baked challenge you came up with in the middle of a cafeteria.”
Rin opened his mouth to argue, but Isagi cut him off with a raised hand.
“No,” Isagi said firmly, his voice final. “I’m not fighting you. Not now. Not like this.”
The room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Rin’s jaw tightened, his fists trembling at his sides, but he didn’t say another word. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the cafeteria, his presence leaving as abruptly as it had arrived.
Isagi watched him go, his smirk fading into a neutral expression. He sighed, shaking his head slightly as he picked up his fork and resumed eating, the room around him slowly returning to its usual quiet.
“Kids these days,” he muttered under his breath, the faintest hint of amusement in his tone.
Nanase, who had been watching from the sidelines, could barely believe his eyes. His mouth hung open, gawked in disbelief at the sheer nonchalance radiating from Isagi. It wasn’t just the fact that Isagi had refused Rin’s challenge—it was the way he had done it, he maintained something—that makes his skin crawl while watching from the sideline—and pushing back against Rin’s palpable intensity. Nanase had braced himself for a different outcome, certain that Isagi would rise to the occasion and agree to fight Rin, but the reality had left him dumbfounded.
Meanwhile, Gagamaru sat beside Isagi, entirely unbothered by the earlier confrontation. Oblivious to the tension that had hung over the table mere moments ago, he munched on his food with a steady, almost meditative rhythm. His presence, calm and unbothered, provided an odd contrast to Nanase’s wide-eyed shock and Isagi’s deliberate indifference.
Finally, unable to hold back his curiosity, Nanase hesitantly spoke up. “Uh… Isagi-san?” he ventured, his voice uncertain.
Isagi didn’t look up, his eyes still focused on his food. “Hm?” he responded, the sound barely more than a hum.
Nanase fidgeted in place, glancing nervously between Isagi and Gagamaru, who continued eating as though nothing had happened. “Why… why did you do that?” Nanase finally asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and confusion.
Isagi paused mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. For a moment, it seemed as though he might ignore the question entirely, but then he lowered the fork back to his plate and looked at Nanase, his neutral expression unchanged.
“Do what?” Isagi asked, his tone so casual it almost felt dismissive.
“You know… refuse Rin’s challenge,” Nanase said, gesturing vaguely toward the cafeteria door where Rin had exited. “I thought you’d agree. I mean, it’s Rin Itoshi, right? Why didn’t you—”
“Let him be,” Isagi interrupted, his voice calm but firm.
Nanase blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of the answer. “Let him be?” he echoed, as though the words themselves were foreign.
Isagi didn’t elaborate. Instead, he picked up his fork again and resumed eating, his expression betraying nothing. Nanase waited, expecting some kind of explanation, but none came. The silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of Gagamaru chewing his food.
What Nanase couldn’t see, however, was the thoughts quietly churning in Isagi’s mind.
Rin. Itoshi.
The name alone carried weight, a gravity that seemed to follow Rin wherever he went. Isagi had known from the moment he seen Rin that the younger player was a force to be reckoned with—a prodigy molded by the expectations—? and pressures—? of being the younger brother of Sae Itoshi. But after the match—even in the match, watching Rin’s disheveled, desperate state, Isagi couldn’t tell the feeling that flicker of something that wasn’t quite pity but wasn’t quite indifference either.
Rin and Itoshi.
He chewed his food slowly, his gaze lowering to his plate as he thought. Rin’s challenge hadn’t been about skill or competition. It had been about something deeper, something far more personal. The tension in Rin’s voice, the fire in his eyes—it wasn’t just about proving himself—Isagi can't really tell, he can't, he won't, if it was really just the desperation of proving—. It was about validation—Isagi shoved the sense of longing he had felt around the younger player at short amount of time behind the back of his mind—About seeking something he felt he’d lost—or perhaps never had to begin with.
And that was the problem.
Rin wasn’t ready. Not for a fight, and certainly not for whatever answers he was looking for. Isagi could see it in every clenched fist, every sharp word, every frustrated movement from the match and after. Agreeing to fight Rin now would have been pointless, a hollow gesture that wouldn’t give him what he was really seeking.
What is it you’re looking for, Rin? Isagi made sure that those words root into the very being of that youth, his fork idly pushing a piece of food across his plate. Is it your brother’s approval? His acknowledgment? Or are you just trying to escape his shadow?
The truth was, Isagi didn’t know, but surely he will, one way or another. And honestly, he wasn’t sure Rin knew either.
He took another bite of his food, his movements slow and deliberate. Rin’s desperation reminded him of something—someone. It was a faint, nagging feeling in the back of his mind, like the echo of a memory he couldn’t quite place. He didn’t like it.
But what he disliked even more was the way Rin had looked at him, as though Isagi held the answers to questions Rin hadn’t even asked. It wasn’t Isagi’s job to fix Rin. It wasn’t his responsibility to carry the weight of Rin’s insecurities or to guide him toward whatever truth he was chasing.
Then again, wasn't it was the whole point he had agreed with Ego on helping him win against the U-20?
Isagi’s gaze flicked upward briefly, glancing at Nanase, who was still watching him with a mixture of awe—seriously— and confusion. He sighed inwardly, his expression remaining neutral. He wasn’t Rin’s brother. He wasn’t anyone’s guide. He was just Isagi Yoichi—a player focused on his own goals, his own path.
Let him figure it out himself, Isagi thought, returning his focus to his food. He’ll be stronger for it.
The thought settled in his mind, solid and resolute. Isagi wasn’t going to fight Rin. Not now. Not like this.
Nanase shifted uncomfortably, still unsure what to make of Isagi’s answer. Beside him, Gagamaru continued eating, blissfully ignorant of the tension that lingered in the air.
Finally, Nanase spoke again, his voice hesitant. “But… shouldn’t you at least—”
“No,” Isagi said simply, cutting him off.
Nanase blinked, startled by the finality in Isagi’s tone.
“Let him be,” Isagi repeated, his voice softer this time but no less firm. “He’ll figure it out.”
With that, Isagi returned to his meal, his expression as unreadable as ever. Nanase watched him for a moment longer, then reluctantly turned back to his own food, still grappling with the unanswered questions swirling in his mind.
But Isagi didn’t notice—or perhaps he didn’t care. His thoughts had already moved on, his focus entirely on the next bite, the next goal, the next step in this journey. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, a quiet voice whispered a truth he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge, something about the whole agreement he did with Ego.
You’ll figure it out too, Rin.
Isagi had barely taken another bite when a tray was slammed onto the table across from him, the loud clatter with a clang. Nanase flinched so hard he nearly knocked over his drink, while Gagamaru, in his usual oblivious state, paused mid-chew and mumbled something incomprehensible with a mouthful of food.
Isagi, however, didn’t even blink. His fork paused mid-air for a fraction of a second before resuming its course, scooping up a bite of food with precision. He didn’t look up, his expression remaining as neutral as ever, but anyone paying close attention might have caught the faintest hint of exasperation in the set of his jaw.
“Yo, can I join you guys?”
The voice was bright and cheery, cutting through the lingering tension like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Even when the energy was almost palpable, an infectious sort of cheer that felt entirely at odds with the subdued atmosphere of the cafeteria. Without waiting for a reply, the owner of the voice slid into the seat across from Isagi, grinning as though he had just been invited to a party.
It was Bachira.
“Man, that was something!” Bachira said, leaning forward on his elbows and grinning at Isagi like they were old friends. “Rin-chan just storming in like that, all intense and broody—‘Fight me, Isagi!’—and you just shut him down, bam!” He cackled, his laugh as wild and unrestrained as ever. “Classic Rin-chan. So dramatic.”
Nanase blinked, still trying to process what was happening. Gagamaru kept eating, completely unperturbed, while Isagi… remained Isagi. His expression didn’t shift, his movements didn’t falter, and he certainly didn’t acknowledge Bachira’s theatrics. It was as if the chaos across the table simply didn’t exist.
If Bachira expected him to laugh along or offer some kind of reaction, he was going to be sorely disappointed.
Bachira, undeterred by the lack of response, leaned in even closer, and randomly clapped his hands together, with the enthusiasm of a child announcing his favorite superhero, declared, “Oh, right! I didn’t introduce myself, did I?” He pointed a thumb at his chest, his grin widening. “Bachira Meguru. You can just call me Bachira, though. Everyone does. Nice to meet ya!”
Isagi let out a quiet huff, his shoulders barely moving. He didn’t look up from his plate, but he could feel the weight of Bachira’s energy pressing against his carefully maintained calm like a battering ram.
It wasn’t just the grin. It wasn’t just the way Bachira radiated a relentless, almost blinding brightness. It was the audacity.
The audacity to just sit down, uninvited, and act like they’d been friends for years. The audacity to interrupt what had been, for all its awkwardness, a relatively peaceful lunch. The audacity to bring this much energy into Isagi’s immediate vicinity when he’d already had his fill of dramatic encounters for the day.
And now, out of nowhere, And then, to Isagi’s utter disbelief, Nanase decided to follow Bachira’s lead.
“I’m Nanase Nijiro,” he said, his voice quieter but no less polite. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you, Bachira-san. I’ve seen you around the facility before, but I guess we never really talked.”
Bachira’s grin somehow grew even wider. “Oh, awesome! Nanase, right? You seem chill. I like chill people.”
Nanase blinked, clearly unsure how to respond, but Bachira had already moved on.
And came the unmistakably cheery voice, bright and grating as sunlight through an uncurtained window, “And you?” Bachira said, turning his attention to Gagamaru, who finally paused mid-chew to glance up.
Gagamaru—Gagamaru, inexplicably decided to join in as well—“Gagamaru Gin,” he said simply, his voice as monotone as ever. Then, as if that single sentence had drained all his social energy, he returned to his meal without another word.
Bachira let out a delighted laugh, clapping his hands together. “Man, this table’s full of interesting people! I think I’m gonna like it here.”
Isagi finally looked up, his fork clattering softly against his plate as he placed it down. His eyes swept across the three individuals now sitting at his table—the overly cheerful Bachira, the awkwardly polite Nanase, and the blissfully oblivious Gagamaru.
They were all staring at him now, waiting for some kind of response, but Isagi said nothing.
Instead, he leaned back slightly in his seat, folded his arms across his chest, and just… stared.
His gaze was sharp, calculating, and entirely unimpressed, like a scientist examining a particularly puzzling specimen under a microscope.
Do they even have brains? he wondered, his expression betraying nothing. Or are their skulls just… hollow? Completely empty, with nothing but an echo chamber of chaotic thoughts bouncing around inside?
The silence stretched on, heavy and awkward, but Isagi didn’t care. Let them squirm. Let them wonder what he was thinking. He was far too tired—mentally, emotionally, and spiritually—to deal with whatever nonsense they were about to drag him into.
Still, Isagi couldn’t shake the thought that, somehow, someway, this was only the beginning.
The scene shifted to the dimly lit balcony of a grand, luxurious hotel. The faint hum of Tokyo's bustling nightlife served as a backdrop, a symphony of distant car horns, faint laughter, and the ever-present murmur of a city that never truly slept. The view was breathtaking—a sprawling cityscape of glowing skyscrapers and vibrant neon signs. Far below, the streets of Tokyo teemed with life, but up here, in the serenity of the balcony, it felt like a different world altogether.
Julian Loki and Leonardo Luna sat in sleek, modern chairs positioned around a low glass table. A soft breeze carried with it the scent of the city and rustled the edges of the drinks placed between them. Julian’s drink, a high quality of green tea caught the light of the city’s glow, while Leonardo’s glass held a deep crimson liquid, perhaps wine, both drink reflecting subtled elegance.
Neither man seemed in any rush to break the silence. Julian leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, his sharp eyes gazing out over the Tokyo skyline. His usually boyish features were shadowed with thought, the dim light casting his expression in an unusually serious hue.
Leonardo, on the other hand, sat forward slightly, his fingers idly circling the rim of his glass. His relaxed posture belied the sharpness in his gaze as he too took in the view. The two were well-acquainted with silence, but there was a weight to this particular quiet, as if something unspoken lingered between them.
Finally, Julian broke the stillness. His voice was low, contemplative, as he posed a question seemingly out of nowhere.
“What do you think about him?”
Leonardo didn’t look away from the skyline, his brows knitting slightly in mild confusion. “Who?”
Julian huffed, the faintest trace of amusement coloring his expression. “Isagi Yoichi.”
Leonardo’s fingers paused mid-motion on his glass, and for a moment, there was only the sound of the city below. His lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable as he considered the name.
Julian took a slow sip of his tea, his gaze never leaving Leonardo. He seemed to be studying him, waiting for a response, but Leonardo didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, and let out a quiet exhale.
“He’s... something,” Leonardo said at last, his voice measured.
Julian raised an eyebrow, a small hum of amusement could be heard. “That’s a bit vague, even for you.”
Leonardo shot him a sideways glance, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You want specifics? Fine.” He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. “He’s sharp. Not just talented, but aware. You can see it in the way he moves on the field.”
Julian nodded slowly, swirling the ice in his glass. “He beat me. And not just me—he took out two other top players at the facility without breaking stride.” His voice was tinged with both wonder and sharpness, as if he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.
“And I was there,” Leonardo added, his tone quieter now. “I saw it. That goal he scored—there was no hesitation. No doubt. It was like he’d already visualized the entire sequence before anyone else even realized what was happening.”
Julian chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “It’s infuriating, isn’t it? To see someone like that come out of nowhere and just... dominate. He’s not even physically imposing. But it doesn’t matter. He’s always there. Always in the right place at the right time.”
Leonardo tilted his head, his gaze thoughtful. “It’s more than just talent. It’s instinct. The kind of instinct you can’t teach. And the scary part is...” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at his glass.
“What?” Julian prompted, leaning forward slightly, his curiosity piqued.
Leonardo looked up, meeting Julian’s gaze. “He’s still growing. He’s not even close to his full potential yet. What we saw at the facility? That was just the beginning.”
The weight of the statement hung in the air between them, heavy and undeniable. Julian leaned back in his chair, letting out a low humm. “If that’s the beginning, then what is the endgame?”
Leonardo shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Who knows? But I’ll tell you this much—if he keeps going the way he is, he’s going to be a problem. For everyone.”
Julian smirked, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to problems, then.”
Leonardo chuckled softly, clinking his glass against Julian’s. The two men sat in silence once more, their gazes returning to the Tokyo skyline, each lost in their own thoughts about the boy who had managed to turn the football world on its head.
The air between Julian Loki and Leonardo Luna grew less analytical and more contemplative. The faint clinking of their glasses filled the pause, accompanied by the soft murmur of Tokyo's nightlife in the distance.
“You know what’s strange?” Leonardo began, his voice quieter now, almost introspective. “For someone like him—a player with that kind of raw talent—you’d expect his name to have rippled through the football world by now. And yet... nothing.”
Julian’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward, his glass resting on the table. “It doesn’t make sense, does it? A player like Isagi Yoichi—someone who can go toe-to-toe with us, outthink us on the field—shouldn’t just appear out of nowhere. He’s not polished, not yet, but the potential...” He trailed off, his fingers tapping idly against the side of his glass.
Leonardo nodded slowly, his expression distant. “What’s even stranger is the way he looked at us during that match. Like we were just... anyone. No recognition, no awe. It’s not arrogance; it’s something else. Like he genuinely doesn’t know who we are.”
Julian let out a soft huff, a mixture of amusement and incredulity. “I thought the same thing. I don’t know what’s more baffling—that someone with his skillset hasn’t heard of us, or that he doesn’t care.” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like he’s playing football in his own little universe.”
Leonardo leaned back, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against his glass. “You’re saying it’s not just ignorance—it’s intentional?”
“Maybe,” Julian replied, his tone contemplative. “Or maybe he’s just that focused. Either way, it’s unsettling. To have someone look at you like you’re completely unremarkable when you’re used to the opposite.”
Leonardo chuckled softly, shaking his head. “It’s been a while since anyone’s done that, huh?”
Julian huffed a laugh, though it lacked any real humor. “Yeah. And it stings a little, doesn’t it?”
The two shared a quiet laugh, their tones more reflective than amused. The conversation drifted into a moment of silence, both men lost in their thoughts about the enigmatic Isagi Yoichi.
Eventually, Leonardo broke the silence, his tone shifting slightly. “Have you found anything about him? Background, stats, anything?”
Julian shook his head, his expression one of mild disappointment. “Nothing. No significant records, no standout achievements before now. It’s like he’s been under the radar his whole life. And I assumed you didn’t find anything either.”
Leonardo sighed, swirling the remnants of his drink in his glass. “No, I didn’t. And that’s the part that gets me. How does someone with his level of understanding, his ability to dismantle players like us, stay hidden for so long? It doesn’t add up.”
Julian stared at his glass for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Maybe it’s not that he was hiding. Maybe no one was looking.”
Leonardo raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t respond immediately. The thought lingered between them, unspoken yet heavy, as they both considered the implications.
The conversation came to a natural end, neither man feeling the need to push it further. The city’s sounds filled the silence once more, and the two players returned to their quiet observation of Tokyo’s sprawling lights, each pondering about this Isagi Yoich.
Leonardo Luna stood in his luxurious hotel suite, the gentle hum of the city below barely audible through the thick glass wall that stretched from floor to ceiling. The room itself was the pinnacle of understated elegance: sleek black furniture contrasted with muted gold accents, the soft lighting reflecting off the polished marble floor. A plush armchair and a low coffee table sat near the window, and a king-sized bed, with crisp white linens and an array of neatly arranged pillows, occupied the other side of the room. A faint scent of cedarwood lingered in the air, blending with the faint trace of his cologne.
He stood near the glass wall, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, swirling it absentmindedly. The reflection of Tokyo’s dazzling skyline shimmered on the glass, illuminating his features—sharp jawline, intense eyes, and the faint furrow of his brow as his mind turned over the evening’s events.
The conversation with Julian Loki replayed in his head like a looped highlight reel, frustratingly incomplete. The two of them had danced around the topic of Isagi Yoichi, their words probing yet withholding. Despite the hours spent talking, Leonardo had come away with nothing new—no hidden insights, no breakthroughs.
His gaze flicked over the cityscape, lights twinkling like distant stars, but his thoughts remained on the pitch, on the player who had stunned them all. Isagi Yoichi.
Julian’s words had been careful, his tone measured, but Leonardo could sense the same thing that had nagged at him since their match—this wasn’t just curiosity. There was something more, something about Isagi that pulled focus.
The memory of their earlier conversation with the other players surfaced. That casual gathering in the restaurant had felt anything but casual. Even then, Isagi had been the topic, a name on everyone’s lips despite the fact that none of them truly knew him. It was like they were all trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
And now, here I am. No closer to solving it.
Leonardo sipped his drink, the liquid burning slightly as it slid down his throat. The warmth did little to soothe the irritation bubbling within him. Isagi’s talent was undeniable—he had seen it firsthand. The way he read the field, the precision of his movements, the unrelenting focus in his eyes. Players like that didn’t just appear out of thin air.
And yet, there was nothing. No history, no buzz, no whispers in the football world. It was as if Isagi Yoichi had materialized from nowhere, fully formed and ready to dominate.
How is that possible?
The glass in his hand tapped lightly against the window as he leaned closer, his reflection overlaying the sprawling cityscape. His thoughts twisted and turned, restless. The lack of information was more than a gap—it was an anomaly. Something about it bothered him, dug under his skin like a splinter.
Setting his glass down on a nearby table, Leonardo reached for his phone. His movements were deliberate, but his mind raced. If Julian had nothing, then it was up to him to find out. He couldn’t let this nagging feeling go unanswered.
The screen lit up as he scrolled through his contacts. His finger hovered over a name, and a small, dry, almost amusement smile tugged at his lips.
The sound of heavy breathing filled the quiet room, interrupted only by the faint hum of an air conditioner and the distant buzz of Tokyo's nightlife seeping through the cracks. The figure stood in the dimly lit training room, sweat trickling down his temples and soaking the edges of his athletic wear. He reached for the bottle of water on the bench nearby, unscrewing the cap with practiced ease before taking a long sip.
As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a sharp vibration from his phone caught his attention. The device sat on the bench, screen glowing faintly against the muted tones of the room.
