{Isagi's pov}
After the match ended, we were told to get back to our dorms.
Back at the lockers, I changed out of my uniform and into casual wear before dropping onto a bench in the corner. My muscles ached, but the quiet was nice. Just a few moments to breathe—
"Isagiiii!"
The silence shattered as Bachira plopped down beside me with his usual excited grin, eyes squeezed shut like he was savoring the moment.
Bro, I am not your boyfriend. Could you please leave me alone for a few moments? Not that I could say that to his face. Would've been good if I could.
"Playing with you is fun, Isagi!" he chirped, his voice light and cheerful.
Huh. He called me by my name. Guess that's progress?
"Uh… yeah, thanks? I guess?" I scratched my head, unsure of how to respond. Compliments weren't really my thing.
Before Bachira could start another round of chatter, Kira appeared, his gaze fixed on me like he was analyzing every move I'd made during the match.
"No matter how many times I watch you play, it's still soul-crushing. Even when you're playing for me," Kira admitted, his tone flat but laced with frustration.
"It's kind of unfair, Isagi. I don't even understand why someone with your skills is placed in Team Z." His expression was unreadable, but the underlying confusion and frustration were clear.
"Yeah, well… even I don't know what Ego's thinking. Four-eyes is weird like that."
"That bastard's got a few screws loose," a new voice cut in. The orange-haired musclehead, Kunigami, stepped forward with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed but not hostile. "But you're crazy good, Isagi. Seriously, how are you in Team Z?"
Is this some kind of goal-scorers' meeting? Why are they all flocking to me like this?
"Anyway, I wanted to thank you," Kunigami continued. "The goal I scored was all because of your pass. I owe you one. If there's anything I can do to repay you, just say the word."
A hero complex, huh? He's not gonna last in Blue Lock if he thinks that's how this place works. But… maybe it's better if he stays pure.
"No need. I just did what was best in the moment. There's no debt or anything like that," I replied.
Kunigami's expression softened as he nodded, his hand cupping his chin thoughtfully. "Still, it matters to me. I don't like leaving things unfinished. So, I'll repay you. One way or another."
"Good luck with that," I muttered with a shrug.
Their words lingered even after they left, echoes of expectation and rivalry hanging in the air. Maybe I'd caught their attention… but that was fine. Because whether they were friends, rivals, or something in between, the goal was still the same.
I'd crush everyone standing in my way.
And I wouldn't stop until I reached the top.
The atmosphere on the other side of the room was more intense. The players who were essentially background characters in the previous match were now feeling even more left out.
Raichi slammed his fist against the locker, frustration etched into every line of his face. "Damn it! That match... it was like we were just there to fill the numbers. Nothing we did mattered."
Igaguri, arms crossed defensively, grumbled, "Tell me about it. I barely even touched the ball. And when I did… I messed up. Again." His shoulders sagged, the weight of his own inadequacy bearing down on him.
Naruhaya leaned back against the wall, eyes narrowed as he stared at the ceiling. "It's crazy though… The way Isagi plays. It's like he can see the whole field in a way we can't. And then he just—click—puts it all together. Like it's easy."
"Easy? Hell no," Raichi snapped, fists clenched tight. "It's not easy. The guy's just… freaky good at reading everything. Feels like we're all scrambling around in the dark, while he's already planned five moves ahead."
Iemon, who'd been silent until now, spoke up with a bitter smile. "It's not just that. His awareness is insane. He finds openings we can't even see until he's already exploiting them. Makes you wonder if we're even playing the same game."
"Yeah, well… It's pissing me off," Raichi growled. "I didn't come here to be a damn extra. I came here to score. To win. Not to just watch some guy put on a show."
"But how do we even compete with that?" Igaguri asked, his voice small and unsure. "The guy's practically a monster."
Raichi gritted his teeth, his frustration palpable. "I don't know. But I'll be damned if I just sit around and accept it."
The room fell silent, their collective frustration simmering just below the surface. But admiration… yeah, that was in the air too. Even if they'd never admit it.
The speakers buzzed to life, and Ego's smug, razor-sharp voice cut through the room's tense silence. His face appeared on the screen, eyes gleaming with that same unsettling enthusiasm. He adjusted his glasses with a slight push, his grin almost mocking.
"How are you, diamonds in the rough?" Ego began, his tone smooth and calculated. "Along with your match, Team V vs. Team Y also concluded. The score? 8-0. Ironic, isn't it? You guys scored 8 goals but also conceded two. That puts you at second place in the standings of this wing."
