{Kira's POV}
I was a mere servant.
That thought echoed in my mind again, like it had so many times since stepping into Blue Lock.
From the very first whistle, this place has torn apart everything I believed in. Every ideal I'd built my game around. Every principle I had trusted to carry me forward as a player. All of it—systematic positioning, clean team play, composure over chaos—was now being exposed, dissected, and left to rot under the blinding lights of this godforsaken prison.
If I hadn't already been crushed by Isagi Yoichi before I ever set foot in here, I'm certain I would've tried to resist Ego's madness. I would've dismissed it as delusion. As blasphemy against everything football was supposed to be.
But I was crushed. Brutally. Effortlessly.
And watching Isagi thrive in this hell… watching him evolve… has only made it clearer. He wasn't lucky that day.
He was inevitable.
He has something I don't.
Blue Lock is all about individuality. About standing tall without the safety net of tactics or commands. No formation. No captain to look to. No coach barking out plays. Just raw instinct, pure drive, and a battlefield full of hungry strikers ready to devour anyone who hesitates.
That's how Isagi plays now. Like those professionals I used to admire from a distance—like Real Madrid, the kings of La Remontada. Comebacks from nothing, wins scraped from the jaws of defeat… not because of system, but because someone decided they would win. Carried by nothing but belief, brilliance, and sheer ego.
Isagi's not there yet, not at that world-class level. But he thinks like them. He moves like them. He has the spark of something that I've only seen on television.
And me?
I've been trying to sketch tactics in my head. Making theoretical plans. Logical movements. Everything seemed to work in my mind, sounded sharp and clean. But when it came to the match, when chaos swallowed the field whole… those ideas dissolved into air. Like they had no place in the game being played here.
We won. That's the truth. And I scored a few goals along the way too.
But even then, it was always him. Isagi. He was feeding me the ball. He was dictating the tempo. He was carrying the team on his back, again and again, with every pass, every steal, every strike.
And that didn't sit right with me.
I'm not bitter. Not angry.
But I can't lie to myself and pretend it doesn't sting.
Because I love football too. I want to keep playing. I want to survive.
But more than that…
I need to understand.
I need to know if this is truly the path forward.
Is being selfish the right answer? Is this what a striker is supposed to become?
How is Isagi doing it all alone? How is he seeing the game like that? How does he make those decisions—so fast, so clean—without a coach whispering in his ear?
How can I get there too?
Can I even get there?
Or am I just another system player, built to follow and not to lead?
These questions have been chewing at the back of my mind for days.
And today… I'm going to ask him.
Not out of envy.
But because I need to break out of this shell before it cages me forever.
The hum of machines echoed down the empty hallway as I approached the training room. The dull thud of weights slamming down. The creak of metal under strain. A sharp grunt of effort.
It was late—most of Team Z had either gone to bed or collapsed in the lounge—but he was still here.
Isagi Yoichi.
There he was, shirt drenched in sweat, face flushed with exertion, veins bulging as he pushed himself through another brutal set on the leg press—easily triple what most of us even attempted. His breathing was labored, but his focus was terrifying. Like every rep was a matter of life and death.
I stood there for a few seconds, unsure if I should interrupt.
Then, without even turning, he spoke. "You gonna keep watching, or you got something to say?"
I blinked, caught off guard. His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it. Like a blade hidden in a smile.
"I have questions," I said, stepping in. "About you. About how you're doing this."
He finally looked at me, wiping sweat from his brow, chest still rising and falling. "Questions, huh?" He chuckled, picking up a towel. "Man, don't tell me I've got a fan now."
I didn't laugh.
His smirk faded slightly when he saw my face. "You're serious."
"I need to know, Isagi. How are you doing all of this on your own? How do you read the field like that? Score when you need to? And more than that… how do you survive in this place?"
He stared at me, unreadable. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the clank of weights settling back into place.
Then he walked over to the wall and leaned against it, arms crossed, gaze fixed on me like a coach analyzing a rookie.
"…You really want the answer? An answer as to how you could survive in this place and why you are having trouble keeping up, Kira?"
I nodded.
"Alright," he said, voice dropping, serious now. "It's because you're not desperate."
I froze.
"You're not hungry enough, Kira. That's your problem." His tone wasn't mocking. It was cold. Brutally honest. "You're just here to play football. To keep doing what you were always doing. Like this is some youth tournament with scouts watching."