The man glanced at it briefly, his eyes narrowing at the name flashing on the screen. He wasn’t someone who gave out his number lightly. In fact, only a select few had it. And among those, even fewer would dare to call.
Setting the bottle aside, he reached for the phone, letting it ring twice more as he stared at the name. His grip on the device tightened briefly before he pressed the answer button, raising it to his ear.
“What do you want?” His tone was blunt, devoid of unnecessary pleasantries, his words cutting straight to the point.
A low chuckle resonated from the other end, smooth and unhurried. “Are you busy?” came the voice, rich with amusement, as though the caller anticipated the response.
He leaned back against the wall, tilting his head slightly. “Yes,” he replied curtly. “I’m taking a break from my training.” There was no warmth, only the crisp efficiency of someone who had no patience for distractions.
The voice on the other end gave a soft hum, clearly unfazed by the cold reception. “Well, I need a few minutes of your time,” the tone shifted slightly, carrying a weight that made it impossible to ignore. “Sae.”
At the mention of his name, Itoshi Sae froze, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on the phone. The silence stretched between them, heavy and palpable, before he moved again, his face unreadable.
For a moment, all he could hear was the faint static of the line and the rhythmic thrum of his pulse.
The World of Social Media
On the glowing screen of a smartphone, a photo glistened with the sunlight of Brazil's iconic stadium, its caption grabbing attention:
> @BrazilianSoccerFanatic: "Dada Silva finally back from Japan! Practicing again on home soil!"
The picture showcased the towering figure of Dada Silva, his tanned skin glowing under the Brazilian sun. His massive, well-built frame was unmistakable, clad in a jersey stretched across his broad shoulders, with sweat glistening on his muscular arms. His powerful legs moved with precision as he executed drills on the pitch, surrounded by teammates who appeared almost diminutive in comparison. The lush green field and the vibrant stadium added an electrifying energy to the post.
The post was buzzing with activity:
Likes: 34.7k | Shares: 10.5k | Comments: 4.2k
Comments Section:
- @FootballLover99: "That's great! Dada Silva is a beast on the pitch. 🔥💪"
↳ @BrazilianDream: "Right? The Brazil team feels whole again!"
- @LatinAmericanSoccerNews: "Oh yeah, Pablo has come back to Argentina as well recently."
↳ @FutbolisLife: "Really? What about the others?"
↳ @SoccerGuru88: "Adam Blake's staying in Japan for now. His team’s playing a friendly match with the Japan League."
↳ @RisingSunFan: "Excited to see him play here! Blake's insane!"
- @WorldOfFootball: "Julian and Leonardo still haven’t announced their return dates to their home countries."
↳ @SoccerBuzz: "Maybe they’re staying for something big? 👀"
↳ @GoalGeek: "Julian’s been quiet lately... but Leonardo is probably scheming something."
- @FanaticForFootball: "Dada looks sharper than ever. Japan must’ve been a good training ground!"
↳ @TheRealStriker: "True! He looks like he’s ready to crush it in the next game!"
- @TeamDada4Life: "Love to see him back! He’s unstoppable when he’s in Brazil."
↳ @GoalMachine: "He’s unstoppable anywhere. Japan’s probably still recovering from his performance perhaps. 😂"
The thread continued to spiral into more discussions, theories, and speculations about the movements of other international players. Fans debated match stats, exchanged rumors, and admired the raw power that Dada Silva exuded in the photograph.
The social media buzz wasn’t just about soccer; it was about the global phenomenon of players who had crossed borders and left their marks, with Dada Silva's return serving as the perfect catalyst for conversation.
The Viral Post
Another post suddenly appeared on social media, stirring the already buzzing conversation:
> @SoccerConspiracyHQ:
"Wait… Why did five of the world’s best players all go to Japan around the same time? Adam Blake went earlier before his team’s friendly match, but why all of them at once? Am I wrong?"
Likes: 22.1k | Shares: 9.3k | Comments: 4.8k
Comments Section:
- @SportsDetective: "Hold on, that's kinda true. Why would five of them head to Japan simultaneously?"
- @FanGirlSoccer: "Now that you mention it, this is suspicious. They’re not on vacation, right? No way five players would randomly go to Japan together."
- @SoccerGuru99: "Oh yeah, I remember stumbling on a post about the five of them arriving in Japan a month ago."
↳ @FootyFanatic: "Wait, really? Where’s the post? Tag it!"
↳ @SoccerGuru99: "Lemme find it. Hold on."
- @FootballFreak: "If true, that’s insane. What’s even happening in Japan? 👀"
↳ @TeamPlayerObserver: "Could it be a secret tournament? Or something else entirely?"
After a few moments of chaotic tagging and searching, the post was finally unearthed and shared across accounts.
@InternationalSoccerNews (1 month ago)
> "Five professional football stars spotted arriving in Japan. Speculations abound!"
Attached was a slightly blurry photo of five players standing side by side at an airport, each carrying their luggage. Despite the poor quality, the players were identifiable by their postures and distinct features. Their heads were all turned toward a woman in a formal suit holding a tablet—none other than Anri Teieri.
The comments under this older post reignited, with fans losing their minds over the revelation:
Comment Section on @InternationalSoccerNews:
- @FootballDetective: "WAIT, this is real? That’s Julian Loki, Adam Blake, Leonardo Luna, Pablo Cavasoz , and Dada Silva!!"
- @SoccerGeek: "And look at Anri Teieri from Blue Lock in the background. What’s she doing with them?!"
- @FanFromJapan: "This is getting spicy. What’s Blue Lock up to?"
- @GoalHunter: "Maybe it’s connected to the Japan U-20 vs. Blue Lock match? Something BIG is happening."
- @FieldObserver88: "Why isn’t there any official news on this yet? Secrets everywhere."
As the thread continued to grow, speculation about the mysterious trip and its connection to Blue Lock flooded social media. People shared theories, analyzed the blurry image, and speculated about what kind of program could bring such high-caliber players to Japan simultaneously.
The conversation was quickly becoming a global sensation.
The comments section of the original post exploded after a new wave of information surfaced:
@CuriousFootyFan:
"Who is that woman? Anri Teieri? All I know about Japan U-20 vs. Blue Lock is from official news. Mainly because Itoshi Sae is participating. But… what even is Blue Lock about?"
-
@JapanSportsInsider: "Anri Teieri is the manager of the Blue Lock project. She made headlines for boldly declaring it was a revolutionary system to create the world’s greatest striker."
-
@SoccerFactsDaily: "Yeah, in her interview, she explained how Blue Lock ‘locks’ all strikers under 18 in a facility across Japan to hone them. 300 players started in the program. Here's the link to the full interview:[https://www.sportsnetworld.com/articles/anri-teieri-blue-lock-interview]"
-
@GoalSeeker: "Wait, so they actually locked them in? That’s insane. What kind of training program is this?"
@MindBlownFan:
"Hold up. What’s with these sudden connections between Blue Lock and professional players? Why are world-class players involved now??"
-
@ValidPoint: "That’s a great point. Why would Dada Silva, Julian Loki, Pablo Cavasoz, Adam, Blake and Leonardo Luna have anything to do with Blue Lock?"
-
@ObservantStriker: "Hmm… Makes no sense unless something bigger is happening behind the scenes."
But the real bombshell came from an unexpected comment:
@InsiderUncle:
"Hmm, my uncle works as a staff member in Blue Lock. All I know is that they’re paid to ‘fight’ the surviving players (? His words, not mine. It sounded weird). That’s all he told me."
-
@ShockedReader: "Wait, what?"
-
@SoccerTheorist: "They what?"
-
@QuestionEverything: "Hold on, FIGHT? Are they literally fighting in there? What does that even mean?"
-
@TagTheSource: "Hey, @InsiderUncle, you can’t just drop a bomb like that and disappear! Explain more!"
-
@ImpatientFan: "Are the Blue Lock players fighting staff or the professionals? What does 'surviving' even mean???"
Despite the uproar, @InsiderUncle didn’t respond, leaving the thread in utter chaos as fans speculated wildly about Blue Lock, its training methods, and why top-tier players would be involved. The conversation spread like wildfire across social media, making Blue Lock the hottest mystery in global football discussions.
Notes:
Isagi: if I am being an unpaid therapist then braze yourself with harshest truth.
Also Isagi, soon: I'm gonna punch them, that thick skull without nothing inside but air is getting them rot to dead.
Isagis thought and mind slowly, leading into a mix signal of confusion. Granted that just how complex is Isagi in this fic.
Me, using Tokyo Nightlife, and luxurious many times in this fic, smile awkwardly:let, just go along, with it, yah?
Also me, feeling embarrassed and shame at the conversation between Rin and Isagi, with Julian and Leonardo and cringe after rereading, but didn't know how to edit or changed that: look, I'm not good at this. I really am.
My phone after I decided to edit and make the chapter here: 404Error. Lag. Laglaglag—
⚠️Announcement⚠️:
First of all, starting now, I might not be posting weekly chapters. In fact, I might not be posting at all for the next two months, as I have only three weeks before my exams hit me like a brick. I haven’t even covered the entire syllabus yet. I just finished my speaking test, and let me tell you, I’m sure I cooked.
Back to the point—like I said, I might not be posting regularly for a while. Consider this a small hiatus(? Does that count as one, I don't know)
These exams will determine my future, so I absolutely need to focus starting now. The extra classes are mentally draining, and writing on top of it all is taxing. Honestly, it’s surprising that I’ve been able to post weekly up until now.
The reality is, I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do in life. Not knowing what kind of future I want or having any clear goals has left me feeling dark and lethargic. I have no motivation. I spend most of my time lying in bed, cocooned in my blanket, doing nothing but breathing and sleeping. No interaction, no productivity—just a bad habit of coping. Shutting down my emotions and feeling numb all the time has become a routine.
How I haven’t been diagnosed with stress or depression yet is beyond me, but the growing number of white hairs on my head seems to suggest otherwise.
So like, yeah, that's it, goodbye for now.
Chapter 7: Bonus
Summary:
Guys, you can skip this.
This is only [BONUS] chapt, that didn't involved the story.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Isagi Yoichi, the talented forward, sat alone in the spacious living room of the Isagi household. His parents had gone on a week-long business trip, leaving him with the house all to himself. He had been lounging on the couch, the quiet hum of the television in the background, occasionally glancing at his phone. It was a peaceful day, one that felt like it could stretch on forever.
The sunlight filtered through the large windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Isagi had just finished eating lunch when the sound of something landing with a heavy thud broke the tranquility. He blinked, momentarily startled. The sound echoed through the house as though something massive had been dropped outside.
His gaze shot to the front door, which stood ajar from the delivery truck earlier. His curiosity peaked, and he shuffled toward it, moving with a slight spring in his step.
When he opened the door, he was greeted by an enormous, bulky box sitting on the doorstep. His eyes widened slightly, his brows knitting together. “What?” he muttered under his breath.
This was definitely unusual. The box was huge, almost comically oversized for a standard delivery. He bent slightly to get a better look at the label, but it was blank. No return address, no sender’s name, nothing.
“What in the world is this?” Isagi grumbled, his fingers gripping the edge of the box as he heaved it inside. The weight of it surprised him—it felt too heavy for something its size. He felt his arms strain slightly as he adjusted his grip, feeling the strange texture of the package. It was as if the box had a life of its own.
After a few grunts, he managed to drag it into the living room. The weight of the box made the wooden floor creak slightly underfoot. Isagi wiped the sweat from his brow and took a few steps back to survey the situation. He placed the box in the center of the living room, squinting at it as he tried to figure out what kind of delivery this could possibly be.
Suddenly, a faint, almost imperceptible shuffle came from the box. He froze. His heart skipped a beat, and his instincts told him something was wrong. Was someone inside? Was it a prank? He stood rigid for a moment, eyes widening, and then—thud!
The box jerked suddenly, shaking violently as though something inside was trying to break free. His eyes narrowed, adrenaline starting to spike in his system. He instinctively took a step back, his muscles tense, his hands curling into fists.
Then, with a loud rip, the box burst open. A flurry of cardboard and packing materials exploded out in all directions, scattering across the room like confetti. Isagi’s eyes darted back and forth, trying to make sense of the chaos.
And then, emerging from the wreckage of the box, stood a child—no more than four years old. His tiny legs wobbled slightly as he stood up, covered in bits of cardboard, his wide eyes locked directly on Isagi. The kid looked absolutely stunned, blinking up at him with an expression of pure confusion and awe.
Isagi's breath caught in his throat as his gaze met those sparkling blue eyes. The child’s messy hair—spiky and erratic, just like his—was exactly the same color as his own. There was no mistaking it. The child’s face was a perfect, miniature replica of himself.
For a long moment, the two of them just stood there, frozen in place. Isagi’s mind raced, his thoughts jumbling together. This couldn’t be real. He rubbed his eyes, then looked again. But the boy remained right where he was, blinking up at him with curiosity.
The child’s lips parted, a small voice breaking the silence. “Who… are you?”
Isagi was so stunned that for a split second, he couldn’t form words. He swallowed hard, trying to process what had just happened. This had to be a mistake, right? It was impossible, wasn’t it?
The boy shuffled forward, small hands outstretched toward him, and before Isagi knew it, the kid was right at his feet, looking up with a confused but trusting smile. Isagi knelt down slowly, trying to compose himself, his hand instinctively reaching toward the boy’s shoulder.
“Are… are you… me?” Isagi asked cautiously, the words escaping his lips before he could stop them. His voice was shaky, unsure of what was even happening.
The child nodded, a serious look in his eyes, before giving Isagi an awkward grin, one that mirrored his own youthful smile from years ago. “I think I’m you!” he said brightly, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.
Isagi blinked rapidly, feeling his heart race, his mind struggling to catch up. His hand hovered uncertainly in the air for a moment before he lowered it, brushing a lock of spiky hair out of his face.
“Okay, okay, okay…” Isagi muttered to himself, trying to make sense of this impossible situation. "This is... a dream, right?"
The child raised his arms, suddenly reaching up to Isagi. “Pick me up!” he urged, his little voice high-pitched but oddly confident. “I wanna see your room! I wanna see the kitchen!”
Isagi paused, his hand still hovering over the child. It was surreal, almost laughable. But somehow, he found himself lifting the kid into his arms, his muscles tensing at the odd sensation of holding a smaller version of himself.
He couldn’t help but let out a short laugh, though it was edged with confusion. “I can’t believe this. I’ve gone insane, right?” He stared down at the child, who beamed up at him, clearly unbothered by the bizarre situation. The kid squirmed a bit in his arms, clearly excited to explore, as if the circumstances were the least of his concerns.
Isagi stood up straight, still feeling the weight of disbelief pressing against his chest. "Alright, let's figure this out. But first, we need to figure out how to deal with you—a tiny me."
The child giggled, looking proud of himself. "Okay, big me!"
Isagi stood in the middle of his living room, the tiny version of himself still in his arms, squirming with restless energy. He looked down at the kid, now tugging at his sleeve with an eager expression. But despite the child’s innocent enthusiasm, Isagi felt the overwhelming urge to process this—he needed answers, and fast. This was beyond anything he could ever have imagined.
"Hold on, alright?" Isagi muttered to the child, giving him a quick look as he carefully set him down on the couch. The boy immediately bounced up and down, impatient, but Isagi wasn’t paying attention. His mind was already elsewhere.
He stepped away from the living room, moving to the kitchen and grabbing his phone. His fingers fumbled slightly as he dialed the number that had been etched in his memory for years now. He was sure to keep his voice low, just in case the kid heard. He needed privacy—this situation was too strange to be overheard by anyone, let alone the kid himself.
The line rang, and it didn’t take long before a familiar voice answered. Mrs. CoffeeGone, or rather, Sera, as she preferred, picked up with her usual flat tone.
“What,” she answered. It wasn’t a question, but a command. It was as if she had been expecting this call for a while.
Isagi let out a deep breath, his voice sounding strained. “Sera, what did you just send me?”
There was a brief silence on the other end, and then a light, almost amused huff. Isagi could picture her expression: calm, collected, but with a hint of mischief lurking beneath her stoic exterior.
"Nothing," Sera replied, her tone casual, but there was a distinct sharpness to it now. "Just take care of mini you, alright? Might be good for the future. Who knows, maybe you’ll get married and have a child of your own."
Isagi blinked, his mind reeling from her words. A child of your own? He clenched his jaw, staring down at his phone in disbelief. The idea of having a child was absurd. Was she really implying that… that this was some kind of test? Or worse—was she predicting something?
Before he could respond, Sera’s voice came again, and this time it had a finality to it, almost as if she were trying to wrap up the conversation.
“Good luck, Yoichi,” she said dryly, her words lingering for just a moment before she hung up, leaving Isagi standing there in stunned silence.
For a moment, Isagi just stared at the screen of his phone, the weight of the conversation settling on him. Mini me? He squeezed his eyes shut. What had she gotten him into? How could he handle this situation? He didn’t even know where to start.
He felt the presence of the child, still in the living room, tugging at his thoughts. The sound of tiny feet pattering across the wooden floor brought him back to reality. When he turned, he saw the kid, now holding up one of his old soccer jerseys with a wide grin.
“Big me, I wanna wear this!” the child chirped, pulling the oversized jersey toward him as though it were the most exciting thing in the world.
Isagi couldn’t help but let out a soft, almost strain chuckle despite the overwhelming absurdity of it all. He watched the child carefully as he tugged the jersey over his head, looking more like a little athlete in the making than he had ever expected.
He scratched the back of his neck, feeling a mix of confusion, frustration, and—strangely—affection. This little version of himself wasn’t something he could just send away, no matter how odd the situation was. The kid had no memory of where he came from, no clue about what was going on.
"Okay, listen, buddy," Isagi said, his voice cracking slightly from the weight of the situation. He knelt down in front of the child, who was happily twirling around in the jersey. “I don't know why you're here or what’s going on, but I’m gonna take care of you, alright?"
The boy stopped spinning and tilted his head up at Isagi, the familiar blue eyes staring back at him with complete trust. "Take care of me?" The child’s lips formed a small pout. "But... I wanna play soccer too! Can I play with you?"
Isagi blinked. Soccer?
Before he could answer, the child rushed toward the door, already pulling his tiny sneakers off the mat near the entryway. He grabbed a small ball, one that was surprisingly just the right size for a child, and bounced it in front of Isagi with excitement. The motion was identical to his own as a kid—his eyes practically lit up, full of passion for the game.
Isagi found himself standing there for a moment, unsure how to respond. Part of him wanted to just collapse back on the couch and figure out the real problem here. Another part of him, however, felt a strange compulsion to indulge the child, to give him this tiny moment of normalcy.
With a sigh, he stood up. His mind was still racing with the conversation he’d had with Sera, but now, it was as if reality had shifted into an entirely new rhythm. "Alright, alright," Isagi said with a small grin, bending down and picking up the ball from the floor. "You wanna play soccer? Fine. Let’s see what you’ve got, kid."
The child’s eyes lit up, and he eagerly bounced on his heels, ready to take on the challenge. Isagi led the way outside into the backyard, the sun still shining brightly as the two of them set up a small makeshift goal. For now, he decided, he’d try to make the best of it—at least until he figured out what in the world was going on.
But as he passed the ball to the child, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his life, his very sense of who he was, had just taken a drastic turn. Whether he liked it or not, this mini version of himself was now his responsibility. And Isagi Yoichi wasn’t one to run from a challenge, no matter how bizarre it seemed.
Notes:
Announcement:
Hey everyone, just a quick update: I’m not fully back yet, but I wanted to let you know that I’ll be returning sometime in mid or late February. Yes, I know I previously mentioned I’d be back in two months, but we’re almost through the first month, and now we’re heading into the second. So, please be patient with me!(i sound so fake. seriously) I’m still in the middle of exams, and I know it’s a long stretch for one, but I’m not lying when I say I’m truly busy.
Right now, it’s around 12:00 AM, and I’m still awake, studying. I’m taking a short rest and, admittedly, I have the audacity to write a little bonus update for you all.
Oh. I just realized how cringe inserting myself. Oh well. I'm high.