Murmurs rippled through the room, some players exchanging uneasy glances. Second place wasn't terrible, but the reminder of their flaws stung. Ego's smirk only widened, clearly enjoying their discomfort.
"I expect most of you have at least tried to grasp my words. Creating something from nothing. Converting zeros into ones. Congratulations, Isagi Yoichi," Ego said, his gaze zeroing in on the camera like a hawk eyeing its prey. "You almost converted a one into a ten. But here's the thing... achieving that in a single match doesn't make you a striker. Not yet. You're still nothing but a half-baked lump of talent."
Well, thanks for the compliment, and no thanks for that last bit.
Ego's words left the room heavy with tension. And then, he continued, his voice rising with fervor.
"Now, let me teach you something. Why is Japan excellent at baseball? Why does it flourish in a sport like that but struggle to even make a dent in the world of football?" He adjusted his glasses again, the glint of his lenses sharp and cold.
"It's because baseball is built on fixed positions and rigid roles. Everyone has a job, a predetermined space where they excel. Pitchers pitch. Batters hit. Fielders catch. It's a game of repetition, predictability, and perfected routines."
"But football? Football is chaos." His eyes gleamed with a wild intensity. "It's a game where the right answer changes with every moment. No two situations are ever exactly the same. It requires creativity, adaptability, and the ability to conjure something from nothing."
Ego leaned forward, his fingers pressed together like a scheming mastermind.
"Japan's problem has always been the same. We excel at refining techniques, developing disciplined defenders, reliable midfielders—players who can execute established plays with precision. But strikers? That's a different breed entirely. And that's why we fall short."
His gaze swept across the screen, as if staring each of them down individually.
"Because our strikers are mediocre. Safe. Predictable. They've been raised on systems and teamwork, shackled by the notion that their role is to assist, to cooperate, to fit into the bigger picture. But a true striker? A true striker breaks free from those chains."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"A striker is selfish. Greedy. Obsessed with scoring goals. They seize the moment and twist it to their will. They create opportunities from scraps and force their will upon the game itself. Japan has never produced such a player because we've been too busy teaching our forwards to fit in rather than to stand out."
The room was silent. No one dared to speak, Ego's words reverberating through their minds like the lingering echoes of an explosion.
Ego grinned, satisfied by their stunned expressions. "But that's why Blue Lock exists. To forge that one, selfish, insatiable striker. And to weed out the rest of you who can't make the cut."
He straightened up, his expression turning almost cheerful.
"Now, rest up. Because you won't get time for that later."
The screen went black, leaving nothing but a darkened room and the heavy weight of his words.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sound of cleats striking turf echoed down the hallways as I made my way back to the dorms. Sweat dripped from my chin, but my breathing was steady, sharp eyes gleaming with the fire of improvement.
When I got back, most of them were trying to distract themselves from their own inadequacy. All except one guy.
Chigiri.
He was sitting in the corner of the common room, by himself, staring into nothing like he was lost in some memory only he could see. I'd barely noticed him during the match, but that made sense. He was like some kind of ghost around here—never speaking, barely playing. Just… existing.
I sat down across from him, slouching back with my arms folded. "You didn't do much in the match yesterday."
He looked at me, eyebrows raised, his expression almost bored. "You didn't need me."
"That's not the point." I kept my eyes locked on him, studying him the way I would an opponent. "It's Blue Lock. If you're not playing to be the best, then why the hell are you even here?"
He scoffed. "And what makes you think I'm not?"
"I didn't see you even try." My voice came out harsher than I intended, but I didn't care. "You're just floating through this place like it's some sort of joke."
"It is a joke." His tone was calm, but his eyes flickered with something else. "We're all stuck in a cage fighting each other like wild dogs. You think that's going to produce the best striker?"
"Yeah." I grinned. "Because only the strongest will climb out of the pile of corpses."
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You're messed up, Isagi."
"Maybe." I shrugged. "But at least I know what I want. Can you say the same?"
Silence. He looked away, fingers curling slightly against his thigh.
"What's stopping you?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "You've got the same opportunity as the rest of us. Unless you're too scared to take it."
His head snapped back, eyes flaring with irritation. "You don't know a damn thing about me."
"Maybe not." I leaned forward, dropping my voice. "But I can tell when someone's holding themselves back. And you? You're not even trying to play properly. You're just coasting."
He flinched, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"Something's keeping you from playing how you should be. Whether it's an injury or whatever, I don't care." I let the words drop like stones. "But if you're going to keep holding yourself back, you're better off leaving now. Because the rest of us aren't gonna wait around for you to catch up."