He stepped forward, pointing a finger at my chest.
"Football's a sport to you. To me? It's life. It's survival. I play like I'll die if I don't score."
His words hit harder than I expected.
"You've scored some goals here. Sure. But you know why? Because I let you. Because I fed you perfect passes in areas where you couldn't miss. Some talent helped—but the truth is, if I hadn't been there, most of your chances wouldn't have existed."
I clenched my fists, shame bubbling in my gut. But I didn't look away.
"And that's fine," he continued, "for now. But if you really want to survive Blue Lock—if you want to make it past the next stage—you need to wake the hell up."
He leaned in close.
"Grow an ego, Kira Ryosuke."
The air between us tightened.
"You've been playing with one foot in, one foot out. Half tactics, half instinct. But this place doesn't reward balance. It devours it. You need to believe that you are the weapon. That the goal belongs to you. Not the system. Not the team. Just you."
He stepped back, grabbing a dumbbell again without breaking eye contact.
"This place forces you to strip everything down. And when you do… what's left? Who are you when there's no one to rely on but yourself?"
I had no answer.
But I knew I needed to find one. Fast.
Because if what Isagi said was true—if this really was survival—then everything I believed in needed to change.
And quickly.
I lowered my gaze, thoughts spinning in circles. My heart wasn't just racing from the conversation—it was from the weight of reality finally pressing down on me. The world I came from felt so far away now. My trophies, my youth accolades, the polished system I thrived in… all of it meant nothing here.
"I thought I understood football," I muttered. "But this place… it makes me feel like a beginner again."
Isagi stood silently, then tossed me a small water bottle. "That's not a bad thing," he said. "Beginners get to choose how they grow."
I caught it, surprised by the unexpected softness in his voice.
"You've got decent instincts, Kira. You've even got the skills. But instincts without teeth won't get you far in Blue Lock. Out there? Everyone's starving. If you're not fighting like you're dying, then someone hungrier's gonna eat you alive."
I looked up at him, and for the first time, I saw it clearly—not just the talent, but the obsession. The fire. Isagi wasn't just chasing a goal. He was the chase. Every breath, every decision, every pass—calculated with one end in mind: survival through victory.
"I don't want to be carried anymore," I said quietly.
"Then stop waiting to be saved," he replied. "Find your weapon. Make it lethal. And show us why you deserve to be here."
He turned back to his workout, muscles tense with every movement, as if daring the world to stop him.
I stood still for a moment longer. Then, slowly, I stepped out of the room, the sound of his training echoing behind me like a war drum.
It wasn't just about football anymore.
It was about becoming someone worthy of the field I thought I knew.
And I would find that answer.
No matter what it took.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
{Naruhaya's POV}
The field was empty, quiet.
I sat there alone, clutching the football to my chest like it was the last piece of my identity I still had. The sun was setting, painting long shadows on the pitch. It should've looked beautiful. But all I could feel was this dull, aching bitterness inside me.
Was this all I had left?
All that effort—those hours I stayed back late, grinding alone after school, trying to make up for the talent I didn't have… Was it worthless?
I wasn't strong enough. Not skilled enough. Not even memorable enough for the people around me to care.
Just then, I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned, and there he was.
Isagi Yoichi.
"Yo," he said casually, strolling toward me with his hands in his pockets. "Didn't expect to see anyone else out here."
I didn't say anything. Just waited, tense, unsure of what this guy even wanted.
"I… forgot your name, to be honest," he admitted with a sheepish scratch of his head, which stung more than I wanted it to. "But now that I see you up close again—I remember. You were from Shizuoka Middle, right?"
My eyes narrowed.
He kept going.
"Yeah, I remember you now. You were that guy who used to stay late at the school grounds after everyone else left. Practicing on your own."
I clenched my jaw. The ball in my hands felt heavier all of a sudden.
"Didn't expect anyone to remember that," I muttered.
Isagi smiled faintly, but there was something in his eyes—calculating, unreadable.
"I respect that kind of effort," he said. "But effort alone doesn't win here."
I tensed. "So what? You came here to rub that in?"
He shook his head. "No. I came here to offer you a way to survive."
I stared.
He stepped closer, extending his hand.
"Naruhaya… you can still survive."
His tone shifted—flat, cold, firm.
"Work for me. Be my servant. That's the only way you live through this."
I stared at his hand like it was poison.
"…What?"