Chapter 8: Crossroads
Notes:
I'm back. Do you guys miss me? I certainly didn't missed myself either.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
If Isagi could furrow his brows any further, they would have merged into a single, unbroken line. His lips were pulled into a downward curve, his frown deepening with every second that passed. He had expected to teach only Nanase, with Gagamaru tagging along, but somehow—somehow—another person had inserted himself into the equation.
Bachira.
The moment they had finished eating in the cafeteria, Bachira had latched onto them like an annoying barnacle, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. At first—at first—Isagi had tolerated it. He had tried to be patient. But the kid was getting under his skin.
Always talking.
Always asking questions.
Always voicing every little thought that popped into his head.
From the cafeteria to the football field, Bachira had not shut up once. It was relentless. Isagi swore that if words could physically take up space, the air around them would be suffocating by now. Even when he instructed the three of them to stretch and warm up, Bachira still wouldn’t stop.
His voice droned on, chattering about anything and everything—his thoughts on training, the weather, some weird dream he had the night before. It was endless. Inescapable.
Isagi flexed his fingers, resisting the overwhelming urge to grab a stapler and shut that mouth up himself.
Isagi understood, perhaps more than anyone, that patience was a skill he had to master. He had come a long way, and though this new situation tested him, he knew it was necessary. After all, if he could teach a player like this, surely he could handle someone more difficult down the line. But Isagi knew—he knew—he needed to be patient. He had no choice. If he was going to be the one teaching, then he had to accept that there would be people even worse than this. He could already sense it from miles away as well.
That thought barely settled in his mind,trying to process the growing impatience bubbling inside him before Bachira fired off another question—this time about his clothes.
“Why are you dressed so nice, Isagi? Fresh shirt, proper pants… unlike us.”
Isagi opened his mouth to answer, but Bachira wasn’t done.
Before he could get a single word in, Bachira continued rambling, his voice carrying the same carefree tone as always. “You know, it’s been so long since I wore something comfy and normal. Ever since we got stuck in this place, it’s always been the same track suits for training and those stiff pajamas at night. And don’t even get me started on the pajama material—feels like sleeping wrapped in sandpaper or something—”
Isagi inhaled deeply. Count. One, two, three… Just breathe.
Isagi sighed, fighting to keep his expression neutral. He had to remind himself to be patient. He had to remind himself that he was in control of how he reacted. Bachira didn’t mean any harm—he was just... Bachira.
Four, five, six… He’s done now, right?
Once he was sure Bachira had finally finished, Isagi exhaled through his nose and gave a curt response.
“I’m not one of the players who joined the Blue Lock program, you know that.”
He made sure to let the words sink into Bachira’s thick skull before shifting his attention to the group. Without missing a beat, he barked out the next instruction.
“Ten laps. Around the field. All of you. Now.”
Isagi was methodical, patient, and focused. He had seen enough in their early match to know exactly where each player needed work. One by one, he addressed their flaws, breaking down their movements, and teaching them how to improve. Nanase, with his quiet precision, needed more control over his positioning. Gagamaru, though a solid player, lacked consistency in his decision-making. And Bachira—well, Bachira was an enigma, his unpredictable style a double-edged sword. Isagi focused on helping each player refine their weaknesses, offering guidance in the same way he had been taught, making adjustments here and there to help them understand the game on a deeper level.
But just as he was starting to settle into the rhythm of teaching, his phone, tucked away in the pocket of his new outfit, vibrated. He had forgotten about it, caught up in the shift from his normal routine. He had been too distracted by the earlier meeting with Anri and Ego, to-goodness-Rin and the thought of Bachira’s questions, to remember it was even there. Now, as the vibration broke his concentration, Isagi’s fingers instinctively reached for it, pulling it out from his pocket.
Then, the sudden sound of Bachira’s voice cut through the air, his tone filled with surprise. “Wait, you can bring a phone inside the facility?” Bachira dribbled the ball in disbelief, looking at Isagi as if he had just discovered some hidden secret.
Isagi didn’t respond, his attention already split between the phone in his hand and the irritation slowly creeping into his mind. Bachira's comment faded into the background, like white noise he’d learned to ignore over time.
Nanase let out a small sigh, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he glanced at Bachira, then back to Isagi. His normally composed demeanor slipped slightly, and he gave a brief, nervous look toward Gagamaru, who was as blank as ever, staring ahead without a hint of understanding.
None of them mattered right now. Isagi didn’t even acknowledge them as he continued to stare down at the phone screen, his fingers pausing before he opened the message. The text was from an unknown number, but the tone of it was all too familiar, too formal—one he had hoped he wouldn’t hear from again.
“I’ve heard you were in Tokyo. You should come and visit. As, you know, it has been years since then.”
Isagi’s expression soured, the familiar irritation rising in his chest. He hadn’t expected this today. He hadn’t wanted to be reminded of the past, not while he was here trying to focus on his next steps. The idea of seeing that person again—after all this time—left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Without hesitating, Isagi typed his reply, his fingers moving swiftly, though each keystroke felt like an effort.
“No.”
He sent it. No explanation. No further thoughts.
Isagi slipped the phone back into his pocket, his mood darkening. His patience, already thin, felt as if it was cracking under the weight of the memories that the message had stirred. He looked up at the players in front of him, momentarily lost in thought, before forcing himself to refocus. It wasn’t the time for distractions. He had a job to do.
He let out a slow breath, willing himself to calm down. The game wasn’t over. Not yet.
It wasn't even start.
Isagi continued to teach them, carefully guiding each of the three players, breaking down their techniques one by one. There was no clock in sight on the field, and he had completely lost track of time. It didn’t matter, though. He was so absorbed in the process of teaching, explaining the finer points of positioning, ball control, and decision-making, that he didn’t feel the passage of time. He wasn’t training alongside them; he was teaching, observing, and correcting.
Gagamaru was the quiet type, always understanding and rarely offering any resistance. His stoic demeanor meant that he didn’t need constant reassurance, which Isagi appreciated. Nanase, on the other hand, was driven by sheer determination, pushing himself to the limits, never slacking off. His unwavering focus was something to be admired, and Isagi couldn’t help but feel a small sense of pride in how far he had come.
But it was Bachira that remained a puzzle, the energy around him practically radiating as he moved with an almost uncontainable force. Even after hours of training, Bachira’s passion didn’t seem to fade. He still carried that unexplainable spark that made him unique—a stark contrast to the quiet persistence of Nanase and the steady calm of Gagamaru.
Isagi didn’t mind. They were dedicated—each in their own way. And for some reason, that made the time slip away faster than he realized. Hours? Perhaps. Minutes? He couldn’t tell. He hadn’t even looked at his phone since the last time it buzzed in his pocket, and he wasn’t about to. He wasn’t here for distractions. Today was about these three players and helping them improve.
But eventually, his mind started to drift back to the reality of the situation—the exhaustion he had pushed aside, the fact that he had spent the better part of the day in close proximity to three players who had worked hard, each sweat-soaked and tired from the exertion. He knew it was time to end the session. He could feel the fatigue creeping up on him, but more than that, it was clear the players were also nearing their limit. It was time to call it a day.
"Alright, that’s enough for today," Isagi finally said, his voice cutting through the air. The words were simple, but they held a weight to them, a quiet authority that made the players immediately stop what they were doing.
Without any complaints, the three players slowed their movements and came to a halt, each of them taking a moment to catch their breath. Bachira, ever the lively one, seemed to be the last to fully stop, but even he eventually straightened up, still catching his breath, his usual energy tempered by the exhaustion of the session.
Isagi took a slow, steady breath of his own. He had spent the entire session focused on them, teaching them, helping them grow. And now, he could feel the space open up for him to step away. As much as he cared about their development, he had his own need for distance, his own need to rest. Even when he did was all talked. Not for the fact that the three of them are plain smelly from sweat and all.
He turned to face them, making sure they had all stopped and were listening. "You can head to the showers now," Isagi said. His voice was calm, but the dismissal was clear. He wasn’t here to socialize or bask in any sort of thanks. The training had been about them, not him.
As they began to leave, he made sure to step a few paces away, creating some space between them. They had given their all, and it was clear from their appearance—clothes damp with sweat, faces flushed—that they had worked hard. Isagi didn’t need to be too close. He wasn’t training with them; he was teaching them. He had the distance. He needed it, especially after hours of guiding them through the practice.
Bachira was the first to speak, his voice full of that same boundless energy he carried throughout the entire session. “See you, Isagi! Thanks!” His goodbye was more of a shout than anything else.
Nanase, ever the composed one, bowed slightly. “Thank you for the lesson,” he said with quiet sincerity, almost did not fit the attempt to smile that ended with awkward curled on the lips.
Gagamaru, as expected, didn’t say much. He simply turned and walked away, as if his mind was already somewhere else. He didn’t need to say anything—it was the way Gagamaru always was—his actions spoke louder than any thank-you could.
Isagi, without offering any reply, simply watched them go. He didn’t need to respond. They were on their own paths now, and his part in their development was over for the day.
He walked down the hallway, his steps firm and deliberate. The building was a maze of corridors, winding and twisting in unexpected directions. Isagi had learned to navigate it by feel, his footsteps echoing softly against the walls. He didn’t hurry. The cool, stale air in the hallways felt strangely comforting after the heat of the training field. He needed to clear his head.
As he walked, he kept his eyes ahead, ignoring the sounds of the other players in the distance, the faint echoes of their voices trailing behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was engage in any more small talk, especially after the frustration he felt earlier with the message on his phone.
As expected, the familiar black car was waiting for him as soon as he stepped out of the facility. The sleek vehicle was parked by the curb, its dark exterior reflecting the fading light. Isagi’s gaze drifted upward, and it hit him—the sky was already dark. He hadn’t realized it at first, but now the fading orange streaks across the horizon told the story. The sun had set while he was caught up in the training session. He hadn’t even noticed the hours slipping away.
The car’s door swung open smoothly, and the driver, as always, stood waiting with a professional demeanor. Isagi didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and slid into the backseat, the door shutting behind him with a soft thud. As soon as he settled into the plush leather, a black bag was handed to him. The driver didn’t speak, but the motion was deliberate, almost expectant. The bag was clearly heavy, filled with files—player dossiers, reports, and countless sheets of information that Isagi didn’t particularly care for at this very moment. It was the sort of thing that always seemed to find its way into his hands, no matter how much he tried to avoid it. Even when he asked for it.
Isagi’s brows twitched at the sight of it. He wasn’t a workaholic. He didn’t relish the idea of diving straight into player files every time he got a chance to sit down. But there it was, in his lap, and it felt as though the driver was silently pushing him to read it. Isagi, for a moment, simply stared at the bag.
With a quiet sigh, he took the bag from the driver’s hand and placed it beside him on the seat. The leather of the bag creaked slightly under his grip as he adjusted it. He didn’t need to dive into this now, not after the day he’d just had. His mind was tired—too tired to get caught up in reading over more names and stats. He needed to unwind. The bag would still be there when he was ready.
He settled back into the seat, letting the car’s engine hum softly to life, the vehicle beginning its steady roll forward. The door clicked shut behind the driver, and Isagi allowed his eyes to fall shut for just a moment, feeling the hum of the car vibrating through his bones. The city lights flickered in the window, a blur of motion, as they made their way through the streets. Isagi’s thoughts began to drift—back to the players, back to Bachira’s wild energy, Nanase’s silent determination, and Gagamaru’s unshakable calm.
He exhaled, pushing the images out of his mind for now. There was no need to think about it any longer.
He just needed some time to himself, away from the noise.
The sound of the car engine hummed steadily, its low growl vibrating beneath Isagi as the vehicle smoothly rolled forward. The tires hit the asphalt with a steady rhythm, and soon enough, the dense forest surrounding the training facility began to thin, and the view shifted. The trees, thick and wild, slowly gave way to a vast, open expanse of Tokyo's sprawling cityscape. The lights flickered in the distance, creating a soft glow that contrasted with the darkening sky. The transition from the quiet solitude of the facility to the bustling energy of Tokyo was always jarring, but tonight, it felt almost necessary.
The driver maneuvered the car down the winding roads, expertly avoiding the nighttime traffic. Isagi sat back in his seat, gazing out the window, the faint reflection of the city lights dancing on the glass. He didn’t mind the quiet, not really. He hadn’t expected the day to be so long, but there was still so much more to come.
Then, he remembered his conversation with Ego earlier, the one that had set this entire sequence of events in motion. The words echoed in his mind, pulling him back to that brief exchange.
"You wanted me to stay in Tokyo?" Isagi had asked, his tone confused.
"Yes," Ego had replied, his voice always calm, calculating. "A few weeks, until the match against Japan U-20. I already booked you a room. The driver will take you to the place." No further explanation. Ego had handed him a room access card with little more than that. The card, embossed with a number he would need, felt heavy in his hand as the conversation ended just as abruptly as it had started.
Isagi didn’t mention the arrangement to his parents. How could he? He could already picture their reactions—concern, confusion, maybe even understanding, not fully. They didn’t understand what this was really about. He had never told them how this entire journey—this whole thing—had taken him further away from home than he’d ever imagined. He didn’t want them to worry, didn’t want them to think that this had become something he couldn’t handle. He had to handle it.
Thinking about it made a heavy weight settle in his chest. He sighed, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and turned his gaze back out the window. The city below him seemed so far away now, yet so close. The lights blurred together, the buildings towering in the distance like silent giants, reminding him of just how much was still ahead.
Soon enough, the driver veered off the main road, taking a turn that led toward a more upscale part of Tokyo. They were getting closer to the hotel—his hotel. The one that would be his base for the next few weeks, as everything built up to the impending match. He had no idea what to expect once they arrived, but at least he had a place to rest, a small piece of normalcy in the whirlwind he’d found himself in.
Isagi ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the exhaustion creeping into his body. He still had a long way to go.
The moment the car pulled up to the grand entrance of the five-star hotel, the golden lights of the building gleamed, reflecting off the polished marble floors and the luxurious decor that surrounded the entrance. Isagi barely gave it a second glance as the driver expertly maneuvered the car into the driveway. His mind was already elsewhere. He grabbed the black bag filled with player files, slinging in his grasp. The familiar weight of it felt heavier than just the documents inside; it was the weight of responsibilities, of expectations. But there was no time to dwell on that now.
As the car came to a complete stop, the driver opened the door for him with practiced professionalism. Isagi muttered a low "Thank you," as he slid out of the vehicle, not bothering to acknowledge the driver any further. He didn’t need the small talk tonight. He was already mentally preparing himself for the phone call he was about to make.
He dismissed the driver for the night with a simple nod, turning toward the hotel’s entrance without hesitation. The hotel's grandeur stood before him, an intimidating display of luxury and comfort, but he wasn’t here to admire it. He had one thing on his mind.
His fingers tightened around his phone in his pocket, feeling the familiar weight as he retrieved it. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he finally dialed his mother’s number. He didn’t know what to say—he never really did when it came to these things to his parents. The white lie was easy; it was the part where he had to convince himself it wasn’t a lie that always made him hesitate.
The phone rang once, twice, before a soft voice on the other end greeted him.
"Isagi?" His mother's voice sounded distant, but warm, filled with a mix of concern and curiosity.
Isagi’s eyes, however, were fixed on something else entirely. As he took a few steps toward the entrance, his gaze landed on a figure standing by the hotel lobby’s grand glass doors. A person who, with the most casual motion, turned their head and locked eyes with him. It was like time had stopped for a moment, as if the world had faded into the background, and all that mattered was that brief exchange of silent understanding.
Isagi’s expression twisted into unpleasant one, but only for a moment. His face smoothed back into the careful neutrality that had become second nature to him. His focus shifted back to the phone call, even though he could feel that person's gaze still lingering on him.
He knew what would happen next. The person would call out to him. But for now, Isagi forced himself to look away, to play it cool, to let it all slip back into the background where it belonged.
Exhaling a slow breath, he pressed the phone to his ear, speaking in a tone that was quieter, more detached than before. "Mother, I’ll call you back later," he said, trying to make the words sound casual, even though his mind was anything but calm.
The figure, still standing in the distance, was now walking toward him. Isagi could hear the faint sound of their footsteps against the polished floor.
But he didn’t look back. Not yet.
Thud.
Notes:
Did you guys notice? There's a lot of self-convincing and gaslighting here—some noticeable, while others aren’t.
This chapter might feel a bit rushed, with all the shifts and everything combined. Just go along with it. Since it's been two months, I might have even forgotten the exact day and time in this story.
Good news, I’ll post another chapter in a few days.
Though, let me check this fic first. I need to force myself to reread it from the beginning to fix some grammar and understand where I left off. I can feel the pain already…
Chapter 9: Stirring the Waters(1)
Summary:
Chapter 8: Proposition ?
[ Tokyo’s Night; A Meeting at the Hotel Entrance ]
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
[Blue Lock Facility]
The room was dark, but Nagi Seishiro wasn’t asleep.
He lay on his back, eyes half-lidded, staring at the ceiling. Shadows stretched across the walls, shifting with the dim glow of his charging phone on the bedside table.
He turned onto his side.
…Then onto his other side.
Then onto his back again.
Something felt off.
Not irritation. Not frustration. Something quieter, harder to name—
An itch.
Not the kind you could scratch. The kind that sat beneath the skin, nagging at the edge of awareness.
With a groan, Nagi kicked the blanket off, pushing himself upright. He ran a hand through his silver hair, barely noticing the way it stuck out in odd angles.
His brain was doing something weird.
Thinking.
And it all led back to him.
"Is this how your performance looks for someone who I assumed wanted to stay by his friend's side until winning a championship?"
Isagi’s voice echoed in his head—calm, almost indifferent. Just a passing observation.
But it wasn’t.
Because Nagi felt it.
Like a pebble in a shoe. Small, but impossible to ignore.
With a sigh, he reached for his phone, unplugging it from the charger. The screen lit up, casting a cool glow over his face. His fingers moved lazily, almost on autopilot, as he opened the browser.
The search bar blinked at him.
A beat of hesitation.
Then, he typed.
[How to be a pro.]
The golden glow of the hotel’s lights bled into the cold evening air, reflecting off the sleek, polished pavement of the grand entrance. It was the kind of night where the world felt stretched between luxury and quiet anticipation, the hush before something inevitable unfolded. The gentle drizzle from earlier had left a thin sheen on the road, allowing every neon reflection and passing headlight to shimmer like molten gold on the wet asphalt.
A few luxury cars glided smoothly into the roundabout, their engines humming in restrained elegance before falling silent under the hands of uniformed valets. The soft click of polished dress shoes against the pavement punctuated the lull of the evening, blending seamlessly with the low murmur of distant conversations. The air carried a distinct medley of scents—expensive cologne with notes of bergamot and cedar, the crisp metallic tang of city life, and the faint petrichor clinging to the concrete after rain.
A gust of wind passed, carrying the distant sound of laughter from inside the hotel’s grand lobby. It was a sound that barely reached Isagi’s ears, drowned out by the silent weight of an unseen confrontation.
“Yoichi Isagi.”
The name came like a knife through still water. Not sharp enough to cut, but enough to ripple the quiet equilibrium.
Isagi stilled. His posture didn’t change, but his senses sharpened. His breath, previously unnoticed, settled into an even cadence as he turned his head slightly—just enough to acknowledge the presence that had called him. The warm glow of the entrance framed the figure a few feet away, casting a long shadow against the damp pavement.
Adam Blake.
The English player stood with an ease that didn’t match the quiet intensity woven into his presence. Relaxed, but not lax. Like a predator at rest—watching, waiting. His gray hair was slightly tousled, as if he had run a hand through it earlier, but the effect only added to the sharp refinement of his features. A well-trimmed beard, chiseled jaw, and piercing eyes that had seen one too many battles on the pitch. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that lingered between scrutiny and silent challenge.
Isagi took him in, unhurried. Then, with a calmness that mirrored still water before a brewing storm, he blinked once and responded.
“Adam Blake.”
His voice was smooth, even. Neutral, but not empty.
The use of English was deliberate. A subtle acknowledgment, an unspoken shift in the air between them.
Adam tilted his head slightly, as if reassessing him in real time. His gaze, sharp and searching, traced the younger player’s face, reading between the lines of expression—or rather, the lack thereof. Then, after a beat of silence, he let out a breath, shifting his stance.
"Didn’t expect to see you here."