He stayed silent, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.
"If you can't play seriously, then quit." I leaned in, eyes sharp, words like knives. "Right now, you're nothing but a waste of space on this team."
I stood up, done with the conversation. If he wanted to keep hiding from whatever was holding him back, that was his problem. But I wasn't about to let someone drag the team down because they were too afraid to face themselves.
As I walked away, a twisted sense of satisfaction curled in my chest. Either Chigiri would take those words and use them to break free… or he'd let them crush him.
Chigiri stood there, frozen, his fists clenched so hard it felt like his nails might tear into his palms.
A waste of space.
The words echoed in his mind, pounding against his skull like a relentless drumbeat. It wasn't just an insult—it was a condemnation. And it stung because it came from someone who had no idea what he was talking about.
Isagi didn't understand. No one here did.
"What the hell does he know…" Chigiri muttered under his breath, his voice thick with bitterness. "Thinks he can just waltz in here, score a few goals, and talk down to everyone like he's some kind of king?"
The resentment flared hot and vicious in his chest, like coals sparking to life. Who the hell was Isagi to judge him? To call him out like that when he knew nothing? Nothing about the injury. Nothing about the hours of rehab. Nothing about the fear that twisted his gut every time he thought about running at full speed.
Just some cocky bastard who thought scoring goals gave him the right to trample over everyone else.
"Tch." Chigiri scoffed, shaking his head as he stormed out of the room. His footsteps were sharp, clipped, every step a defiant refusal to accept Isagi's words.
But even still he was telling himself that it was better he didn't run. And he couldn't run.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We made our way to the field, footsteps echoing off the metal walls. The air was cool, but tension hung thick like smoke. Everyone moved with purpose—Kunigami's steady determination, Kira's sharp gaze, Bachira's restless energy. And then there was Chigiri, hanging back, arms crossed like he'd rather be anywhere else.
But I couldn't care less about his mood. Whether he was sulking or scheming, it didn't matter.
As we walked, Ego's voice crackled through the speakers, tossing us a little tidbit of information.
"The third match ended with Team X scoring 3 goals against Team W, all by Barou."
"Huh, it seems like the King hasn't yet fallen into despair."
A challenge. A warning. A taunt.
I could practically hear Ego's smirk. But all I felt was excitement.
So Barou was still fighting, still clawing his way up the ranks. Fine. I'd crush him again when the time came. But for now…
"Who cares about some wannabe King?" I muttered, shoving my hands into my pockets as we stepped onto the turf.
Kunigami rolled his shoulders, eyes flicking towards me. "If Barou's still scoring like that, it means he's gotten stronger. Can't underestimate him."
"Or maybe his team's just trash," Kira shot back, arms folded, gaze cold and distant. "He might've scored three goals, but if he's not playing with the rest of them, they'll crash eventually."
"Doesn't matter either way," I said, my voice cutting through their conversation. "He's not here. Team Y is."
Bachira bounced on his toes, his grin wide and wild. "Exactly~! Let's tear them apart, Isagi!"
"Sure," I replied, eyes narrowing as we spread out across the turf, stretching and warming up.
The field was empty. For now. Team Y would be here any minute.
I ran my gaze over the players on my side. Kunigami's expression was solid, and reliable, but there was a tightness to his movements. Kira looked like he was analyzing everything, eyes sharp, mouth set in a hard line. Bachira was relaxed—too relaxed.
And then there was Chigiri, still off to the side, he couldn't care less about what was happening. The resentment from our last conversation practically radiated off him.
I let out a breath, my focus snapping back to the game. The others could sort out their issues on their own. The only thing that mattered now was winning.
The sound of footsteps reached my ears.
Team Y emerged from the tunnel, their uniforms red and black, eyes scanning us with equal parts wariness and confidence.
They were prepared.
But it didn't matter.
I shot a glance at Bachira, who was already grinning like a maniac, eyes glinting with excitement. Kunigami and Kira shifted into position, their attention sharp, ready.
Good.
"Let's see what you've got, Team Y," I muttered, rolling my shoulders as we lined up.
The whistle blew.
And the hunt began.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
{Niko's POV}
The weakest team in the wing. Or maybe the entirety of Blue Lock.
We already suffered a humiliating loss against Team V—8-0. They shredded through us like we weren't even there. If we have any shot at crawling back from that disaster, our best bet is taking down Team Z.
Looking at them from across the field, they're… different from what I expected.