"You're not the main character here," Isagi said. "You never were. But that doesn't mean you're useless. You can still be used. If you work for me, play off me, follow my lead… you'll win. We'll both win. That's how you stay alive in Blue Lock."
The rage hit me in a second. My pride, my ego—what little I had left—it all screamed.
"Fuck off, Isagi."
His hand lingered for a moment longer… then dropped.
"I'd rather die than serve you," I snarled, teeth clenched. "I don't care if it means losing everything."
Isagi didn't blink. Didn't even sigh.
Instead, his eyes darkened. Something unflinching and ruthless took over his expression, like he was staring straight through my soul—and didn't like what he saw.
"You'll die, huh?" he muttered. "Then let me tell you something, Naruhaya."
He stepped forward.
"If you die here, you're not going to heaven. There's no light waiting for you at the end of this game."
His voice dropped lower. Sharper.
"You'll go to hell."
I glared at him. "Good. I'll still die with my pride intact."
He chuckled once. But it wasn't amused.
It was cold. Dismissive. Pitying.
"Then burn," he said. "Burn for an eternity at the bottom of hell, Naruhaya."
He turned away, walking off with that same quiet confidence that suffocated me more than any insult.
But before he was fully gone, he looked over his shoulder.
"One last thing."
His voice sliced through the air like a blade.
"'See you' is something people say to others they might meet again someday. That phrase doesn't apply to you… because no one's ever gonna see you again."
And with that, he left me there.
Alone.
Clutching a football that felt like it weighed more than my entire body.
I wanted to scream. But I couldn't.
Because the silence that followed…
Felt like he was right.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
{Control Room – Ego Jinpachi's POV}
The room was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the screens flashing footage of the most promising devils trapped in Blue Lock.
Anri stood beside me, clicking through the latest performance clips. One by one, names and faces danced across the screen.
Nagi Seishiro.
Rin Itoshi.
Karasu Tabito.
Shidou Ryusei.
Otoya Eita.
And finally… Isagi Yoichi.
Each screen showcased their plays—their goals, their passes, their madness.
Anri's voice carried a hint of awe as she paused the reel on Nagi's clip. The boy was mid-air, effortlessly controlling a wild cross with a first-touch that killed the ball's momentum, followed by a calm volley past the keeper.
"Just six months," she muttered. "He's only been playing football seriously for six months, and he's already this good. It's unbelievable."
I scoffed, leaning back in my chair.
"Unbelievable? No," I said flatly. "It's miraculous—which is exactly why he won't make it."
She blinked, confused. "What…?"
"Nagi's talent is like a firework. Bright, beautiful—and short-lived. He's skilled, but not hungry. He hasn't bled for the game. Without struggle, talent becomes stagnant. And he doesn't even realize what it means to fight for a goal."
Anri looked slightly taken aback but clicked on to the next highlights.
Shidou Ryusei. Unhinged. Violent. A pure striker, fueled by madness and instincts that bordered on primal. His shots were all venom, his runs a blur of chaos.
Then—
Rin Itoshi. Cold. Calculated. Every move of his was like a chess piece clicking into place. His passes, his vision, his shots—surgical. Uncompromising.
I leaned forward slightly.
"Now these two… they intrigue me," I muttered. "Monsters in their own right. Shidou is instinct. Rin is control. They exist on opposite ends of the chaos spectrum, yet both know what it means to dominate."
The reel moved on to Karasu Tabito and Otoya Eita. Solid. Effective. Impressive, even. But nothing that shook my core.
"Average monsters," I said. "Useful tools, not weapons."
And then… the last name blinked on screen.
Isagi Yoichi.
The room went silent. Anri didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
I watched his match clips. His eyes scanning. His positioning. His shots. And then—footage from moments ago. Isagi standing in front of Naruhaya. Hand extended. Words exchanged. And then…
Rejection. Rage. And dominance.
I smirked.
There it is.
The spark. The breaking point. The exact moment when prey decides to become predator.
Anri, however, didn't share my enthusiasm.
"I don't like this," she murmured. "That conversation... that hate in his eyes. Players shouldn't need to be this cruel just to grow. They shouldn't need to crush others."
I chuckled dryly.
"You still don't get it, Anri," I said, turning to face her. "You want strikers who score because they love the game. I want strikers who score because it's the only way they can breathe."
She frowned.
"Those 'cruel eyes' you saw?" I pointed at the screen, still paused on Isagi's frozen expression. "That's not hate. That's awakening. A sleeping beast just opened its eyes."