It wasn’t just a statement. It was laced with something heavier—curiosity, laced with an edge of something unreadable. A test, perhaps.
Isagi didn’t bite. His expression remained unreadable, his reply measured, slipping into the cold air with practiced ease.
"I wasn’t from here in the first place."
His Japanese accent softened the words, barely noticeable yet undeniably present. It was a response that neither confirmed nor denied anything, but it was enough to press a pause between them.
Adam’s gaze lingered, his sharp scrutiny extending just a second too long, as if searching for something beneath the surface. Then, a small breath of amusement left his lips—half a scoff, half an acknowledgment.
“Hah.”
The moment stretched, yet neither of them moved. The golden light of the entrance painted long shadows across the pavement, and somewhere in the distance, the city thrummed on, unaware of the quiet storm brewing between two players standing at the crossroads of something unspoken.
Behind them, the hotel’s automatic doors slid open with a quiet whoosh, the faint scent of polished marble and expensive perfume wafting into the night. Voices—muffled, distant—filtered through, the blend of refined chatter and professional efficiency belonging to guests and staff alike. The world moved around them, indifferent to the quiet storm lingering between two players standing under the golden glow of the entrance.
Then, Adam spoke again.
His voice was casual, almost idle, but laced with quiet scrutiny. A question dressed as an observation.
“You’re not one of them, are you?”
He didn’t clarify, didn’t need to. The words hung in the air, lingering like a thread waiting to be pulled.
Isagi knew exactly what he meant.
Blue Lock.
A lesser player might have flinched, might have given something away in the flicker of an expression, the shift of a stance. But Isagi wasn’t a lesser player.
Instead, he merely tilted his head slightly, his dark blue eyes gleaming beneath the golden hotel lights, unreadable yet sharp—like a blade catching just the faintest glint of fire.
“No.”
Simple. Absolute. A truth that left no room for doubt.
Adam exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound caught between amusement and exasperation. A low chuckle followed, quiet yet weighted, as if something about the answer both entertained and intrigued him. He ran a hand through his tousled gray hair, fingers raking through strands before falling back to his side. Then, with a subtle shift in stance, he crossed his arms, gaze narrowing in contemplation.
“And yet you beat me.”
No bitterness, no disbelief—only cold, clinical analysis. A statement of fact, spoken like a man at the peak of football’s world trying to reconcile an equation that shouldn’t add up.
A piece of the puzzle that refused to fit.
Isagi didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence breathe, let the weight of the words settle into the space between them. Then, with an almost imperceptible shift of his weight, he regarded Adam—calm, composed, unwavering.
“Was it really me beating you?”
A simple sentence.
A loaded statement.
A question that wasn’t really a question.
Adam’s expression didn’t shift immediately, but there was a flicker—a twitch of his fingers against his arm, the faintest tightening of his jaw. Not in frustration, but in recognition.
Understanding.
His eyes darkened just slightly, as if turning the words over in his mind, analyzing every angle, every possibility. The gears turning behind his sharp gaze, breaking apart the match, the tactics, the moments leading to the outcome he had yet to fully accept.
Another beat of silence.
Then—
“...Interesting.”
The word carried weight. More than curiosity, more than passing amusement.
It was acknowledgment.
Adam didn’t look away, but something in his posture shifted. Not surrender, not defeat—but recognition. The kind that only existed between players who had stood on the same battlefield and seen each other for what they truly were.
In that moment, under the golden glow of the hotel’s entrance, beneath the quiet hum of the city, an unspoken acknowledge passed between them.
Not as rivals.
But as something far more dangerous.
Then, Isagi, again tilted his head, just a fraction of movement—calculated, deliberate. The motion itself was subtle, but the weight behind it was not.
As if he were contemplating something. As if he were turning over possibilities in his mind, weighing them against each other like a gambler deciding whether to raise the stakes.
His voice, when it came, was softer. More measured. Controlled with precision, the way a surgeon wields a scalpel.
“And what do you think happened?”
A simple question.
Yet, the way he said it—smooth, effortless, carrying the slightest lilt of intrigue—made it anything but ordinary. There was a suggestion there, a baited hook just barely visible beneath still waters.
Adam’s gaze sharpened instantly.
He was studying Isagi now, more intently than before, eyes flicking over every inch of his expression in search of something—a tell, a crack, a misstep.
But there was nothing.
Not a single thing out of place.
And that was when Adam realized—
Isagi was playing him.
Not in a mocking way. Not out of arrogance.
But with the precision of a tactician, steering the flow of a match without ever making it obvious. The kind of player who didn’t move the ball—he moved the field.
A predator luring its prey deeper. Not by force, not by aggression, but by something far more dangerous—invitation.
Adam exhaled through his nose, a quiet scoff of amusement escaping him. Then, he chuckled.
He shook his head, more to himself than anything.
“You’re a dangerous one, aren’t you?”
The words weren’t spoken with fear. No, there was something else beneath them—acknowledgment.
Because Adam had met plenty of players before. Talented ones. Smart ones. Ruthless ones.
But Isagi was something else entirely.
Then, just barely, Isagi’s lips curled. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile.
Something in between.
“You tell me.”
And in that moment, under the city lights, beneath the quiet hum of passing cars and distant voices, the game between them—the real one—had only just begun.
“You’re not going to deny it?”
The words came smooth, careful, deliberate—like a fisherman casting his line into deep, uncertain waters, waiting to see what might rise from the depths.
Slowly, without urgency, Isagi turned his head. His gaze met Adam’s, dark blue meeting sharp grey.
“Deny what?”
A simple response. Nonchalant. Empty of weight yet carrying the distinct edge of a player who knew exactly what he was doing.
“You know exactly what.”
He took a step forward, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket, posture loose, but there was something in his stance—a coiled readiness, a predator’s patience.
“Players like us—players at the top? We’ve all been watched since we were kids.”
His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, layered with an understanding that only those who had clawed their way to the top could share.
“Agencies, scouts, clubs—they dig their claws into any talent they see.”
The entrance lights above them cast a golden glow over the polished pavement, illuminating the sharp focus in Adam’s expression. His gaze was assessing, peeling through Isagi like he was an anomaly, a puzzle that refused to be solved.
“Yet you—”
He gestured at Isagi, voice carrying something unreadable.
“—are a complete mystery.”
A player like Isagi shouldn’t exist. Not without a trace.
“A player with your level of intelligence, your ability to devour the field, should have been scouted before you even hit sixteen. Perhaps, even before that.”
He took another step forward, slow and deliberate.
“But there’s nothing. No mentions. No old matches. No youth club records worth anything.”
His voice lowered just slightly, the weight of his words settling between them like a quiet revelation.
“As if someone made sure no one ever found you.”
Then, a pause. Calculated.
“Or… you made sure of that yourself.”
The hotel’s automatic doors whooshed open and shut behind them, a quiet reminder of the world moving around them, of people passing by, unaware of the quiet game being played in the golden light.
Isagi didn’t react immediately. He simply tilted his head slightly, the movement slow, measured—almost teasing.
“That’s an interesting thought.”
Adam’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
“Is it wrong?”
There was no accusation in his tone. No demand.
Just curiosity—sharp, unwavering.
A lesser player might have faltered under the weight of that scrutiny. Might have stumbled over their words, scrambled for a defense, tried to steer the conversation away.
But Isagi?
“Who knows?” Isagi mused, voice light, thoughtful, as if the entire conversation was nothing more than idle speculation.
“Maybe I was scouted. Maybe I wasn’t.”
His blue eyes flickered under the city lights, carrying a depth that wasn’t there before.
“Maybe I just… disappeared.”
He wasn’t confirming anything.
But he wasn’t denying it either.
The words hung between them, laced with something intangible, something that made Adam pause.
Then, after a moment, Adam exhaled a quiet laugh—low, breathy, tinged with amusement.
He ran a hand along his jaw, shaking his head as if in disbelief.
“So that’s how you play it, huh?”
Isagi blinked, feigning innocence. “Play what?”
Adam grinned. Not out of frustration. Not out of irritation.
But something closer to acknowledgment.
“You’re really good at this.”
The amusement in his voice wasn’t forced—it was real.
Isagi gave a light chuckle, then took a small step back, repositioning himself so that his back faced the distant lobby counter.
Not retreating. Not leaving.
Just repositioning.
Like a player shifting their stance before the next move.
“You rejected the offer before I even made it.”
Adam’s voice, smooth as ever, carried the same intrigue it always did. But this time, there was something different beneath it. A quiet amusement, laced with something sharper.
Isagi didn’t react immediately. He let the words settle, weighing them. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he glanced over his shoulder.
Adam stood just a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, posture easy—too easy. But his eyes?
Still watching. Still searching.
“Did I?” Isagi asked, his tone light, effortless.
Adam chuckled, stepping forward until they were side by side, both facing the hotel’s massive glass windows. The city stretched before them in a sea of neon and shadow, a world that never slept. Their reflections flickered against the glass—two players, two predators, standing at a crossroads.
“You did.”
Adam tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting. “Which makes me wonder… how did you know?”
Isagi didn’t answer right away. He merely shifted his weight, gaze tracing the reflections—the faint outline of Adam next to him, the distant movement of people beyond the glass.
Then, with the smallest hint of a smirk—
“Aren’t I supposed to?”
Adam exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re quick.”
A pause.
Then, as if discussing the weather—
“There’s a place where players like you can really shine, you know.”
Harmless words. A casual observation.
Yet beneath them, something else lurked.
Isagi hummed, neither confirming nor denying his interest.
Adam’s tone remained easy, but there was an edge to it now. “A place where vision like yours isn’t wasted. Where every move matters.”
A subtle glance from Adam. Calculated. Measuring.
“Where a forward like you wouldn’t have to hold back.”
The words slid into the conversation like a blade slipping through silk—clean, effortless, dangerous.
Isagi didn’t flinch.
Instead, he let the silence stretch, absorbing the weight of the statement without reaction.
Then, with a small tilt of his head—
“That so?”
Adam’s smirk widened slightly. “It is.”
Another pause.
Then, with the same casual ease—
“You’d fit right in.”
Simple. Deceptively simple.
Yet, in the quiet hum of the lobby, the words carried an unspoken weight.
Isagi tapped a finger lightly against the edge of his phone, thoughtful.
Then—
“That sounds interesting.”
Adam turned slightly, intrigued. “Does it?”
Isagi nodded. “It does.”
A beat of silence.
Then, his gaze flickered sideways, just for a moment.
“But not enough.”
Adam blinked once. Then, slowly, he let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head back as if the answer genuinely amused him.
“Hah… I should’ve expected that.”
Isagi shrugged. “You should have.”
The hotel lobby buzzed faintly around them—the soft chime of an elevator, the murmur of staff behind the reception desk.
Adam exhaled, rolling his shoulders back.
“You’re not even curious?”
A question disguised as an afterthought.
Isagi’s smile didn’t fade. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
Adam studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he sighed, shaking his head with an exaggerated air of defeat.
“Alright, alright. I get it.”
But the glint in his eyes said otherwise.
Isagi let out a quiet breath of amusement, a sound barely audible over the soft hum of the lobby. Then, without a word, he stepped aside, turning with effortless ease.
The warm chandelier light cast elongated shadows as he moved, his figure swallowed by the ebb and flow of the evening crowd. He didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. Just made his way toward the elevator, unbothered, unreadable.
“But you’ll think about it, won’t you?”
Adam’s voice carried the same knowing lilt, smooth and confident. A statement disguised as a question.
Isagi didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t need to.
The silence itself was an answer.
Adam chuckled, shaking his head. “See you around, Yoichi Isagi.”
He remained where he was, hands still in his pockets, watching as the elevator doors slid shut.
A mystery, huh?
Adam had played against countless talents, faced the best the world had to offer. Yet, Isagi Yoichi—
He wasn’t just another forward.
He was something else entirely.
Notes:
No thoughts, just movement and gestures—confusing, isn't it? Well, it's third-person point of view, after all. What’s seen on the surface, not inside.
Just to clarify, I'm not a professional at this kind of thing, but you could say I'm familiar with the thought process. You could say I'm always in this kind of state. Not always, but the mind never stops thinking and observing.
That's it.
From this point on, things are going to get interesting. Hehe, this is me—an unemployed final boss.
But what's even more shameful is that people older than me, people who have jobs, might be reading this. And here I am, just a teen trying to find a way to make money be like: Should I delete my fics? *suddenly feel embarrassed.*
Chapter Text
A blurry face.
A small body, delicate yet familiar.
A child—grinning.
"... ... ..."
The voice was light, almost weightless, carrying that unmistakable childlike tone. Playful. Bright. Yet the words… they slipped past like water, too distant to grasp.
The boy stood there, dressed in a football uniform that seemed almost too big for his small frame. The fabric shifted with an unseen breeze, the faint glint of stadium lights reflecting off the polished cleats.
Tucked under his arm—a ball. Worn, scuffed, like it had been kicked through endless matches, through victories and losses, through time itself.
And then—
A movement.
The boy lifted his free hand, small fingers stretching forward.
Reaching for him.
Isagi stared.
Something tightened in his chest—something inexplicable. A pull, deep and unshakable, like a thread woven through his very existence.
But when he tried to focus—on the boy’s face, on his voice—
It blurred.
Slipping, shifting, fading—
Yet the outstretched hand remained.
Waiting.
Inviting.
And Isagi—
He di dn’t know whether to take it.
Or turn away.
And run.
Isagi woke up with a sharp inhale.
His breath was steady, measured, yet his mind remained tangled in the remnants of the dream. Or was it a memory?
He didn’t know.
He didn’t want to know.
A dull pressure settled behind his eyes, heavy, persistent. His jaw tensed, molars pressing together, the faint strain in his temples going unnoticed as he exhaled through his nose. It was a slow, controlled breath—one that should have grounded him. But it didn’t.
He sat up, the motion abrupt, almost restless. His fingers clenched around the blanket before he even realized it—his grip tight, the fabric bunched between his knuckles. His hands trembled, just slightly. Annoying.
With a sharp breath, he released it.
The blanket slid off him in a single, swift motion, pooling onto the bed in a heap of tangled fabric. He barely spared it a glance. He needed a cold shower. Something to shock his mind back into place, to drown out the lingering sensation crawling beneath his skin.
Yet, as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his frown deepened.
The world beyond his window remained untouched by morning. The sky stretched out in an endless expanse of ink-black, not even the faintest hue of blue creeping into the horizon.
Not morning. Not even close.
A click of his tongue, sharp against the quiet.
Too early.
But there was no point in trying to sleep now.
" ... "
The weight of something unspoken still clung to him, thick and suffocating. Rest would not come—not when his mind refused to still.
With a slow exhale, Isagi stood.
The shower was waiting.
Isagi stood near the floor-to-ceiling window, his reflection faint against the glass, barely visible in the dim glow of the city lights. The world stretched endlessly beyond him—towering buildings, neon signs blinking in rhythm, roads weaving through the darkness like pulsing veins of silver and red. Cars moved in steady streams, their headlights carving paths through the quiet chaos of the night.
He barely registered any of it.
The cool air from the shower still clung to his skin, a lingering chill against the heat of his own body. Damp strands of hair clung stubbornly to his forehead, beads of water tracing slow paths down his neck. With a sharp inhale, he lifted one hand, fingers sliding through his hair, pushing it back and out of his eyes. The other hand remained steady, holding a single file.
A simple folder. Thin, yet weighted with significance.
He flipped it open with the ease of routine, the pages settling beneath his gaze.
[Player File]
Name: Barou Shouei
Position: Striker
Strengths: Power, Physical Dominance, Goal Obsession
Weaknesses: Team Coordination, Adaptability
A predator on the field. Barou played with raw intensity, forcing the game to orbit around him. A king with no subjects, yet his skill made him impossible to ignore. His presence alone shifted the dynamics of any match, his will imposing and relentless.
But…
Isagi’s fingers tapped lightly against the paper, a soft, rhythmic sound against the silence.
Even kings could be forced to evolve.
"Barou."
A simple name. A call to attention. But not a demand.
Barou was kneeling, breath harsh and uneven, his shoulders rising and falling in sharp movements. The scent of damp earth and the sting of sweat rolling down his temples made everything sharper, more real.
The sounds of exhausted breaths from the others around them faded into the background. It was just them now—two opposing forces, standing at the crossroads of something unseen yet undeniable.
Isagi tilted his head slightly, sweat dripping from his damp hair, but his expression remained neutral.
"You have one choice."
He turned slightly, just enough to make the space between them feel even more distant.
"Change yourself."
A pause. A silence filled with expectation.
Then, Isagi continued, voice steady.
"Whether that's for the better or the worse—"
His eyes narrowed, as if peering straight into Barou’s very core.
"That depends on you."
Another pause. One that stretched long enough to force awareness—the kind that made skin prickle and breaths feel too loud.
"Or will you even change?"
A question laced with something deeper. Something heavier.
And then—
"If so, which one?"
[The one who will adapt, evolve, and rise—Or the one who will remain exactly as he is now, unyielding, unchanging, and alone?]
[To Whom Is He Speaking For Really?]
[BeTtEr YeT, fRoM wHoM?]
Slowly, deliberately, he set the file aside, his gaze lingering on the city below.
The phone buzzed against his palm, the vibration steady, insistent. A quiet pulse in the silence of the room.
Isagi’s gaze flickered to the screen.
No name. Just a number.
An unrecognized sequence of digits. Nothing overtly strange, nothing that should have set off alarm bells. And yet—his grip around the device shifted, tightening just slightly. The smallest twitch in his brow. The faintest shift in his expression.
He knew who's calling.
There suddenly a sense of nagging feeling.
Not in an immediate, tangible way. Not like danger creeping at his throat. But something subtler, something that pulled at the edge of his instincts. A feeling he couldn’t shake.
Without hesitation, he answered.
Bringing the phone to his ear, he said nothing at first. No greeting, no demand for identification. Just silence.
Listening.
Waiting.
The voice on the other end spoke, low and measured, the kind of voice that carried weight even in its quietness.
Isagi didn’t react immediately. His expression remained carefully neutral, his breathing steady, controlled as he listen to the familiar voice.
His eyes—unconsciously, inevitably—drifted toward the table.
The coffee table was covered in documents, scattered notes, and open files. Most of them were irrelevant at the moment—background analysis, player evaluations, tactical breakdowns from Blue Lock Players, the one that had manage to survive the program.
His gaze seemed to find one of the file without effort. The one that remain untouched and open.
With a specific individual picture of a player.
He didn’t pick up the file, didn’t flip through its pages. He didn’t need to. The image was already burned into his mind, the details etched into memory.
Blond hair, streaked with wild pink highlights.
A smirk, sharp and knowing, frozen in time.
Eyes filled with something volatile, something reckless. A challenge bled through the very photograph, unspoken yet deafening.
[Shidou Ryusei]
The name practically hummed against the page, electric, untamed.
Isagi exhaled slowly, almost soundlessly.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"We've met before."
A statement, not a question.
Gagamaru had said it once before—just yesterday, during the match. The words had left his mouth almost instinctively, carried by something deeper than recognition. It wasn't just a passing thought. It was certainty.
And just like before, Isagi didn’t answer directly.
"Is that so?"
Not a confirmation. Not a denial. Just a response, delivered with that same slow, unreadable tone.
The gym was quiet, save for the steady hum of machines and the rhythmic sound of footfalls against the treadmill belt. The artificial lighting cast long shadows against the walls, emphasizing the stillness of the empty space. The air smelled faintly of rubber mats, sweat, and the sharp, clean scent of disinfectant.
Gagamaru didn’t let it drop this time.
He took the moment for what it was—just the two of them in the gym before Bachira and Nanase arrived. A rare pocket of silence in a place that thrived on movement, competition, noise.
"Back at the forest."
His voice was steady, but there was something searching in his gaze.
"That time… it was winter."
Gagamaru stood in front of the treadmill, arms loosely crossed, eyes fixed on the lone figure walking at an unhurried pace.
He watched for a reaction.
Isagi didn’t pause, didn’t stumble in his stride. His pace on the treadmill remained unchanged, casual, unhurried—almost as if he were strolling through the conversation the same way he walked now. There was no flicker of surprise, no tension in his shoulders.