Some of them are built like tanks—broad shoulders, muscular frames. They definitely have a physical edge over us. But power alone isn't everything. Raw strength can be dismantled. Outwitted.
And that's where my strength lies. Vision. Strategy. Controlling the flow.
No brute force can break through a perfectly designed system.
The whistle shrieked, cutting through the silence. Kickoff.
As the higher-ranked team, we got to start. Small victories. They'll add up.
Okawa nudged the ball to me, and I immediately got to work. My eyes swept the field, scanning for openings, mapping every single movement.
Team Z was disorganized, their formation loose. Easy to exploit.
Yellow bangs was hovering around the center line, his expression lazy, like he was waiting for something to happen instead of making it happen. Orange hair and white hair were further back, clearly playing a more defensive role. Good.
My eyes darted to the flanks. A gap. I shifted, threading a pass through the narrowest of channels to Sagara. He sprinted forward, dribbling down the right side before sending the ball back to me.
I caught it cleanly, pivoting on my heel. Every move calculated. Every touch purposeful.
Okawa was up ahead, positioned perfectly near the penalty area. He was watching me, eyes hungry for the pass he knew was coming.
This was how we'd win. By making the ball dance to my tune.
I pushed forward, the ball glued to my feet. One step at a time, creeping further and further into enemy territory. Their defense parted like water, my passing game slicing through them with ease.
Okawa was ready. All I had to do was—
"Don't even fucking think about it."
The voice cut through my concentration like a knife.
Suddenly, the ball was gone.
"What the—?!"
I whipped my head around, eyes wide, pulse spiking. Standing in front of me, the ball secure under his foot, who is this guy.
The top-ranked player of Team Z. If the number displayed on his arm is anything to go by.
"Come on, that's it?" The voice was sharp, dripping with disdain. The guy's eyes locked onto me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "You call that vision? All I see is a narrow-minded little shit who's way too full of himself."
This was surprising. Is there really someone, in team Z, that can see the game like I do?
I narrowed my eyes at him, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. But before I could reply, he turned and pivoted on his heel, sending a clean pass back to one of his teammates—the dribbler with the crazed eyes and crooked grin.
"Keep overthinking everything," the guy tossed over his shoulder. "I'll just keep taking the ball from you."
He didn't even bother looking back at me as he ran off, already plotting his next move.
My fists trembled. How did he intercept me so easily? And why was his voice echoing in my head like that?
Sigh
This was going to be harder than I thought.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That guy—the one who took it from me—he moved with absolute certainty. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Like he wasn't just playing the game, but commanding it.
I had always prided myself on my vision. On being able to read plays before they unfolded, on seeing spaces and paths that others missed. But right now, as I tracked his movements, I felt—
Blind.
He wasn't just reacting to the game.
He was controlling it.
Each step he took dictated the rhythm of the match, pulling defenders toward him, forcing my teammates to move exactly how he wanted them to. Every pass was sharp, precise—not just finding open spaces, but creating them.
A quick exchange with the dribbler—yellow bangs. The two of them moved in perfect sync, shifting around defenders with one-touch passes that left no room for error.
This isn't normal.
I had played against many different players before. Physical monsters, aggressive strikers, relentless pressers. But this… this was something else entirely.
He saw the game differently. It was like me but it feels completely different.
And I was witnessing it firsthand.
My teammates scrambled to stop him, but they weren't cutting off his options. Because he had already decided what would happen next.
A turn. A sharp change in direction. Another pass, this time to the tall one—orange hair. He was already winding up for a shot.
No—it's a dummy.
Orange hair stepped over the ball at the last second, letting it roll past him.
The guy with white hair came running up taking a shot motion. But he paused mid-strike trapping the ball. A feint.
But wait, Huh? He back-heeled it? Where is it heading—-
Straight to him.
That guy again.
He had positioned himself perfectly, right at the edge of the box. The ball met his foot at the exact moment he needed it to.
A single touch. A slight shift.
And then—
A shot.
Pure, ruthless, unstoppable. The ball cut through the air like a bullet, crashing into the net before our keeper could even react.
The scoreboard flickered.
1-0.
My eyes were locked onto him.
He didn't even glance back at me, at us. He walked off with the ball to the centre of the field with his teammates chiming in with few remarks.
And I hated it.
Because for the first time in my life—
I felt like I wasn't the one seeing soccer anymore.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another mediocrity.
I expected more. Sure, he's got decent spatial awareness—enough to string together some predictable plays. But in the end, it's still inferior to mine.