I stood up, walking slowly toward the monitors, arms crossed.
"All he needs now… is a single victory. Just one. To realign his soul. To convince himself that his way—the egoist's way—is the right way."
A pause. My voice dropped.
"So don't disappoint me, Isagi Yoichi."
I stared at the screen, grin widening.
"Become the striker who devours all… or rot in obscurity with the rest."
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
{Isagi's POV}
Who the hell does he think he is?
No logic. No reasoning. Nothing.
Naruhaya is finished—and even then, I reached out. I offered him a hand. A lifeline. To a traitor, no less. And he had the nerve to throw it back in my face?
Tch…
Stubborn fools like him deserve to rot at the bottom. That's all they're worth.
…
And yet, here I am—still trying to be a good person in a place built to tear good people apart.
I'm selfish. I know that. But I've tried. I really did. I carried this team, played to their strengths, gave them chances. No one deserves to lose their future because of a few walls they can't break through.
But… was I right to do that?
I don't know anymore.
Some of them follow me. Others resist, digging their heels in like Naruhaya. I get it… they want what I have. The spotlight. The control. The power.
So… is it okay for me to be selfish?
…
Yes.
That voice deep inside—the part of me that lives for football—screamed it without hesitation.
It doesn't want assists. It doesn't want partnerships.
It wants goals.
It wants to devour.
That voice doesn't want me to carry others. It wants me to crush them.
All I've done until now… was nurture my own competition. Give them tools to stand beside me, when they should've been below me.
I clenched my fists as I walked back toward the dorms. My shadow stretched long in the corridor lights. By the time I reached the common room, the moon was up and the day had long since died.
Kira. Kunigami. Chigiri.
They were sitting together, laughing lightly—probably discussing tactics or the next match.
"Hey," I called out.
They turned, ready to greet me. But the moment they looked into my eyes—they froze.
I didn't bother hiding the fire anymore. I let it blaze.
"No more handouts," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight. "I've given you all enough wages for your work."
Their expressions stiffened.
"Now," I continued, "it's time to pay up the debt."
No one moved.
I walked past them, slow and heavy-footed, like a beast staking its claim. And just before I disappeared down the hall, I threw them one last demand.
"Serve me my ten goals."
I looked over my shoulder, grin sharp as a blade.
"I want to feast."
They stared at me like I'd become someone else. Maybe I had. But I didn't care anymore.
I had to evolve. I had to devour. If I wanted to reach for the top—if I wanted to become the greatest striker in the world—then this was the only path forward.
And those thoughts?
They weren't for now.
They were for later.
Because right now…
I'm starving.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Everyone was starting to change.
And that includes me, too.
Some were on the path to evolution—others, on the verge of collapse.
And me? I felt stuck. Not that stagnation was anything new… but here in Blue Lock, standing still felt like moving backwards.
Since arriving, I'd thrown myself into constant training. I used every inch of the facility to boost my physical stats, ball control, pace, and stamina. I've never been naturally gifted in any of those areas—every improvement in my body was a result of deliberate, focused effort. I wasn't born strong. I built this version of myself.
But lately, a bitter truth kept ringing in my head:
If I didn't have at least one teammate to work with, I'd probably lose.
Sure, I could hold my own—but win a match completely alone? No. Not yet.
That thought alone made me restless. I couldn't sit around for four days like the others.
So I pushed myself into one of the most brutal strength-training sessions I'd ever done. It would've wrecked me before Blue Lock—but now, I could handle it. Barely.
Still, that wasn't enough.
I needed more than stamina and strength. I needed a weapon.
A real one. One that I could call my own when no one else was around to feed me.
Dribbling.
Not flashy Brazilian footwork. Not stylish tricks.
I wanted to learn dribbling that worked. Fast, sharp, and efficient. Something that would let me bypass defenders without losing time—or the ball.
And in Team Z, there was only one player who embodied that kind of raw, unfiltered dribbling.
The delusional monster himself.
Bachira Meguru.
He was out on the field, casually dancing with the ball, completely absorbed in his own world.
If there was one thing I admired about Bachira, it was this—his ability to enjoy football no matter the situation.
Win or lose, pressure or peace—he always had fun.
Me? I only enjoy the game when I win.
I saw him there on the field playing with his ball.(pause)
He turned, balancing the ball on the back of his neck with that usual carefree grin on his face.