Gagamaru observed him closely—the way his sweat-dampened bangs clung to his forehead, the slow rise and fall of his breath. The way his fingers flexed, just slightly, as if testing their grip on the side railing.
But Isagi gave nothing away.
"Don't you remember?"
A beat of silence.
Isagi finally blinked, slow and deliberate, before tilting his head just slightly—enough to acknowledge the question, but not enough to answer it.
Gagamaru’s mind drifted back.
Isagi Yoichi.
Dressed differently from the rest. No Blue Lock tracksuit. No sign of the structured discipline imposed on them. Just casual clothes—normal, comfortable, like he belonged elsewhere.
Yet here he was.
In the Blue Lock facility, running plays, strategizing, leading. As if he had always been part of this world.
But Gagamaru knew what he had seen. The quiet clearing in the woods. The crisp bite of winter air. The way the snow had settled undisturbed—until footprints, fresh and deliberate, had marked the ground.
And the boy standing there, watching the falling frost with an expression Gagamaru still couldn’t place.
A shift in the air. A pause that stretched just long enough to make Gagamaru feel like he was standing on the edge of something.
Then—
"Who knows."
The words came out just as vague. Just as slow.
And yet, something about them felt deliberate.
A test. A challenge.
Gagamaru didn't look away.
Was it memory? Or was it just a feeling?
The longer he looked at Isagi, the more uncertain he became.
Before he could press further, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the hallway.
Bachira and Nanase were arriving.
The moment slipped away.
But the question remained.
Notes:
Ramadan Kareem.
I'm sorry for the short chapter.
I'm experiencing writer's block.
Chapter Text
Training on the field that day began under a cloudless sky, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the pitch. The air buzzed with a quiet energy, the kind that settled in when the team had found their rhythm—not just with the ball, but with each other*. And at the center of it all stood Isagi Yoichi, voice calm yet firm, directing the session with the tone of someone who had grown not only in skill, but in presence.
He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t need to. Every word he spoke was sharp, calculated, and laced with intention. The others listened—perhaps just out of respect, or because they trusted him. They were here to improve-only Nanase who personally requested so, while the other two... well that- and right now, Isagi was the one holding the compass.
“Gagamaru, push up with the line. You’re trailing too far behind in the switch,” Isagi called, eyes scanning the flow of the practice drill.
Without so much as a blink of hesitation, Gagamaru adjusted his positioning, silent and compliant like a machine set on the correct coordinates. That was Gagamaru—simple, straightforward, and utterly reliable. He didn’t ask questions. He just followed, limbs moving with the kind of raw athleticism that made even his simplest actions effective.
Then there was Nanase. Sweet, earnest Nanase. The moment Isagi turned toward him, even just slightly, the younger player's shoulders tensed like he’d been caught doing something wrong—though he hadn’t. He always looked like he was waiting to be scolded, even when Isagi was only giving constructive feedback.
“Nanase, don’t second-guess the overlap. Just commit. Even if it’s a decoy run, trust the motion.”
“I—I got it! Sorry— I mean, understood!” Nanase blurted, tripping over his own tongue. His face flushed a faint red, hands twitching nervously at his sides before he nodded more seriously and sprinted into position.
That’s when Bachira chimed in.
“Ooooh~ Nanaseee~ you better not mess up, or King Isagi’s gonna turn you into soccer soup with his words~” Bachira grinned, his tone lilting with playful menace. He zigzagged his way past both of them, flicking the ball up with the back of his heel before catching it again on his thigh, all while wearing that impish smirk that somehow made him look both brilliant and completely unhinged.
Nanase, wide-eyed, flailed. “I—I’m not gonna mess up! I swear! Don’t say weird stuff like that, Bachira-san!”
“Awww, you’re so cute when you panic~” Bachira sang, skipping backward, still juggling the ball like he was in his own private circus act.
Nearby, Gagamaru had stopped to watch the interaction, brow furrowed and face blank. He stared at Bachira the way one might observe a particularly bizarre animal at the zoo. There was no hatred, no confusion—just a flat, accepting bewilderment. As if Gagamaru had long since resigned himself to the fact that Bachira Meguru operated on laws of physics the rest of them couldn’t comprehend.
Despite their wildly different personalities—Gagamaru’s silence, Nanase’s anxious eagerness, and Bachira’s mischievous chaos—they moved through the drill with a sort of strange, beautiful synergy. Each of them was mildly absorbed in their own world: Gagamaru tuned into the immediate task with laser focus, Nanase caught in his own headspace of nerves and determination, and Bachira dancing somewhere in the clouds, guided more by instinct and amusement than strategy.
And yet, they did well.
The passes were crisp, the positioning mostly on point, and the energy remained high. Isagi could see it in the way they moved—an invisible thread pulling them toward the same goal, no matter how differently they approached it.
He didn’t smile genuine—Isagi rarely did during training—but there was a glint that close of satisfaction in his eyes.
Or it was perhaps just Nanase hallucinated it.
As the drill shifted into small-sided play, the tempo picked up.
No more walking through instructions. Now it was instinct, timing, and pressure. Isagi stepped back slightly—not to leave, but to observe. He’d spoken enough for now. What came next wasn’t about his voice. It was about whether they could translate words into action.
The whistle blew.
Immediately, Bachira exploded into motion, his footwork a blur of unpredictability. The ball was an extension of him, not something he controlled, but something he danced with. He weaved past Nanase with a teasing flick of his heel, humming lightly to himself as if the whole game was a private joke only he was in on.
“Don’t watch, Nanase—react,” Isagi called out from the sideline, his voice cutting clean through the field noise.
Nanase snapped out of his hesitation, gritting his teeth as he gave chase. “Right!” he shouted, a second late, but not too late.
He didn’t catch Bachira—very few could when he was playing like that—but he didn’t give up the chase, and that, at least, earned a nod from Isagi.
Gagamaru had already shifted. From across the pitch, he tracked Bachira’s trajectory, eyes sharp, limbs loose. He didn’t rush. He waited. Patient. Reading.
Then, just as Bachira prepared a quick cut inside, Gagamaru lunged.
Long legs, precise timing. A sweep. Clean. He took the ball.
Bachira blinked. “Ooooh?” he tilted his head. “So scary when you move like that, Gagamaru~ You should do it more.”
Gagamaru didn’t answer. He just passed the ball to Nanase, short and firm.
Nanase caught it, chesting it down, a bit rough—but he kept it under control. Isagi’s voice echoed again, firm and low.
“Don’t freeze. Flow forward. Use the gap!”
And this time—Nanase didn’t hesitate. He pushed the ball forward, dribbling hard, even as Bachira jogged behind him, still smirking, hands behind his head like a harmless spectator.
It was clear, though—he wasn’t just playing around. He was watching. Testing.
And Nanase knew it. Felt it like a weight in his spine.
He passed it wide, cutting to the wing, a safe decision—but not a fearful one this time.
Good, Isagi thought.
Better.
They kept going, round after round. Small plays. Fast transitions. Sharp corrections. The light began to fade, golden turning into copper. Their shadows grew longer, but their movements never slowed.
Sweat clung to their skin. Breaths came harder. Mistakes crept in—but so did improvement.
Isagi finally stepped in again after a particularly close sequence where Gagamaru intercepted yet another cutback from Bachira, and Nanase managed to hold off a press long enough to get the ball back into space.
“Reset,” Isagi said. “Last set. Full speed. Treat it like a match.”
They formed up, breathless but alert.
Bachira was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, grinning like the whole day had only just begun. Gagamaru stood like a silent mountain, unmoving until needed. And Nanase… he still looked nervous, but now it had shape. Control. A new edge beneath the anxiety.
The whistle blew one last time.
And they moved—not perfectly, not without flaws—but like a unit beginning to understand the rhythm between chaos and order.
Even in their own worlds, they were starting to orbit the same sun.
The rhythm of training was in full swing—sharp passes, short bursts of movement, breath clouding in the cooling air. The energy had shifted, something more focused than earlier. Mistakes were being corrected in real-time, instincts honed second by second. Isagi stood just off-center of the pitch, eyes narrowing, tracking every player like a predator reading the smallest shift in weight, the tiniest misstep. He didn’t speak for now—he didn’t have to. His presence alone was the signal: keep going, keep sharpening, don’t fall behind.
Then it happened.
A sudden, mechanical hiss cut through the air, followed by the smooth grind of sliding metal. The automatic door at the far end of the facility broke the momentary stillness with its signature shhhkk-tkk, loud in the echoing chamber. It wasn’t just the noise that disrupted the moment—it was the timing. In Blue Lock, interruptions were rare. Scheduled. Controlled.
Isagi's head snapped toward the sound, brows knitting. His senses, always tuned high during training, immediately caught the change. He squinted toward the doorway.
There, in the frame of the sliding door, stood Anri Teieri. Her figure was small against the high ceiling and harsh lighting, but her urgency radiated across the room.
She was slightly out of breath, one hand bracing against the doorframe as she scanned for him. The second her eyes landed on Isagi, she straightened, calling out without hesitation.
“Isagi!” she said, her tone quick, businesslike. “Ego wants to see you. Right now.”
That gave Isagi pause.
His mind flicked through possibilities with mechanical speed. Ego? In person? Mid-session? That was...odd.
If it was something urgent, Ego could have called directly through the VR systems—his voice booming through the room like some omnipotent overseer, as he’d done countless times before. Or he could’ve just called Isagi's phone.
Then again, Isagi suddenly realized—he didn’t bring his phone out today. He’d left it on the bench, next to his water bottle. Ego must’ve known that. Must’ve calculated even that.
Still, the situation didn’t sit right. There was no smile on Anri’s face, no room for questions in her expression. Just that same slight edge of pressure Isagi had come to associate with things far above his current understanding.
He exhaled slowly, something in his chest tightening. Not worry. Not yet. But anticipation.
“Wrap it up,” he called over his shoulder to the others, his voice short, clipped. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a suggestion.
Training was over.
As he turned on his heel and began walking toward Anri, the echo of cleats on turf chased him from behind.
Then came his voice—lazy, light, and just a little too amused.
“Fiiinaaaally~” Bachira called out with exaggerated relief, arms stretched high above his head. “I thought they were gonna fuse you to the training ground, Isagi~ Like part of the floor or something!”
A few soft chuckles rose from behind, mostly from Nanase—awkward, nervous, half-hearted. Gagamaru didn’t laugh at all. He just stood there, hands on hips, watching the exit like some kind of silent guardian.
Isagi didn’t respond.
Not a glance back. Not a word.
He ignored Bachira’s familiar teasing like he’d swat away a buzzing fly. Not out of irritation, but because he couldn’t afford to focus on it. Not now.
His strides were brisk as he reached Anri, who had already stepped aside, letting him pass through the open doorway with a quick nod. The doors slid shut behind him with that same smooth hiss, sealing off the sounds of the field, the voices of others, the familiarity of repetition.
Now it was just fluorescent hallways and the soft clack of his cleats against tile.
Anri walked beside him, matching his pace, hands clenched at her sides. Her expression was unreadable—professional, but tight around the eyes.
He glanced at her once, not breaking stride.
“What’s this about?”
She hesitated. Just for a second. Then said flatly, “He didn’t say. Just that it couldn’t wait.”
That only made the tension in his shoulders coil tighter.
Ego Jinpachi was the type to dramatize. If he said something was urgent, it meant consequences. Future-defining ones. In his styles of course.
Without another word, the two of them walked down the corridor, fluorescent lights humming softly above.
Whatever was waiting for him behind Ego’s door—it wasn’t just another strategy session.
And Isagi knew, instinctively, that something was about to change.
As they walked, Isagi’s mind began to turn—calculating, deducing.
Ego must want an update. That was his first assumption. Maybe he wanted a report on the others’ progress. The state of their development. How the team was shaping up after the last. Something routine—but then again, Ego wasn’t the type to interrupt training just to hear things he could observe himself.
Still, it was the most logical explanation.
He wants a perspective from someone on the field, Isagi thought. Someone who understands the movements beyond the numbers. Someone who sees not just what they do, but why they do it.
And for better or worse, that person was him. After all, Ego requested and assigned him to this situation.
But even as he reassured himself with reasoning, something gnawed at him.
Why did Anri look so tense?
The sterile white corridors of Blue Lock’s inner complex reflected the overhead lighting in sharp lines, as if the entire building had been designed to feel more like a laboratory than a place where athletes trained. No windows. No distractions. Only direction.
They passed through a locked checkpoint, the scanner blinking blue as Anri swiped her ID. She hadn’t said a word since their brief exchange, and that silence spoke louder than anything.
He followed her without question as she turned toward the meeting wing of the facility—a quieter section where formal evaluations, tactical briefings, and official internal matters were held. Isagi rarely came here unless there was something significant. And even then, he wasn’t summoned like this.
Something’s off.
They reached one of the inner conference rooms—tall, reinforced doors with a silver handle and no signage. Anri reached for the panel and pressed it. The door slid open with a soft click.
She stepped aside, letting Isagi enter first.
And there he was.
Ego Jinpachi.
Already seated, waiting—hands steepled in front of his face, elbows resting on the table. The room was dimmer than the rest of the building, lit only by a pair of overhead spotlights that cast sharp shadows across the minimalist table. No screens were active. No documents laid out. Just him, calm as ever, as if he’d been here for hours... or had just sat down and made the entire room feel like he owned time itself.
Isagi stepped inside.
And stopped.
Ego didn’t speak immediately. He didn’t need to. His presence filled the room effortlessly, like a thick mist of pressure. It wasn’t loud—but it was suffocating in its silence.
Anri stepped in behind Isagi and quietly closed the door.
She didn’t sit.
She stood off to the side—back straight, shoulders slightly too stiff, arms crossed tight against her chest. The tension in her posture was obvious now, unmissable. Her jaw clenched every few seconds like she was holding herself back from speaking.
But Ego?
He looked completely unbothered.
Composed.
Relaxed, even.
To most people, he would’ve appeared unreadable—expression blank, posture easy, body language casual. But Isagi had spent enough time around him to know better.
That glint in Ego’s eyes—just behind those perfectly round glasses—wasn’t calm.
It was amusement.
The corners of his mouth weren’t curved, not quite. But they were close. Too close.
And it clicked for Isagi.
He’s watching me. Not just observing—measuring. Waiting to see what I’ll do, how I’ll respond.
The tension didn’t come from Ego himself—it came from whatever he already knew.
Whatever had already been knew before Isagi even entered the room.
Isagi stepped forward, not showing the uncertainty flickering in his gut, and lowered his voice.
“…You wanted to see me?”
Ego finally leaned forward, folding his hands under his chin. The light caught the lens of his glasses, obscuring his eyes for a beat.
And then he spoke, voice smooth as ever, as if they’d just sat down for coffee instead of what felt like the opening move in something far more serious.
“Yes,” he said simply. “And this isn’t about your observations. Or your coaching performance today.”
Isagi narrowed his eyes. “Then what?”
Ego’s smile grew just a sliver.
“This is about you.”
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
“…Me?” Isagi echoed, confused but steady.
“Yes,” Ego said, dropping his hands to the table and tilting his head slightly.
Anri shifted slightly, still silent—but her glance toward Isagi was quick and uncertain.
Isagi didn’t blink. “What kind of?”
Ego met his gaze, and for a moment, the amusement faded into something sharper. Hungrier.
“The kind that redefines your future in this system—and maybe Blue Lock’s future itself.”
Rio de Janeiro – Estádio da Gávea – Late Afternoon
The stadium buzzed with the energy of celebration even as the final whistle had long blown. Music echoed faintly from the stands, a samba rhythm playing from some speaker just outside the locker tunnel, mixing with the scent of sweat, turf, and ocean salt drifting in from the coast. The golden light of the setting sun bathed the stadium in warm hues, glinting off the sweat-slicked faces of the players. The stands, though only half-filled for the friendly, still buzzed with the echoes of cheering fans and excited chatter. The match was over—a solid 3-1 victory for the home team, Flamengo—but the energy hadn’t dissipated just yet.
Laughter and pats on the back passed between the players as they made their way toward the edge of the pitch, bright lights flooded the corner of the pitch where a temporary backdrop had been set up-a small press setup was arranged for post-match interviews, plastered with sponsor logos and federation emblems. Cameras were rolling. Microphones hovered. Reporters gathered in a tight crescent around a handful of players from Flamengo team—flushed from their victory, shirts clinging to their backs, cleats still muddy. And at the center of it all stood Dada Silva, the team’s young and increasingly talked-about. Still in full kit, hands on hips, dark curls hanging damp over his forehead, he looked entirely in his element. The grin on his face came easy—natural, charming, untouchable.
Cameras clicked. Microphones hovered close. A female reporter from one of the sports networks—Globo Esporte, maybe—stepped forward with a practiced smile.
“Parabéns pela vitória, Dada!”
“Congratulations on the win, Dada!”
she began cheerfully. “Another strong performance out there. How’re you feeling?”
Dada wiped sweat from his brow and shrugged with a grin.
“Ah, bem demais! Foi só um amistoso, mas jogar em casa sempre dá um gás extra."
“Ah, too good! It was just a friendly match, but playing at home always gives you an extra boost.”
"The crowd, the vibe… it lifts us.”
His teammates chuckled behind him, nodding in agreement as they chimed in with the usual post-match banter.
The questions continued—casual stuff at first. How the team had prepped, what the strategy was, how it felt scoring that second goal. Dada answered smoothly, eyes occasionally darting toward his friends, laughing when one of them made a joke off-mic. All seemed like your typical PR moment until the reporter leaned forward, shifting the tone just slightly.
“Dada, posso te perguntar uma coisa? A gente reparou que você voltou das férias... diferente. Mais focado. Mais rápido. Você treinou muito nesse intervalo?”
“Dada, can I ask you something? We noticed that you came back from vacation… different. More focused. Faster. Did you train a lot during that break?”
He chuckled, his grin widening.
“É… vamos dizer que eu voltei com fogo nos olhos.”
"Yeah… let’s just say I came back with fire in my eyes.”
The reporter raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“Fogo? Por quê? Vi no seu Instagram que você passou as férias no Japão, né? Foi isso que te inspirou?”
“Fire? Why? I saw on your Instagram that you spent your vacation in Japan, right? Was that what inspired you?”
There was a subtle shift in Dada’s demeanor. For a brief second, he paused. Then he smiled again—but this smile was… different. Less easy. A little enigmatic. The kind of smile that made people lean in, trying to read more than what was being said.
“Digamos que… se eu quero chegar no mesmo nível de alguém que tá lá… eu tenho que me esforçar muito mais.”
“Let’s just say… if I want to reach the same level as someone who’s there… I have to push myself much harder.”
The air around the group sharpened just slightly. The reporter’s eyes gleamed. She wasn’t going to let that slip past.
“Um jogador?”
“ A player?”
Dada nodded slowly.
“Sim.”
"Yes."
The buzz began. One of his teammates muttered, “Opa…”
The reporter pressed on, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
“Azul... talvez? Alguém do Blue Lock?”
“Blue... maybe? Someone from Blue Lock?”
That earned a small chuckle from the rest of the squad. The name “Blue Lock” had been all over football social media for weeks now—Japan’s experimental striker program was the stuff of football legend. Wild, controversial, but undeniably effective or not hit with fame.
Dada said nothing at first—then simply smiled again, that same unreadable expression, saying nothing.
"Quer contar pra gente quem é”
“Want to tell us who it is?”
she teased.
Dada raised an eyebrow, tilted his head as if considering it.
Then shook his head slowly.
“Não hoje.”
“Not today.”
He turned slightly, already stepping back as the team’s PR handler gently motioned to wrap things up. The reporter laughed lightly, holding up her hands in mock defeat.
“Mistério, hein? Vamos ficar de olho então.”
“A mystery, huh? We’ll keep an eye out then.”
Dada winked. “Melhor ficar.”
“You’d better.”
Just as Dada Silva began to step away, the glint in the reporter’s eyes sharpened. Her producer, standing just off-camera, subtly signaled for her to push just a little further. After all, this wasn’t just another post-match soundbite anymore—this was turning into something viral. The Brazil-Japan football bridge, Blue Lock, mystery rivalries—it had all the ingredients.
She quickly stepped closer again, mic still in hand.