Every time I've taken the field here, it's been the same story. No real challenge. No one capable of putting up a wall that I can't break through.
So far, Blue Lock has just been an open playground. A place where I can push my vision and playmaking without the constant nagging of coaches telling me to stick to the basics.
And yeah, that's been fun. Testing my limits, experimenting with new ways to twist the flow of a game to my advantage.
But it's all too easy.
The puppy eyes' so-called vision? Mediocre at best. The way he clings to his tactics like they're gospel… it's almost laughable. Vision isn't just about seeing the field. It's about controlling it. And right now, he's nowhere near my level.
I haven't even begun to let loose.
Sigh.
Another boring match.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
{Niko's pov}
We're getting destroyed.
The scoreboard spells out our humiliation. Eight goals. And we have zero.
Team V all over again. But worse. Because this time, there's still ten minutes left. And ten minutes against a demon like him is practically a death sentence.
I've tried everything. Passing, repositioning, tightening our formation. Every time, that guy—no, that demon—reads me like an open book. My passes intercepted, my plays dismantled before they even start.
He scored a hat-trick like it was nothing. Then he just… handed the ball off to his teammates like it was a game of charity. The orange-haired guy scored once. The white-haired guy and the dribbler with the wild eyes scored twice each.
The whole team's fallen apart. Some of them have already given up. Their eyes are distant. The fight drained from them.
Another kickoff. Okawa kicks the ball to me.
What do I do? What can I even—
I remembered his words from before, when i once again had tried to set up okawa for the goal.
"Hey."
I flinch. His voice cuts through the air, piercing right through my thoughts.
"The hell kind of striker keeps passing in front of the goal?" The guy's gaze locks onto me, his eyes sharp and unrelenting. "A striker who passes in front of the goal is no striker at all."
His words dig into me like claws, dragging something out of the depths of my mind.
No striker at all…?
I grit my teeth, my fists clenched so tight my knuckles turn white.
All this time, I've been so focused on passing. On creating the perfect opportunity for someone else to score. I kept thinking I was helping the team. But every single pass has been cut down. Every single strategy… useless.
And this guy—he sees right through me.
I glance up, and he's already gone, racing back to his side of the field with that same infuriating confidence.
No striker at all…
The words keep echoing in my head. Mocking me. Challenging me.
Is that what I am? Just a passer? Someone who watches from the sidelines while others score?
No.
I'm a striker. And if I want to win—if I want to climb out of this pit of failure—then I need to act like one.
I need to score.
The ball is at my feet. Okawa's yelling something, but his voice feels distant. My vision sharpens, every player on the field nothing but pawns I can control.
But this time, I'm not arranging them for anyone else's benefit.
It's for me.
My passes, my vision… I need to use them for myself. I dart forward, weaving through the midfield, my eyes constantly flicking between openings and threats.
There.
An opening on the right. I swerve past one of Team Z's defenders, slipping through the crack in their formation. The field feels clearer now—like my eyes have been washed clean.
No more overthinking. No more trying to accommodate everyone else.
I'm going for the goal.
I see Okawa open at the edge of the box, his hand waving desperately for a pass. But I ignore him.
I'm already inside the penalty area.
This is it. This is my chance.
I draw my leg back and fire a shot toward the top left corner. The kind of shot I wouldn't have dared to take before. But now?
I'm not hesitating. I'm devouring.
But just as the ball leaves my foot—
"Too obvious."
His voice cuts through the rush of blood pounding in my ears.
I barely process the words before he's there. The guy from before. His body cutting across my line of vision like a shadow.
He traps my shot mid-air with a precision that feels unreal. The ball drops to the ground, motionless.
"What…?" My voice comes out in a rasp.
He looks at me, eyes gleaming with something almost… satisfied. Like he's been waiting for me to make that exact move.
"I was right. You'd try to shoot," he says, his smirk practically oozing confidence. "Took you long enough to figure it out."
He read me. Completely. Even before I made the decision to shoot.
No… he expected me to shoot. And then he shut me down like it was nothing.
This guy… just what kind of monster am I up against?
And I continued to watch on, as he for another time brought the ball back to the opposite penalty area to score. His fourth goal of the match.
I was completely outread. Every tactic, every play—shattered before it could even begin.
My knees gave out, hitting the grass as I stared at the ground, my hands clutching the dirt. Despair twisted in my chest, tightening with every shallow breath.
The final whistle blew. And we had lost. Again.
A crushing, all-consuming defeat.
Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate. I looked up, my eyes meeting a pair of icy blue ones.
They were calm. Detached. As if dismantling us was just some boring Sunday routine he'd gone through too many times to care about.
But then he spoke. And his words weren't what I expected.
"You're not bad." His voice was steady, almost indifferent, like he was stating a fact instead of offering praise. "Your vision's decent. Actually, it's good—better than most of the crap I've seen in Blue Lock."
I blinked, thrown off by the compliment. From him, of all people.
"But that's all it is. Just good." His eyes narrowed, sharp and cutting. "You're stuck playing like some director, thinking you can control everything from the back. But what's the point of vision if you don't use it to score? A striker who won't take his own shots is just another piece of mediocrity."
His words stung, the bluntness of his tone making them cut deeper.
"There's a lot of trash in Blue Lock," he continued, eyes boring into me with a cold, almost clinical focus. "But you? You're a little better than that. Just not by much. You haven't figured out how to make your own vision lethal. And until you do… you're nothing special."
He turned his back on me, his attention already shifting away, like I wasn't even worth remembering.
It was like he'd thrown me a lifeline only to tear it apart the moment I reached for it. And the worst part? I couldn't even argue with him.
The scoreboard glared down at us, its cold, unfeeling numbers serving as the final verdict.
TEAM Z vs TEAM Y — 9-0
Humiliation. Again.
And yet, his words kept echoing in my mind. Mocking me. Pushing me.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
{Control Room – Post-Match Debrief}
The screens flickered with post-match stats, the final numbers flashing like a neon reminder of Team Y's collapse. 9-0. A massacre.
Anri slumped back in her chair, arms crossed. "That was… anticlimactic," she muttered. "I mean, yeah, it was dominant, but still. Team Y barely even put up a fight."
She tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning the slow-motion replay of Isagi's final assist. "But that pass… those movements. Isagi's got something real, Ego. It's not just instincts—he's thinking two, three moves ahead. That vision of his is—"
Ego cut her off without turning his head. "Shut up, Anri."
Anri's brows furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line.
Ego stood, arms folded behind his back, watching Isagi's highlight reel play on repeat. His voice was flat, clinical. "This match wasn't about Team Y. It was about the path of evolution—Isagi's path—for Niko."
He paused, adjusting his glasses as a slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Isagi Yoichi is still half-baked."
Anri turned toward him. "Even after that match?"
"He scored four," Ego said, "and contributed to nearly all the rest. That's the problem."
He pointed at the screen—at the frame where Isagi threaded a no-look pass to Chigiri.
"Before Blue Lock, that kid wouldn't have passed. Before this, Isagi was too egotistical. He used to do what made him happiest—scoring goals, hogging the ball, being the hero."
A faint scoff left Ego's throat.
"There weren't careers on the line back then. No lives to be ruined. Just a boy chasing joy with a ball."
He turned now, finally facing Anri fully.
"But Blue Lock changed that. Here, failure means death—for your dreams. And Isagi knows that. He feels it. He's empathetic. He's kind. That's why he's passing now."
Anri's eyes widened just slightly. Ego kept going.
"He's feeding them. Keeping them alive. Making sure they stay relevant… that they get their moments too. So they don't fade away. So their careers don't end because of him."
Ego adjusted his glasses with two fingers, expression unreadable.
"Make no mistake—he's still aiming to be the top. Still leading the board. But he's doing it while dragging the rest along. That's not genius. That's human."
A pause.
"…And human is not enough."
He turned back to the monitor.
"Just you wait, Isagi Yoichi."
His voice dropped to a cold murmur, cutting like a blade.
"Once you step further down this path… you'll lose the terminology of kindness and empathy on the pitch."
The camera feed showed Isagi walking off the field, surrounded by teammates he helped, faces lit up in victory—while his own expression stayed focused. Quiet.
As if he knew.
And maybe, deep down… he did.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author Notes:
Yo!
3 days 3 chapters... please, stones and reviews. 😅
I was originally planning to write both the Team Y and Team W matches in a single chapter, but as I went on writing, I decided to split them into separate chapters.
I want to develop Chigiri properly, and Niko is always an interesting character to write. He was the reason canon Isagi started using his vision to its full extent. So here, it's kind of the opposite since Isagi is already well-versed in vision and is... well, OP.
Yup, that's it for this chapter.
Signing off,
SG
—-------------------
Editor's Note:-
This chapter was kind of a filler, to be honest, still, I hope you all enjoyed it and are excited for the next chapter.
-NB