A flick of his head, and the ball dropped.
Thud.
He caught it perfectly under his foot, the motion smooth, deliberate. Like the ball had no choice but to obey.
He stood in the middle of the training ground, the night air cool against my skin. His heart wasn't racing—no excitement, no nerves. Just hunger. Focused. Sharp.
He looked up.
But the moment he felt my presence—like an animal sensing a predator—he stopped.
He turned, and our eyes locked.
His grin kicked in immediately.
"Whoa," he whispered.
That look on his face—eyes wide, pupils lit like they'd found something beautiful—it wasn't just surprise. It was excitement.
He saw it.
He saw me.
Not the strategist. Not the team player. Not the guy who passed when it mattered.
He saw the one who came to devour.
He tilted his head, wild grin still tugging at his cheek.
"I've been waiting for this version of you," he muttered, bouncing the ball once, then catching it. "You look like you're finally gonna stop holding back."
I didn't say anything.
I just stepped forward and passed the ball to him—clean, fast, like a bullet skimming the grass.
"Then let's start," I said. "I'm done babysitting."
"So, you're here for some extra training?" he asked, eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Yeah," I replied without hesitation. "I was hoping you could help me with my dribbling."
Bachira blinked, then chuckled. "Hehe, you're still trying to improve? You're already a monster without dribbling, and now you wanna add proper skill dribbling on top of that?"
I gave a small nod. "I feel like I'm helpless in most one-on-ones. And even in practice, you've got a 50–10 win record against me."
My deadpan stare sealed the point.
Bachira burst out laughing, before dramatically placing a hand on his chin like he was deep in thought.
Really, bro? Just say yes. No need for the theatrics.
"Alright, I'll help you," he finally said, flashing that mischievous smile. "But I want something in return."
My brow lifted. "Okay, what do you want?"
"Help me with my shooting." His grin didn't falter. "Right now, most of my goals are close-range tap-ins or when I break the keeper's ankles. But my long-range shots? Inconsistent. Chip shots? Always getting blocked by defenders for some reason."
Huh. That was… actually a smart improvement area for him.
"Fair deal," I nodded. "I'll help you with that. So, when do we start?"
Bachira's grin widened. "How about now?"
"Well, now sounds even better." I couldn't help but exclaim, "Yeah—let's start now."
Bachira grinned wide, already bouncing the ball between his feet like it was part of his body. "Alright then," he said, "first question—what kind of dribbler do you wanna be?"
"Huh?"
He sighed, mock-dramatic. "I'm asking—what style of dribbling do you want to develop?"
"Uh… I've never really thought about it. Why does that matter when learning how to dribble?"
I really wasn't that experienced here. The last time I actually cared about dribbling was back in elementary school—messing around in my backyard, trying flashy moves I saw on YouTube.
Got humbled real quick.
Bachira stopped juggling the ball and gave me this surprisingly serious look.
"Every player has a dribbling style," he explained. "It's like a rhythm—certain movements, touches, or feints that feel natural when you're facing defenders. You chain them together until it becomes second nature. That's your style."
He stepped back and continued, voice filled with surprising insight.
"Take Noel Noa for example. His dribbling is based on physicality—he shields the ball using his body, controls it with a clean first touch, and then accelerates past the defender using his strength and balance. It's compact, efficient, and powerful."
"Then there's Messi. People say he could dribble through entire teams, and honestly? That's not an exaggeration. He uses short, sharp touches, quick changes in direction, Feints, and a low center of gravity to glide past defenders. It's like he's dancing between raindrops."
I nodded, starting to get into it.
"Cristiano Ronaldo is a bit different," Bachira said. "Back in his prime, his style combined pace, power, and directness. He didn't need to dribble past five guys—just two or three, enough to open up space and let loose a shot from 25 or even 35 meters out. His weapon was his explosiveness, not finesse."
"Sure, we can pull some of those moves off in school-level matches," he added, "but doing that stuff in La Liga or the Premier League? That's another world."
Then his eyes lit up.
"But in my opinion, there's one style that captures the true joy of dribbling—Ginga or Joga Bonito. The art of football. It's all about fluidity, flair, expression—being unpredictable and turning the field into a canvas."
"In today's world, Lavinho is the face of that style. And honestly? That's the dribbling I want to master."
He turned to me with that cheeky grin. "So, Isagi—what about you? What style of dribbling do you want to pursue?"
…
I blinked.