“Dada, desculpa, só mais uma perguntinha,”
“Dada, sorry, just one more little question,”
she called out with a charming persistence.
“Você sabe que agora todo mundo vai querer saber quem é esse ‘alguém’...”
“You know that now everyone’s going to want to know who this ‘someone’ is…”
Dada turned halfway, lifting an eyebrow.
His teammates were watching now, a few snickering under their breath. One of them even playfully elbowed Dada in the ribs, murmuring loud enough to be caught on mic:
“Fala logo, pô! Vai deixar o Brasil inteiro curioso agora?”
“Come on, just say it! You’re gonna leave all of Brazil curious now?”
Dada just laughed. A cool, effortless sound. But his eyes didn’t laugh. They had a kind of quiet intensity behind them. The kind that said the fire from Japan wasn’t just about admiration—it was personal. Very personal.
“Se eu falar o nome,”
“If I say the name,”
he said calmly,
“todo mundo vai olhar pra ele. E eu ainda não cheguei lá. Ainda não tô pronto pra isso.”
"everyone will look at him. And I haven’t reached that level yet. I’m not ready for that."
That stunned the reporters into a moment of silence.
“Mas você tá dizendo que esse cara é tão bom assim?”
“But are you saying this guy is that good?” the reporter asked, incredulous.
“Melhor que você?”
“Better than you?”
He gave her a look—not offended, not insecure. Just honest.
“Por enquanto.”
“For now.”
There it was again. That smile. Not arrogant. Not shy. But something in between—like he knew exactly how good he was, and exactly how far he still had to go.
The reporter tried once more, her voice softer now.
“Mas ele sabe? Que você tá mirando nele?”
“But does he know? That you’re aiming at him?”
Dada paused at that. His gaze dropped briefly to the turf, and for the first time, there was no smile. Just a quiet, focused energy.
Then he looked up, straight into the camera lens.
“Talvez.”
"Maybe."
And with that, he turned fully and walked off, pulling his training jacket over his shoulders as he headed back into the tunnel. The rest of the team followed, some still laughing, others glancing at him sideways, curiosity clearly piqued. But none of them asked. Not right now.
The reporter exhaled, lowering the mic.
“Alguém anota isso,”
"Someone write the whole thing down." she muttered to her cameraman.
“Isso vai explodir na internet.”
"This surely would explode the internet."
And she was right. Within the hour, “Dada Silva Interview” would be trending. Clips of the interview would circulate with captions like “Who’s Dada chasing in Japan?” and “Was the person even from Japan and merely met there?”
But no matter how many times the footage was slowed down, or how many analysts tried to guess, Dada Silva never gave the name.
The World of Social Media.
The Interview That Set Social Media on Fire: Who Did Dada Silva Meet in Japan?
There’s been a wave of buzz around Dada Silva lately — not just for his sharp rise in form during the latest friendly, but because of something he said during a post-match interview with Brazilian media.
In the clip, when asked about the motivation behind his recent improvement, Dada said something that immediately sent social media into a frenzy:
“I want to reach the same level as someone who’s there… in Japan. I have to push myself much harder.”
He didn’t name anyone. Didn’t clarify if the person was Japanese, or even if they were from Japan at all — just that the inspiration came from “someone” he encountered during his vacation there.
That’s all it took.
Within hours, football fans across the globe were connecting dots, digging up photos, and forming theories. Because here’s the thing: Dada Silva wasn’t the only high-profile footballer vacationing in Japan around that time.
Names like Julian Loki, Leonardo Luna, Adam Blake, and Pablo Cavasoz were all confirmed to be in Japan too — all within the same time window. A blurry, leaked photo even surfaced, showing five tall figures with travel bags facing a woman in a suit holding a tablet — widely believed to be Anri Teieri, a name tightly connected to the mysterious and elite Blue Lock program.
It’s no surprise that fans started asking the obvious:
Was this really just a vacation? Or were all five footballers in Japan for something... bigger?
📹 Post from @futebolBR_Official
🎥 Interview Highlight: Dada Silva’s performance this friendly match has been insane! 💪⚡ In today’s press Q&A, he revealed:
“I want to reach the same level as someone who’s there (Japan)… I have to push myself much harder.”
👀 Who could it be?
🔗 Watch full interview here: futebolBR.com/interview-dadasilva
❤️ 21.3k Likes • 💬 5.9k Comments • 🔁 8.7k Shares
💬 Top Fan Comments:
@BrazucaFan99
Wait wait wait… WHO in Japan?? He didn’t specifically say this person even from Japan.
❤️ 3.2k
@Goalpost_Gossip
Julian Loki, Leonardo Luna, Adam Blake, AND Pablo Cavasoz were all spotted in Japan around the same time with Dada Silva, remember? Coincidence? I think NOT.
❤️ 2.1k • 🔁 1.4k
@SoccerLeaks24
Speaking of… remember THIS blurry pic?
📷 (attaches grainy photo showing 5 footballers with a woman — heavily rumored to be Anri Teieri)
[LINK: imgur.com/5worldplayersJPN]
❤️ 4.9k • 🔁 2.7k↳ @TokyoTurfTalk
That’s literally Dada Silva over there. This is getting sus. 👀
@OffsideConspiracy
What if they ALL went there for the same reason? Not vacation. Something… bigger.
❤️ 1.2k↳ @HelloGossip
Didn't you read the recent rumour surrounding those five and Blue Lock? @SoccerLeaks24 literally send the link of the picture, try reading the comments.
Thread under @Goalpost_Gossip’s comment:
@FootyFactsFR: Loki + Luna + Blake + Cavasoz + Dada = literally 5 world-class players in the same place. Japan isn’t a casual meet-up spot lol.
📲 Post from @FootyLeaksHQ
> 🚨 UPDATE on the “Dada Mystery” 🚨
After our post went viral tagging @JulianLoki, @Leo_Luna, @AdamBlakePro, and @PabloCavasozOficial…
ALL FOUR(excluding Dada) have now released public statements saying they are not the person Dada was talking about. 🤯
What’s weird? They all said almost the same vague thing:
> “We were in the same place at the same time, but not for the reason people think.”
Some even admitted the rumors had “gotten threatening” from obsessed fans 😳
This mystery just keeps getting weirder.
❤️ 54.7k • 💬 17.3k • 🔁 21.9k
Global Media Frenzy
By now, it had gone far beyond casual football talk.
It was a storm.
Not just in fan circles — but across sports media, television panels, sponsor circles, and even club offices. Dada Silva’s offhand comment, vague as it was, had escalated into something volatile. People weren’t just speculating — they were arguing. Attacking. Defending. Comparing stats. Demanding answers.
And then… came the statements.
Julian Loki was the first to respond.
It happened during a press event in Paris, already back a few days ago. He looked half-annoyed, half-amused, resting his chin on his hand like he couldn’t believe this was a real topic.
“No, I’m not the one Dada was referring to,” Loki said, voice casual but clipped. “Yes, we were both in Japan"
Leonardo Luna made his statement next—but in his typical fashion, it was more style than substance.
He posted a short video to his socials—him lounging on a rooftop in Barcelona, sunglasses on, sipping a canned coffee.
“Not me,” he said with a grin. “Though I wouldn’t mind it.”
The way he said it — the twinkle in his eye — only made things worse.
“We were all in the same boat anyway.”
No one knew what that meant.
But they felt it meant something.
Cue the theories again.
Was he being metaphorical? Were they all training together? Evaluating someone? Watching a match?
But it was Pablo Cavasoz’s statement that truly stunned everyone.
Because Pablo didn’t do statements.
He was notoriously reclusive, barely maintained a social media presence, and hadn’t spoken publicly outside of match interviews in over a year.
So when a low-quality, clearly front-camera video of Pablo himself sitting in what looked like a private garden surfaced, people froze.
“Let me just say this once,” he said, voice low and serious, accented but deliberate. “it’s not me. We were all together that week. That’s all I’ll say. Please stop tagging me.”
That was when people realized how out of hand it had gotten.
When Pablo Cavasoz had to break his silence? That’s when fans knew this wasn’t just fandom buzz. It was threatening reputations. Fueling headlines. Causing sponsors and clubs to panic.
By the time Adam Blake casually confirmed the same during an English radio interview—
“I love Dada, but nah, I was just on vacation and others as well. Not some secret rival, mate.”
—the football world was already tilting.
Suddenly, there was only one group left in the conversation.
The only place not publicly denying anything.
The only ones silent.
💬 Top Comments under @Leo_Luna10’s post:
@SoccerConspiracy101: “Same boat”??? That’s literally a metaphor for being in the same situation. You slipped up, Luna. 👀
@JLeagueInsider: Blue Lock is in Japan. What if they ALL went there for it??
@Goalpost_Gossip: Luna low-key just confirmed they were doing something together.
@FanTheoriesFR: Not just together… but as in the Blue Lock boat?
📲 Post from @TokyoTurfTalk
> Theories are shifting. It’s not about who Dada met… but where.
Luna’s “same boat” comment + Japan location = fans now convinced the World 5 had ties to the Blue Lock project.
And if that’s true… why the secrecy?
#BlueLock #World5 #FootballMystery
❤️ 33.4k • 💬 9.1k • 🔁 12.6k
The screen dimmed slightly.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
The room was a vacuum of tension — as if even the air was holding its breath.
Isagi stood there, unmoving, his silhouette cast sharp and long under the cold LED lighting. Behind him, Anri remained stood, arms crossed tightly against her chest, her face unreadable. Beside her, Ego was as still as ever — perched in his chair, legs crossed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching.
Watching him.
On the screen behind Isagi, the video replayed on loop — muted now, a silent reel of Dada Silva’s post-match interview. The frame froze briefly on Dada's grin. That too-familiar smirk, all white teeth and relaxed bravado. His expression held nothing. No cruelty. No arrogance. No obvious intent.
And yet, to Isagi — it was everything.
A switch flipped.
It started in his jaw, where tension began to gnaw upward like a spreading fire. A vein bulged at the side of his neck, snaking up toward the sharp edge of his jawline, like a crack forming in armor. His shoulders were tight — muscle-corded and square — his hands clenched into fists so tight that the blunt curve of his nails dug half-moon scars into his palms.
He didn’t move.
But his eyes burned.
They were locked on the screen, laser-focused, filled with something dark and volatile — a rare, barely restrained fury.
Not because Dada Silva had insulted him.
But because he hadn’t.
He hadn't said anything at all.
No name. No hint. No praise. No critique.
Just a loose, empty phrase:
“I want to reach the same level as someone who’s there (Japan)… I have to push myself much harder.”
And then silence.
And yet the entire football world now buzzed like a hive on fire, trying to guess who that “someone” was.
Isagi's throat tightened. His pulse throbbed in his ears, hot and rhythmic.
Because he knew.
He knew exactly what Dada Silva had done.
That bastard hadn’t dropped his name by accident.
He’d avoided it. Deliberately.
He'd weaponized the absence of a name to make it bigger than the name itself. To turn it into buzz. To let the world fill in the blanks for him.
Isagi had seen the tactic before — in post-match interviews, in sports media dream.
It was perception control.
No direct statement.
No responsibility.
No risk.
Just a breadcrumb — vague enough to be harmless, sharp enough to cut.
And the world, like fools, had jumped on it.
“Someone.”
That could mean anyone.
It could be a compliment. It could be a provocation. It could mean nothing.
But Isagi knew it meant everything.
Because Dada Silva wasn’t just talented — he was strategic.
That wasn’t a boy playing football anymore.
That was a man who knew how to manipulate the game on and off the pitch.
And now — every single one of the top-tier pros had jumped into the mess. One by one, they dropped vague statements. Shrugged it off. Denied it.
Even Pablo Cavasoz, who hadn’t posted a single video in over a year, had to publicly say: “It’s not me.”
Even that was orchestrated.
All of it was designed to let the spotlight hang — to give it nowhere to land.
Nowhere but here.
Nowhere but him.
Isagi.
He couldn’t prove it.
But he felt it.
In the marrow of his bones, in the tension behind his eyes, in the ghost of that smirk burned into his retinas.
And worst of all?
It was working.
It made Isagi's skin crawl.
Not because of the attention.
But because he was being used.
This wasn’t recognition. This wasn’t a challenge. This wasn’t rivalry.
It was manipulation.
The way Ego once did to him.
The way he had done to others inside Blue Lock.
Now, someone was using such method — on him.
His fingers twitched, itching for a ball. For boots. For a field. For anything.
He didn’t want to talk.
He wanted to move.
To run.
To break something.
To prove it.
Not with words. Not in statements. Not in interviews.
But on the pitch.
“I should've end him before he said all that nonsense,” Isagi muttered under his breath. His voice was low, controlled, but vibrating with emotion — not literal, but intense enough to crack the air. "Tragic."
Ego, still silent, leaned forward slightly in his chair.
And finally, he spoke.
“…That’s the look I was waiting for.”
Isagi’s eyes snapped to him.
Ego’s lips curved — not into a smile, but something sharper. A knowing twitch, smug and analytical.
“Now,” he said, fingers steepled again. “Let’s have a real talk.”
The dim light of the meeting room was offset only by the pale blue glow of the projection screen at the front. The air was still. No one spoke. Not Anri. Not Ego.
Only the voice of Dada Silva echoed through the room — replaying for the fifth time.
“If I say the name,”
"everyone will look at him. And I haven’t reached that level yet. I’m not ready for that."
“But are you saying this guy is that good?” the reporter asked, incredulous.
“Better than you?”
“For now.”
“….”
The clip ended with that same goddamn smirk.
Just when it seemed like the speculation might settle — when the flood of guesses, blurry photos, and comment wars around Dada Silva’s “someone in Japan” quote began to slow — something unexpected happened.
Or maybe... it wasn’t unexpected at all.
One by one, as if coordinated — or worse, deliberately uncoordinated — the other four players at the center of the rumor mill broke their silence.
But instead of clarifying anything…
They made it worse.
They didn't post official statements, nor give interviews. Instead, they each released short, personal videos — casual, unfiltered, scattered across social media like puzzle pieces — and all within hours of each other.
It felt too perfect. Too timed.
Each one came from a different corner of the world — Paris, Tokyo, Brazil, who knows where else — but the message was the same:
Yes, we know who Dada was talking about. But no, we won’t tell you.
But it wasn’t what they said.
It was how they said it.
🎥 Video Post — @AdamBlakePro
Setting: Filmed from the driver’s seat of his black SUV. Early evening, orange streetlight glow spilling in from outside. Seatbelt hanging loose, window cracked so you can hear faint city noise.
Appearance: Wearing a gray hoodie with the hood halfway up, hair slightly messy, looking like he just finished an intense training session.
Body language: Casual, leaning slightly on the steering wheel. Starts with a small chuckle, like he already knows the questions that are coming.
Transcript:
> “Alright, alright, I’ve been getting DMs non-stop about this.
Yeah, we all met. We know who Dada’s talking about.
No, we’re not gonna say who. Not because it’s some shady secret — it’s just… not our story to tell.
If you’ve been around football long enough, you’d get it.
And honestly? Some things are better left unsaid. This is one of them.”
[leans back, smirks slightly, then reaches to stop the recording]
Caption: “Stop tagging me. 😂”
Top comment: “BRO. YOU JUST MADE IT WORSE 💀”
🎥 Video Post — @JulianLoki
Setting: Minimalist, sleek office with white walls and floor-to-ceiling windows showing a rainy Paris skyline. Camera is perfectly angled on a tripod.
Appearance: Wearing a tailored navy suit, tie loosened just slightly, looking sharp but approachable.
Body language: Calm, professional, almost like a press conference. Hands clasped in front of him on the desk.
Transcript:
> “I’ve seen the speculation.
And yes — I know exactly who Dada meant. We all do.
But if you think you’re going to hear it from me, you’ll be waiting a long time.
Not everything in football needs to be public.
Sometimes, silence is the best answer.”
[pauses for a beat, then smiles faintly] “This is one of those times.”
Caption: “Some things are bigger than the game.”
Top comment: “How do you manage to sound MORE suspicious while denying stuff??”
🎥 Video Post — @Leo_Luna10
Setting: Sunset on a high-rise hotel balcony in Tokyo. City skyline glowing in the background, a soft breeze making his hair shift slightly.
Appearance: White oversized shirt, sleeves rolled, holding a ceramic coffee cup in one hand, phone in the other.
Body language: Relaxed, leaning on the railing. His tone is playful, almost teasing.
Transcript:
> “Yes. We know.
No. I’m not telling.
[grins] Don’t give me that look — I’m being serious here.
If they want you to know, they’ll tell you themselves.
Until then? Keep guessing. Makes the game more fun.”
[winks, takes a slow sip of coffee, then turns the camera off]
Caption: “Patience is an underrated skill 😏☕”
Top comment: “YOU’RE ENJOYING THIS TOO MUCH, LUNA 😭”
🎥 Video Post — @PabloCavasozOficial
Setting: Dimly lit hotel room, only light source is the warm glow from a bedside lamp. Camera held selfie-style, close to his face.
Appearance: Plain black T-shirt, hair damp like he just got out of the shower. Eyes serious, voice low.
Body language: Speaks slowly, deliberately, with occasional sighs.
Transcript:
> “Yeah… I know exactly who Dada was talking about.
We all do.
But this isn’t my story.
And it’s not a scandal, so stop acting like it is.
It’s personal. Which means it’s private. And that’s where I’m leaving it.”
[exhales, ends recording without smiling]
Caption: “Respect the game. Respect the people in it.”
Top comment: “This man gave ZERO clues but somehow made me more curious??”
No names.
No details.
Just vague confirmations that something happened.
And that it’s not for the public to know.
But here’s the thing — by saying so little, and releasing it all at once, they said everything.
To fans and analysts alike, it didn’t feel accidental. It felt orchestrated. Like four players choosing to protect something — or someone — without ever being asked.
And maybe that was the point.
Instead of extinguishing the fire, they poured gasoline on it. Willingly. Almost eagerly. As if they wanted the world to keep asking:
Who did Dada Silva meet in Japan?
What happened between those five players?
And what does Blue Lock have to do with any of this?
🌐 Fictional Social Media Chaos – Theories Explode
When the old theories of football prodigies first emerged, they sparked a journey that ultimately led to the discovery of the ideal striker for Japan’s future: the perfect blend of talent, mentality, and drive. These early theories focused on finding a striker who could combine raw genius with a hunger for greatness—someone who would rise above the competition and lead Japan to victory on the world stage.
As Blue Lock evolved, this search grew more focused. The question shifted from just who could embody this ideal, to where they could be found. This mission to discover the next great talent brought attention to players who had a certain "X-factor"—those who seemed to possess an innate potential beyond training alone. And soon, attention turned to Rin Itoshi.
Why Rin Itoshi?
Rin Itoshi quickly became the most logical candidate, and the connection to the theories was clear. Rin was the younger brother of Sae Itoshi, a football prodigy whose success had made him one of Japan’s most renowned players. Sae’s brilliance set an almost unreachable standard, one that had placed immense pressure on Rin. In the eyes of many, Rin was expected to follow in his brother’s footsteps—and ultimately, surpass him.
But beyond the family legacy, Rin exhibited the qualities that fit the evolving theories perfectly. He had an unmatched level of skill, a cold determination, and a desire to prove himself as more than just Sae’s little brother. His mindset, ruthlessness, and talent made him a perfect candidate for the ultimate striker Japan needed.
The Logical Conclusion
In the context of Blue Lock, the mission to identify the ideal striker evolved to include players who could embody these theories and theories alone. Rin Itoshi, with his relentless drive and connection to the Itoshi legacy, became the person everyone was looking for.
Though theories around what makes a world-class player had been discussed for ages—mixing old and new ideas—it was Rin who fit the mold. His skills weren’t just a result of hard work but a combination of genetic talent, ambition, and the pressure of living up to his brother’s reputation.
The moment the connection was made, it seemed almost inevitable that Rin was the "person" they had all been searching for. Theories, old and new, pointed directly to him.
Platform Mix: X (Twitter), Instagram Stories, Reddit threads, TikTok edits.
💬 Reddit Thread — r/FootballConspiracy
Post Title: Who's the Mystery Player in Blue Lock? 👀
User: @FootballFan23
Posted: 1 hour ago
Hey, so who do you think is the ultimate player they’re talking about in Blue Lock? I mean, we’ve seen some wild talent so far, but there’s gotta be someone who stands out, right?
First Comment: @soccer_lover87
10 mins ago
Lol, anyone else remember how many players got eliminated already? Like, Kuan was crazy good, but he’s out.🤔
Likes: 58 | Share: 3
Second Comment: @KageyamaFan_12
5 mins ago
I think you guys are missing the obvious. If we're talking about someone who could really change the game, look no further than Rin Itoshi. You guys know Sae Itoshi, right? The world-renowned prodigy? Well, Rin's his little brother. Dude’s definitely got the same bloodline. 🤯
Likes: 134 | Share: 17
Third Comment: @SamuraiSoccer
1 min ago
Wait, Rin? The kid from the Itoshi family? 😳 That would make sense though. Sae is basically a household name now. If anyone’s got a chance of being the next big thing, it’s probably him. 🔥
Likes: 82 | Share: 5
Fourth Comment: @GoatedFootball
Just now
I don't know about Rin. You guys should also think about Kira Ryousuke. He’s basically the current gem of Japan. His work with the national team has been insane, and now he’s in Blue Lock? That’s big. 👀
Likes: 98 | Share: 10
Reply to @GoatedFootball: @soccer_lover87
5 seconds ago
Oh, true! Kira’s insane too. But I still feel like Rin has a higher ceiling with his bloodline and mentality. It’s all about that “Itoshi” pressure. I wouldn't be surprised if he's the one they’ve been talking about all this time. 💯
Likes: 45 | Share: 2
Reply to @soccer_lover87: @FutbolMaster19
4 seconds ago
Yeah, the Itoshi family name does add a lot of weight to Rin's potential. Sae's been on the world stage forever, so it’s obvious that Rin could be expected to be just as good, if not better. I mean, if Rin doesn't make it, who does? 🤷♂️
Likes: 76 | Share: 8
Comment: @TheSoccerGuru
1 min ago
I love how everyone's already banking on Rin. But hey, let’s not forget that Blue Lock is full of surprises. Could there be someone else waiting to blow us all away? Who knows what they’ve got in store… 🤨
Likes: 102 | Share: 6
Reply to @TheSoccerGuru: @soccer_lover87
2 seconds ago
True, anything can happen. But Rin has everything in his favor: insane talent, the Itoshi name, and the hunger to surpass his brother. It’s hard to bet against him. 🔥🔥
Likes: 63 | Share: 4
Comment: @FootballFan23
3 mins ago
Alright, so everyone’s leaning toward Rin Itoshi, huh? 🤔 His legacy does put a lot of expectations on him. Do you think he’ll actually live up to the hype? Or will the pressure break him? #BlueLockMystery #TeamRin
Likes: 118 | Share: 10
Reply to @FootballFan23: @KageyamaFan_12
1 min ago
I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if Rin crushes it. But you never know—pressure can either make or break you. This is Blue Lock we’re talking about. 🤷♀️
Likes: 92 | Share: 7
Reply to @FootballFan23: @GoatedFootball
Just now
Honestly, I think Rin Itoshi has all the tools to become the next great striker for Japan. But what if Kira or someone unexpected pulls through instead? Let’s just say, Blue Lock loves plot twists. 😂
Likes: 74 | Share: 9
Comment: @FutbolMaster19
3 mins ago
Okay, but it’s literally written in the stars. Rin Itoshi is going to be the one. I can already imagine it—Sae Itoshi’s little brother becoming the face of Japanese football. The pressure is on, but if anyone can handle it, it’s him. ✨
Likes: 145 | Share: 14
Reply to @FutbolMaster19: @soccer_lover87
1 min ago
It’s a Rin takeover, baby! 💪
Likes: 62 | Share: 3
Post reaches 1k likes, 350 shares.
Comments still flooding in with more theories and names being thrown out, but the conversation has clearly turned to Rin Itoshi as the potential future legend.
If the social media world wasn’t already in a state of frenzy, filled with endless theories and debates, things had just about settled into their usual rhythm. But then, out of nowhere, Adam Blake dropped a bombshell. His statement wasn’t just a rumor—it was official.
He wanted to have a friendly match.
His team, against Blue Lock.
Notes:
* When I reread the manga, I noticed that inside blue lock building, they have fields that lets the sun down. like not an outdoor football field but indoor yet still give sunlight?? despite the fact that beside that, they still locked inside??
ahem,
Hii, I'm alive!
I'm guilty for not posting any chapters. I don't know some of you were waiting for months. Like, please, why you hafta wait.
There's lot happening to me.
To the point that I forgot the whole ten chapter. Merely remember notes, backstory, and plots.
But I'm sure not wanna reading all back,
I just knew it was cringe,
So if there was seemingly plot hole or anything different with the characters personality, please understand that I'm trying my best.
And it was all rush, cause I literally make this all in two days, additional with one for editing. I hope you all the best.
*She then began to shrink to the point she disappear
Chapter Text
[OFFICIAL VIDEO STATEMENT — ADAM BLAKE | FRIENDLY MATCH REQUEST]
[Scene opens with a slow fade-in. The frame is steady and wide, focused on a well-lit, modern office inside a luxurious hotel suite at the center of Tokyo, Japan.]
The room is sleek and minimalistic — smooth stone-gray walls with sharp black trims, and a large glass window behind the seated man that overlooks the sprawling Tokyo skyline, glowing against the dusk sky. City lights flicker like stars behind him.
A polished wooden desk sits in front of the camera. The man at the center of the frame is composed, tall, broad-shouldered, and carries himself with calm confidence.
Adam Blake, 26, with short-cropped dirty blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and a clean-shaven jawline, sits upright in a crisp, tailored navy blazer over a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar for a slightly relaxed appearance. On his wrist — a subtle leather watch. On the table — a simple glass of water and a neatly folded note card, untouched.
The camera slowly zooms in as he begins to speak — his tone measured, clear, and deliberate.
ADAM BLAKE (Speaking directly to the camera):
“Good evening.
My name is Adam Blake. I speak to you tonight not just as a professional footballer, but as the current acting leader of our reserve squad currently stationed here in Japan for a series of friendly matches.
Before I continue, I want to make it very clear — everything I’m about to say has been discussed thoroughly and unanimously supported by my team. My fellow players, the coaching staff, and our management — they’ve all trusted me to be the voice of this message.”
[Camera shifts to a slightly tighter frame. Adam leans forward just slightly, his hands now clasped lightly in front of him on the desk.]
“It’s been an honour to lead this group while in Japan — a team made up of players pushing themselves to earn their place, players with heart and hunger. And it’s with that same spirit that I want to make a bold request, publicly and respectfully.
On behalf of myself and our reserve squad — I would like to formally request a friendly match… against the players of Blue Lock.”
[A pause. His expression is steady, respectful, but firm.]
“We are fully aware of the unique nature of Blue Lock. We understand the project’s controversial status in the public eye — its methods, its goals, the pressure placed on those young athletes. It’s not something we take lightly.
But that’s precisely why we want this match.
I’ve watched them. We all have(other world five beside him). The talent in that program is undeniable. It’s raw. It’s unconventional. It’s disruptive — and that’s what football needs, doesn’t it? Something unpredictable. Something new.”
[He leans back slightly, gaze unwavering, voice steady.]
“Earlier this week, I spoke to our coaching staff. I spoke to our manager. And I spoke to every one of our players. There was no hesitation — the answer was yes. If the opportunity is given, we are ready.
This isn’t about media attention. This isn’t about making headlines. It’s about competition — real, meaningful competition — between two sides that both have something to prove.”
[The camera slowly pans just a little wider, letting the city behind him take shape again as he begins to close.]
“So, to the leadership of Blue Lock — and to the players within it — we extend our hand, respectfully.
Let's do what we do best. Let’s play. Let’s push each other. Let’s test the limits of what football can be.
We’re ready when you are.”
[Adam gives a respectful nod. There’s no smile — only sincerity. He holds the gaze of the camera a moment longer before the screen begins to slowly fade to black.]
[TEXT ON SCREEN: “Awaiting your response. – Adam Blake & the Reserve Squad”]
[END OF VIDEO]
The phone screen went black with a soft click, swallowed by silence and the low buzz of the locker room lights.
For a beat, no one said anything — as if the room itself had to process what had just been watched. Then, a voice broke the stillness, laced with a thin layer of disbelief and amusement.
“You really went to lengths... making an official statement by yourself.”
Kieran Holt, 19 years old, the team's central midfielder, looked up from the phone resting in his palm. Sweat clung to his collarbone, shirt already peeled halfway off his torso after the afternoon training session. His sharp gray eyes followed the movement near the far end of the locker room, where steam still trailed faintly from the showers.
From the tiled hall that led to the baths, Adam Blake emerged — hair damp, towel slung low on his hips, a smaller one lazily resting around his neck. A faint sheen of water clung to his chest and shoulders, as though he hadn’t fully bothered drying off. His steps were unhurried, calm — and behind him, the soft echo of water dripping on tile faded into the background noise of rustling fabric and opened lockers.
He didn’t answer Kieran. Just strolled past, grabbed a cold bottle from the mini-fridge, cracked the seal, and took a slow drink.
That alone was answer enough.
Across the bench, another teammate let out a soft, thoughtful hum.
Jules Renner, the 18-year-old left winger with an unreadable gaze, leaned back against the locker, arms loosely crossed. His dark curls were still wet, shirtless, towel draped across his shoulder as he watched Adam without comment. His silence spoke volumes — a quiet sort of curiosity hidden beneath a practiced indifference.
It was Liam Sato who broke the quiet next, halfway through tugging on his training top. The 20-year-old right-back had been watching the same video from across the locker room. His brows furrowed, like he was still trying to wrap his head around what he’d just seen.
“Wait. That was real?” he asked, voice bordering on incredulous. “You seriously want to challenge… Blue Lock?”
He said the name slowly, like he wasn’t sure how to pronounce it — or whether it deserved to be taken seriously. The way he looked around the room afterward suggested he’d only recently learned what the Blue Lock project even was.
Adam didn’t even look up.
“I already asked the manager,” he said flatly. “And the coach. They agreed.”
Liam blinked, mouth opening like he wanted to ask how, then closing again. Everyone knew Adam didn’t need to pull strings — he was the string. When he asked for something, most people simply moved.
Jules hummed again, a quiet noise low in his throat, like a cat watching something mildly interesting. But he didn’t ask any questions. He understood too well how things worked at that level.
From the opposite side of the bench, Tyrese Madden, 21 and the injured-now currently backup striker with shoulders like a tank and a personality like a running commentary channel, flung his training shirt aside and leaned forward.
“Could’ve picked the U-20 Japan team,” he said, tossing a towel around his neck. “Or the senior squad, even. You know, actual professionals.”
Adam paused, the bottle halfway to his lips. His eyes flicked over to Tyrese — calm, unreadable, and then a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Blue Lock is more interesting.”
Tyrese raised a brow. “How is that more interesting?”
Adam shrugged, took another drink, then answered almost absently — like it was an obvious fact.
“There’s one of them that caught my eye.”
That earned a reaction.
Kieran sat up straighter. Liam leaned around the bench. Jules didn’t move, but his gaze sharpened slightly.
“You’ve been watching them?” Kieran asked, tone neutral but edged with surprise.
Adam didn’t answer that directly. Instead, he dropped into the seat beside his locker, finally beginning to dry his hair with the towel draped around his neck. Casual. Effortless. Like challenging Blue Lock — the most controversial, explosive youth program Japan had ever created — was just another item on his to-do list.
“If they refuse,” he said, voice quiet, but steady, “social media’ll tear into them.”
“People want to see it now. We made it public. Pressure’s on.”
He glanced up then, eyes meeting Kieran’s, then Jules’. Not a challenge — just the calm certainty of someone who already knew the outcome.
“They’ll have to answer.”
The locker room fell into a kind of thoughtful quiet. No more jokes.
Just the sound of cleats being packed into bags, jerseys rustling, and the distant, growing buzz of something bigger already beginning outside these walls.
The storm Adam Blake had just unleashed was already on its way.
And Blue Lock would have no choice but to face it.
The hum of the locker room settled into a lull again, tension hanging faintly in the air — not aggressive, not hostile… but uncertain. Heavy. Loaded with the kind of weight that came when Adam Blake said something, then didn't follow up right away.
Kieran stared across the space at him, eyes narrowed in thought, one hand still frozen mid-air, still wrapped around his phone from tossing into his bag. His voice cut back in, low but pointed.
“So who is it?”
Adam didn’t immediately respond. He was toweling off his hair now, unrushed, as if the question had no urgency — as if the entire weight of the squad’s attention wasn't now locked on him.
Tyrese shifted where he sat, resting his forearms on his knees, shirt clinging to his back from the leftover heat of training.
“Seriously, though. You’ve never pulled strings like this before. Dropping a public statement video? Framing it like a formal callout?”
“You went power play level, Blake. We can’t exactly pretend that wasn’t calculated.”
He didn’t say the word manipulation, but it hung there, unspoken in the space between them. None of them were stupid enough to say it out loud. Not when the man in question was sitting just a few feet away.
Adam, for all his silence, knew what he'd done. The video, the timing, the tone — it had been a loaded move. Blue Lock would be backed into a corner now. If they refused, the media would call them cowards. If they accepted, they’d be playing Adam Blake’s game on his terms.
After all, Adam Blake wasn’t just anyone. He was the current lead figure-temporary, under the order of the manager and the primary (first) team coach who personally requested him-in the Reserve Team—a respected name in European football circles, a future captain in the making. And more than that, he was observant. Keen. Dangerous, in his own quiet way.
And they — the reserve team — hadn’t even known about it until he told them to “watch something real quick.”
He then had dropped that video link into the group chat like a casual suggestion.
No context. No explanation. No warning.
One by one, the players had watched it, first with confusion, then dawning curiosity… and then, alarm.
They weren’t even sure when they agreed to a match. Or if they had.
...Though, deep down, each of them knew the answer.
If Adam had asked them before the video? They would’ve said yes. Even if they didn't want to. Not because they were afraid — but because his word held weight. The kind of weight that didn’t need permission. And they still value their position even as the reserve team members.
...It wasn't like Adam would do something reckless. He wasn’t that kind of leader.
Still. Better safe than sorry.
Jules leaned against the back wall, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed on Adam with open curiosity now. Even he — normally unreadable, almost cold in how little he reacted to anything — was intrigued. The energy in the room had changed.
Adam finally looked up. And he was smiling.
But it wasn’t a smile to reassure. It wasn’t humor.
It was a bomb.
“I’m not just challenging Blue Lock,” Adam said calmly.
“I’m trying to recruit someone.”
Silence slammed into the room like a second heartbeat.
Tyrese physically leaned back, blinking. Liam’s mouth parted. Kieran just stared. Even Jules lifted his head a fraction, lips slightly parted — a flicker of genuine shock breaking through his normally stoic mask.
Adam Blake — professional, elite-tier, icy-blooded Adam — wanted to recruit a Blue Lock player?
That wasn’t interest. That was obsession.
“You’re serious?” Kieran finally said, tone flat but shaken.
Adam nodded once.
“Dead,” Adam said.
Darnell-the youngest-let out a choked noise of disbelief as he leaned forward, his elbows slowly resting on his knees, fingers laced. His brow was then furrowed in thought. “That’s a bomb,” he murmured.
“No,” Tyrese corrected, eyes wide, “that’s a nuke.”
Adam huffed at their dramatic.
“He’s got something I haven’t seen in a long time.” He said, simple.
“If this guy’s that good,” Jules said softly, “shouldn’t he already be playing at pro level? With a contract?”
Adam’s eyes narrowed just slightly. Not in annoyance — but interest. As if he was glad someone asked.
“That’s the point. For some reason he wasn't. What he needs is the stage. One game — just one. And I guarantee you…”
“If he plays, there’ll be a lot of people reevaluating their rankings.”
Tyrese gave a low whistle, sitting back against the bench again.
“Man. If that’s true, I hope he doesn't disappoints you. I don’t know what it means if Blue Lock’s producing people like that.”
Adam didn’t even blink.
“He won’t.”
“You’re that sure?”
Adam twisted the cap back on his bottle, and the sound echoed like a seal being broken.
“I’ve seen how he plays. You don’t prep for someone like him. You read him. In real time. Or you lose.”
For a moment, no one said anything.
A few of them shifted uncomfortably. They were pros, or near it—future stars in the making. But the idea that some unknown from Blue Lock could embarrass them?
Then Kieran tilted his head slowly, one brow rising, gears turning visibly behind his eyes.
“Is it Rin Itoshi?”
The name hung in the air like a knife.
Adam didn’t react.
Kieran sat back on his heels, shaking his head slightly.
“There’s rumors going around. Ever since that Japan's Superstar of Sae Itoshi exhibition. Now should be Sae’s little brother. Cold on the field. Has that ‘killer instinct.’ Talent stacked right in his bloodline.”
Liam muttered from behind his locker door.
“Well, blood’s blood. Genius probably runs in that family.”
Kieran gave a soft laugh — bitter, self-aware.
“I mean, I play midfield and even I know Sae’s in a different universe. I’m still trying to figure out how he sees the game like that.”
“Sae’s unreachable. And if his brother’s half as good…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
But Adam finally broke the silence again.
“It’s not him.”
That shut them up again.
Adam’s voice stayed low, steady.
“Sae is this generation’s midfield star. That much is obvious.”
“And Rin has the talent to follow him. He’s on the track to be the next. Maybe even surpass him eventually.”
“But not now. Not yet.”
Jules frowned, barely perceptible.
“Then who…?”
Adam leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his towel draped around his shoulders like a cape.
“Blood might run thicker than water,” he said, voice slow, careful, “but would it be wise if the owner was more… wise?”
The phrasing sent a visible chill down a few spines.
Even Kieran blinked.
Tyrese exhaled a slow breath.
Adam didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.
There was someone else. Not someone who’d inherited talent — but someone who owned it. Who shaped it with their own hands.
Someone Adam Blake — the Adam Blake — thought was worth playing this kind of game for.
Someone in Blue Lock.
And now, the team would have to play that match not just to win — but to see who exactly had caught Adam’s eye so deeply that he’d pull the strings himself.
They didn’t know who it was.
But they would soon.
And when they did?
It might already be too late.
The air had grown taut — stretched and vibrating, like a string seconds from snapping. Speculation hung over the reserve squad like steam still rising from the showers, clinging to the backs of necks and settling into the pit of their stomachs.
No one said anything more.
No one dared.
Whatever Adam Blake had planned, it was already in motion. Whatever name he hadn’t yet spoken, whoever had caught his attention so completely — it was real. Tangible. No longer rumor or guesswork. Just a storm waiting to make landfall.
That rising tension was broken — or perhaps contained — by the quiet sound of the locker room door clicking open.
Their coach stepped inside.
Marcus Deneil, mid-forties, lean but square-shouldered, with the look of a man who’d played long enough to know when to stay silent and when to step in. He wore a simple navy tracksuit with the club's crest stitched neatly on the chest. His arms were crossed over a digital tablet, head tilted, expression unreadable.
If he noticed the strange atmosphere — the hushed voices, the subtle stiffness in posture, the way every player was suddenly alert — he didn’t comment on it.
“Since you all look like you're finished,” he began dryly, eyes scanning the group with faint amusement, “I figured I’d give the heads-up before you get caught off guard out there.”
Every player turned, some subtly straightening, others pulling shirts over their heads or bending to zip open bags.
“The transport bus is already outside,” Coach Deneil continued. “Waiting out front.”
He uncrossed one arm to tap the screen of the tablet in his hand, glancing briefly at it before speaking again.
“PR just sent a heads-up. There are paparazzi. A few reporters too. Probably more than usual.”
“So unless you want to end up in a headline before dinner, keep your heads down.”
Everyone nodded — some with quiet resignation, others with the practiced calm of athletes who knew this part of the job came with the territory.
Jules pulled on his jacket wordlessly. Kieran made a face like he’d just bitten into a lemon, but said nothing. Tyrese muttered something under his breath about vultures but started packing his kit into his bag anyway.
Adam didn’t react at all.
He stood with calm efficiency, slipping into his tracksuit, towel finally tossed aside. His movements were smooth, practiced, like someone going through motions he’d done a thousand times — yet each one still carried weight. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to.
And when he finally lifted his bag over one shoulder and headed toward the exit, the rest began to follow — almost automatically, like iron filings drawn toward a magnetic field.
The doors to the private Tokyo stadium facility hissed open as the team stepped into the late evening light.
Immediately, the hush of the locker room was replaced by noise — flashes, camera shutters, distant shouting from behind the cordon. There were fences, and beyond them, a cluster of journalists, cameras slung across shoulders, microphones held high in expectation.
The warm glow of the setting sun backlit the skyline, painting the polished pavement gold. Their branded transport bus waited by the curb, engine humming, team staff nearby in earpieces, forming a light barrier. But it wasn’t enough.
The moment Adam stepped into view, the atmosphere shifted — like the air caught its breath.
“Adam! Over here! What made you call out Blue Lock?”
“Blake! Is this a statement against the JFA?”
“Is this personal? Is it Rin Itoshi?”
“What does your club think of this move?”
“Do you think Blue Lock has the level to match you and your team?”
The flood of questions came like a wave — not shouted aggressively, but sharp, hungry. Reporters jockeyed for position, cameras snapped constantly. One bold journalist even leaned slightly over the guard rail, mic extended.
Adam didn’t flinch.
He didn’t look at them.
Didn’t slow his pace.
Just kept walking.
The other players instinctively formed up around him — not guarding him, not shielding — but following. A quiet solidarity. A protective shell by mere presence.
Tyrese shoved his hands into his pockets, muttering, “They’re like wolves.”
Kieran glanced sideways at Adam, then at the cameras.
“Told you,” he murmured. “Power play.”
Jules said nothing. But he kept close.
Adam’s eyes stayed forward. Focused. He walked as though the noise didn’t exist — as though the only thing that mattered was the bus a few feet away.
There was a strange kind of stillness in him. A controlled storm. Not born of arrogance… but certainty. As if everything happening around him — the questions, the pressure, the reactions — were things he had accounted for long before any of them had even seen the video.
He reached the bus first. The doors hissed open. He stepped inside without a single backward glance.
One by one, the team followed.
Kieran paused at the top of the steps, giving the crowd a quick glance — a strange, contemplative look in his eyes — then disappeared into the vehicle.
Jules was last, casting a final look back at the stadium, then at the press line. His brows furrowed slightly. Then he followed.
The doors closed with a hiss.
The reporters kept shouting.
But the bus pulled away smoothly, gliding into Tokyo traffic under the amber sky.
Inside the bus, no one spoke — at least not yet. Bags were stowed. Jackets tugged off. The faint hum of the air conditioning kicked in.
And at the front row, Adam sat quietly, one arm resting on the edge of the window, his gaze turned outward — not to the buildings rushing by, but to something further.
Something ahead.
Something waiting.
There was something off about the air today.
Anri was quiet, chairs surrounding the conference table in the dimly lit Blue Lock meeting room. The blinds were pulled down, the gray light filtering in through the slits casting cold stripes across the polished floor. The walls, usually clinical in their silence, felt like they were listening. Watching.
She’d known Isagi Yoichi for less than a month—barely even a few weeks. And in that time, she had come to recognize the typical colors of his emotional palette. Through countless camera feeds in Blue Lock—studied every play, every reaction, every post-training and in-training the others-expression, even face-to-face. He was always intense, yes, but his expressions were rarely this visceral. When irritated, it came out as sharp words or a frustrated exhale. When calm, it was a calmness that almost felt... artificial. Something rehearsed.
And sometimes, those calmness always felt stretched too tightly, like glass threatening to crack. But this? This was something else. Something raw.
She’d watched his expressions before, mostly through the sterile detachment of security cameras or footage clips. The young striker always had a furrow between his brows, a certain tension in his jaw, as if his mind never quite rested. But now, sitting just across from him, she saw the difference.
Isagi was standing—had been for a while now, having pushed himself up from the chair like the weight of sitting had become unbearable. His posture was rigid, not from discipline, but from something far more dangerous: fury. Controlled, yes. But barely. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful, like he was grinding his molars down to dust. The muscles along his neck twitched and tensed with every breath he took.
She couldn’t see his eyes—his bangs cast a shadow over them—but somehow that made it worse. The mystery of it. The threat.
The silence in the room was unbearable. It wasn’t the absence of sound; it was the presence of pressure. Heavy. Dense. Like something had cracked in him, and now the room had to bear the weight of it.
It made sense, though. She could understand why.
The past week had been a spiral.
First, Dada Silva’s post-match interview went viral. That alone had been enough to start a wildfire on social media. But then came the domino effect: more statements, more commentary from other four professional players. Some subtle, some not. But all circling the same unspoken narrative-like wolves testing a fence.
And now… this.
An official request for a friendly match. Not against a club team, not even against Japan's U-20 or senior national team. No—against the England Reserve Team. Led by none other than Adam Blake, one of the starting eleven for England’s full national squad.
The request didn’t make any sense to Anri. That team had already played several friendlies in Japan against junior teams. Why challenge Blue Lock now?
She’d looked over at Ego, hoping for some kind of logical explanation. But the man had been unusually quiet, his arms crossed, gaze boring into Isagi like he was trying to see through him.
Then Ego finally broke the silence. His voice came sharp, deliberate. "The Chairman of the Japanese Pro Union—Japan Football Union," he clarified, "has requested a meeting."
Anri frowned, turning to him sharply.
“What does that have to do with Isagi?” she thought, eyes flickered with disbelief. “He’s already got enough to think about. The up-coming U-20 match, the players, the training—why drag him into politics now?”
Ego didn’t respond to the direct disbelief gaze. He didn't even looks at her ways, before continuing like she hadn’t given a hint through her gaze at all.
“The chairman is waiting in the next room.”
That was when it happened.
Something shifted in the room, around Isagi.
He didn’t explode. He didn’t shout or throw anything. He didn’t punch a wall or curse the sky. No. He simply straightened—slowly—and something about the way he did it made Anri's skin prickle.
There was an edge to his silhouette now. Like a blade being drawn.
He didn't say anything at first. Not to her. Not to Ego. Just turned toward the automatic door.
"Let me join."
His voice was low. Not loud. Not dramatic. But heavy—like it carried gravity of its own.
And before either of them could react, he was already walking.
The door hissed open in response to his presence, parting like the world itself had decided to get out of his way. His footsteps echoed as he disappeared into the hallway without so much as a backward glance.
Anri blinked. The room felt colder now.
For a second, she just sat there, unsure whether to call after him, to stop him, to tell him to think twice. But there was no point.
He had already decided.
Ego stood, nonchalant, and followed.
Anri hesitated only a moment longer before pushing herself up and trailing after them both—her heels clicking softly behind them.
There was no turning back now. The match, the politics, the insults—all of it was coming to a head.
But the moment Anri stepped into the adjoining meeting room, the energy shifted again—this time sharper. Heavier. Like the air had thickened.
Not with heat or humidity, but pressure. The invisible kind. The kind that sank into your chest and made it harder to breathe.
The automatic doors slid open with a sterile hiss behind her, and suddenly the sterile quiet of the hallway was a distant memory. This room had a pulse.
And at the heart of it sat Hirotoshi Buratsuta.
Chairman of the Japan Pro Football Union.
A man who—by reputation, by sheer force of ego—usually commanded a room before he even spoke. A habitual smirker. A man who viewed apologies as currency he didn’t believe in. He wore expensive suits like they were armor, and walked like the floor owed him something.
Now?
He looked like a man staring down his own obituary.
Buratsuta was already seated at the head of the long, dark conference table—a monolith of polished wood that stretched nearly wall to wall. He didn’t rise. He didn’t even blink. His back was ramrod straight, but not with confidence. More like rigor mortis. His fingers, always expressive in conversation, were locked together in a rigid steeple, knuckles white.
His eyes—small, beady things usually flickering with disapproval—were locked forward. Not darting. Not scanning. Just fixed.
The trademark smugness was gone. The dry condescension. That ever-present sense that everyone around him was wasting his time unless they could offer something politically useful—gone.
In its place? Something raw. Something close to fear.
No. Not close. It was fear.
Anri felt her pulse catch in her throat. She blinked, almost involuntarily, and followed his line of sight.
And then she saw him.
Isagi.
The young striker stood silently at the other end of the table—upright. Impossibly upright.
His spine pulled taut like a wire under tension, shoulders squared to an unnatural degree.
Not stiff—but precise.
Every inch of him was controlled. Calculated. Deliberate. A curated presence, not a casual one.
It wasn’t just his posture—it was his stillness.
A stillness that didn’t read as hesitation or fear, but something colder. Executed. Intentional.
Like he wasn’t just standing—he was presenting.
And if Anri had been just a little more attuned—just a little less swallowed by the tension that pressed against her skin like static—
She might’ve caught it.
The flicker.
The subtle drop of Ego Jinpachi’s shoulders.
Not a slump. Not relaxation. But… relinquishment.
His arms fell to his sides, looser than usual. His expression—never casual—was no longer curious.
It was alert. Watchful. As if even he had registered something that didn’t fit his own mental blueprints.
But all of it—the posture, the atmosphere, Ego’s shift—was eclipsed the moment Isagi moved.
He smiled.
Not the feral, lopsided grin of a striker who offended towards Ego for merely existence.
No.
Anri had never seen him smile like this.
Not in footage. Not in person. Not even once.
This smile didn’t reach his cheeks.
It barely touched the corners of his lips.
A clean, deliberate curve—surgical in its restraint. A tactical smile.
The kind of smile you'd see in a high-rise negotiation room thirty stories above Tokyo, where every word is worth millions, and every gesture is laced with unspoken threat.
“Thank you for your patience,” Isagi said.
His voice was smooth. Low. Measured.
It didn’t belong to him.
Or at least, not the him they knew.
It wasn’t youthful.
It wasn’t raw.
It wasn’t even trying to sound like a player speaking to a superior.
It was too calm.
Too polished.
Too… manufactured.
As if the words had been crafted—not for truth, but for effect.
“I hope you didn’t have to wait long, Hirotoshi Buratsuta.”
He said the man’s full name like a handshake laced with poison.
Buratsuta—Chairman Hirotoshi Buratsuta—reacted like he’d just been caught in the crosshairs of a sniper.
It wasn’t a flinch. It was a full-body jolt, a startle so sudden it seemed to momentarily sever his connection to reality. His hands twitched, shoulders tensed, and then, as if remembering he had a body to control, he lurched upright. The chair beneath him scraped back across the polished floor with an ugly, high-pitched screech, drawing everyone's attention like a slap. For a man who built his reputation on being unshakable—impenetrable—this wasn’t just uncharacteristic. It was damning.
He moved quickly. Too quickly.
Buratsuta’s bulk shifted in hurried, graceless steps around the edge of the table, the hem of his suit jacket flaring awkwardly with each motion. His tie was slightly askew, and he reached up to adjust it out of habit—then aborted the motion halfway, fingers curling into a tense half-fist before dropping. His face contorted into what might have passed, under different circumstances, for a smile. But the strain was visible. The muscles at the corners of his mouth trembled with effort, his eyes darting too quickly between Isagi’s face and the floor in front of him. He looked like a man who wasn’t smiling because he wanted to, but because his survival depended on it.
“N-No, not at all,” he said, voice hitching slightly before regaining its rhythm.
The words stumbled out as if tripping over his pride. And then—almost laughably—he extended his hand.
First.
Anri froze.
Mid-step, mid-thought, mid-breath—she stopped moving entirely, as if the very rules of the world had just tilted sideways.
Buratsuta.
The man who had stood at that podium—sleek, smug, and untouchable—not even two months ago, dismissing Blue Lock with a smile that barely concealed his contempt.
She remembered every syllable. “Japan lacks any real firepower to ever win a World Cup.” His tone had been final, like a judge slamming the gavel.
“Blue Lock is a publicity stunt. These kids are just chasing dreams that don’t exist.”
And now?
Here he was.
Cowering.
Not overtly. Not groveling. But the submission was there—in every tight movement, every choice he’d made in those few seconds.
He had stood first.
He had hurried.
He had offered his hand.
To an eighteen-year-old.
To Isagi Yoichi.
And it wasn’t respect. Not really.
It was fear—disguised as respect.
But Isagi didn’t move.
He didn’t step forward.
He didn’t extend a hand of his own.
He didn’t smile wider or lean in or offer any signal of warmth.
He just stood there—perfectly still—his expression frozen in that same razor-thin, impossible-to-read smile. His eyes, calm and clear, dropped to the chairman’s outstretched hand not with recognition, but with faint detachment. As if someone had thrown a token at his feet—one that he was under no obligation to pick up. There was no flicker of appreciation. No urgency to return the gesture. No validation granted.
And then, just as Buratsuta opened his mouth—voice laced with that false, performative warmth:
“I wasn’t expecting to meet Yoichi—”
Isagi stepped forward.
One step. Controlled.
No hesitation, no rush.
His hand lifted—not with eagerness, but precision—and clasped Buratsuta’s.
Not gently.
There was no softness in the contact. No handshake etiquette. His grip was firm. Just on the edge of confrontational. The kind of grip that didn't say "nice to meet you."
It said: I'm not who you think I am anymore.
“Better me than someone else, right, Mr. Chairman?”
The line was delivered smoothly—his tone level, cool, professional.
But that was the problem.
It was too smooth.
Every syllable landed like a pebble dropped in still water—quiet, but undeniably intentional.
There was no warmth behind the words. Only temperature control.
The phrase was polite, sure. But beneath the surface:
Irony.
Accusation.
A warning wrapped in silk.
And the smallest flicker of reprimand at the word “Yoichi.”
Buratsuta flinched.
Barely—a twitch at the corner of his eye, a muscle in his jaw tightening—but it was there. His smile faltered, just for a breath, as if the words had burned going down. His lips curled slightly, betraying the acid behind his forced civility. And then—
“Yes… ha… quite right.”
A hollow chuckle escaped him—more reflex than humor. The kind of laugh people made when they’d just been outmaneuvered but couldn’t admit it. It bounced awkwardly off the walls, filling the silence like static.
Then, grasping for control, he turned abruptly and motioned toward the chair nearest his own—too quickly, too eager to pivot away from the moment.
“Please, Isagi-kun—have a seat.”
The honorific landed like an afterthought. A thin attempt at balancing respect and superiority, but the effort was shaky. Almost irrelevant. The power balance had already shifted. The formality of "kun" did nothing to reassert control. If anything, it only highlighted how much he’d lost it.
Anri didn’t sit. Neither did Ego.
They stood off to the side, silent, almost peripheral now.
Spectators.
Because the chairman—Hirotoshi Buratsuta, once the unshakable mouthpiece of Japanese football bureaucracy—had eyes for only one person in the room.
Not the federation.
Not the program he’d called a “failure.”
Not the architect of Blue Lock himself.
Just Isagi.
Isagi took the offered seat with a kind of wordless precision that made even the act of sitting feel like a statement.
No sound escaped from the chair legs as he moved—just the soft shift of fabric, the controlled exhale of breath as he lowered himself into the seat. His posture remained impeccable, hands resting loosely on his thighs, fingers relaxed but ready, the very image of calm attention. Yet nothing about him was casual. There was a discipline to his stillness, as though even gravity needed his permission to pull him downward. He didn’t glance at the chairman. He didn’t shift his weight or adjust his collar or clear his throat. He simply was. A presence. Solid, unreadable, and unbothered. If he felt tension in the air, he gave it nowhere to land.
Buratsuta straightened his suit jacket with the self-conscious twitch of a man desperate to reestablish formality—and control—and launched into his pitch with the brittle grace of someone walking across thin ice.
“So… this request from the English Reserve Team,” he began, his tone almost too even, like each word had been pre-selected for maximum neutrality. His hands hovered uncertainly before settling on the table’s edge, fingers drumming once, then stopping as if caught in a nervous tell. “
It presents a significant opportunity. Visibility. Global attention. A chance to elevate Blue Lock as a legitimate pipeline for international-caliber players.” He spoke quickly, but not confidently—trying to sound collaborative, not commanding. But the pressure behind his eyes betrayed him. There was a faint tremor in his voice on “significant,” and a momentary strain in his smile when he said “opportunity,” as if both words were heavier than he could afford to admit.
He paused—just for a second—and looked at Isagi, searching for something. A reaction. A signal. A nod. Anything.
But the silence that followed was absolute. Isagi didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His gaze was steady, unwavering, focused somewhere between the chairman’s eyes and the middle distance, as if weighing the room itself rather than the words spoken in it. There was no agreement in his face, but no rejection either. Just that same composed mask, perfectly neutral, perfectly still. It wasn’t indifference. It was patience—controlled, powerful patience. And it forced Buratsuta to keep talking. To work for it.
“Adam Blake himself issued the challenge,” the chairman continued, swallowing the dryness in his throat with a tight breath.
“A friendly match. If Blue Lock accepts and performs well—imagine the headlines. The traction. You—Blue Lock—could be the symbol of Japan’s football rebirth.”
His voice rose slightly with each sentence, a rehearsed kind of passion creeping in, too polished to be authentic. He gestured with his hands now, sweeping across the table as if trying to draw the future in the air between them. “You could be—”
He caught himself.
Pushed back into his seat.
Tried to smile.
But the truth was already bleeding through: he was selling it.
Not presenting. Not proposing. Not negotiating.
Selling.
But not to Anri. Not to Ego.
He didn’t even glance at them. Not once.
They may as well have been part of the furniture for how completely they were excluded from the moment. This wasn’t a group discussion. It wasn’t a strategic meeting. It was a pitch—direct, singular, intentional—and it was aimed squarely at the young man sitting opposite him.
At Isagi.
The chairman—the most politically calculating figure in all of Japanese football—had placed all his bets, all his charm, all his carefully rationed desperation—on an eighteen-year-old striker.
It was surreal, but it was real.
This wasn’t just about a match anymore. This wasn’t even about Blue Lock.
It was about Isagi Yoichi.
His name, his brand, his influence. The spotlight was on him, and Buratsuta was leaning into it with both hands. Like a man gambling his career on the idea that the boy in front of him wasn’t just a talent, but a figurehead. A symbol. A shortcut to relevance. A lifeline.
And Anri felt it—viscerally. The shift. The hierarchy collapsing and reforming in real time.
She didn’t move. Neither did Ego.
There was no need.
Because the message was clear: Isagi wasn’t just a player anymore.
He was the one with the power now.
And judging by the cold, deliberate focus behind his eyes—the kind of look that studied not just what was being said, but why, and what it cost the speaker to say it—
Maybe he always had been.
Notes:
Nihao!
If you notice the weird fonts or things like missing spaces—yes, I’m experimenting! I’m trying to change my writing format/style a bit. If you don’t like it, let me know! The next chapter won’t be like this, I promise.
Ahem—sooo, I’m kind of needy right now... I really want long, detailed comments, PLEASEEEE 🥺🙏 Tell me what you thought about this chapter, what details you noticed, what stood out to you—so I can reply and have fun conversations with you!
I really, really want to experience talking with international readers! I want to know your thoughts, your interpretations—let’s brainstorm together! I KNOW I don’t post weekly anymore (sorry TT), but still... PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEE comment anyway!!
*Author was almost begging, curious at y'all feeling of this whole fic lol
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Ludovika on Chapter 1 Wed 08 Jan 2025 10:14AM UTC
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Raskal on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Mar 2025 12:45PM UTC
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BlackPhanter on Chapter 1 Sun 07 Sep 2025 10:42PM UTC
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Le_Femme_Rouge on Chapter 2 Sun 20 Oct 2024 01:09PM UTC
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Ryuokemia on Chapter 2 Sun 20 Oct 2024 01:34PM UTC
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Jeireilost on Chapter 2 Sun 20 Oct 2024 01:55PM UTC
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joyanend on Chapter 2 Sun 20 Oct 2024 03:57PM UTC
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rinirene on Chapter 2 Sun 20 Oct 2024 06:39PM UTC
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mizuumono on Chapter 2 Sun 20 Oct 2024 07:17PM UTC
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