Wait—Bachira could talk this much?
And here I thought he was just a crazy dribbler going with the flow, possessed by his 'inner monster.' But this guy… he actually knows what he's doing.
But to be honest… I didn't really know what would suit me.
I didn't have any real dribbling background—no muscle memory for flashy skill moves, no footwork instincts like the natural dribblers.
So I asked the only person whose intuition I trusted for this.
"What do you think would suit me, Bachira?"
He didn't even pause.
"With you?" he started with a grin, eyes glinting like he was imagining it already. "I'd say—something fast-paced, efficient, but still sharp enough to slice through defenders. Nothing too flashy, just enough style to leave jaws dropping. You're not the type to juggle the ball for no reason, right? You'd rather cut through than dance around."
"Yeah."
He nodded, tapping his chin. "Feints. Ball control that lets you stop or shift the ball instantly. Then a burst of acceleration right as the defender's weight shifts the wrong way. Clean, brutal, satisfying."
Then he tilted his head. "You get hyped when you break someone's ankles, right?"
I blinked. That was oddly specific.
But he wasn't wrong.
Seeing a defender crash to the ground while I stood over them—ball under control, goal in sight—it was pure euphoria. That was the kind of domination I craved. Makes me feel like I am absolute. (E.N:- Akashi Seijuro much?)
I didn't expect Bachira to nail my instincts like that. I came here for some help, not to have my playstyle diagnosed like a doctor reading my football DNA.
"Alright, let's lock it in," he said, bouncing the ball once and catching it under his sole. "We'll base your dribbling around feints, tight control, and explosive acceleration. Add in a couple of signature moves and boom—you're golden."
I nodded. But then something clicked in my mind.
"There's one move I've always felt drawn to."
Bachira raised an eyebrow.
"The rainbow flick," I said. "I don't know why, but it always felt like something I could pull off. Not just for the flair… but because I can use it."
I stepped forward, suddenly visualizing it—the flick over the defender's head, their weight too far forward, eyes tracking the ball as it rises…
And then me, catching it in mid-air with a volley.
"I've noticed that more than my curved finesse shots or power drives, my volleys and direct shots hit harder and cleaner. If I can rainbow flick over a defender and smash it on the drop… that's a goal."
Bachira's grin widened. "That's cold. Rainbow flick to volley finisher? That's a signature move right there."
He bounced the ball back up to his thigh and continued, "Okay, we'll polish that into your toolkit. You'll need to master timing, balance, and the right angles—but it fits you. It's got that disrespectful flair with actual purpose."
I smirked.
"Also," he added, "you should learn the La Croqueta. It's a fast lateral shift using the inside of your foot to push the ball across your body—great when you're tight-marked. Andrés Iniesta made careers cry with that move."
"Another good one?" Bachira flicked the ball into his hands. "The Step-over chain. Not those useless ones people spam—you'll learn the ones that trick a defender into committing, then you switch your path with one fluid motion."
"Feints, sudden cuts, rainbow flicks, La Croqueta, chained step-overs," I muttered, absorbing the list. It was shaping into something deadly. Something for me.
"You're gonna be scary once we're done," Bachira chuckled, bouncing the ball toward me.
I caught it under my foot.
"I'm already scary," I said.
But I knew—I could be scarier.
And now, with this style taking shape… I had a new path to evolve.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was the day of the final match of the First Selection.
We were already on the pitch—silent, focused, ready.
Then we heard it.
Footsteps.
The sound of cleats hitting the concrete, echoing through the corridor like a war drum.
Team V stepped into view, their eyes scanning the field, their expressions unreadable.
But I wasn't looking at them to gauge fear or confidence.
I was just counting… one, two, three targets.
My hands clenched at my sides, my body still but my mind razor-sharp.
Heh.
Time to shut Ego up.
Time to prove I'm not some half-baked wannabe striker.
I'm here to devour everything—and everyone—in my path.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Notes:
YOO. really appreciate the 100 powerstones last week. when i first started this work i wasn't even expecting 10 powerstones. thank you for your support.
Sorry for the delay—had an important assignment to finish yesterday, so I had to get that out of the way first.
This might be the last chapter of the month… or maybe I'll drop one more if things go well. Who knows?
Anyway, this chapter was all about setting the stage for Isagi's mentality and the next phase of his evolution. Now that he's decent at using his strong points, I feel it's the perfect time for him to start covering up his weak ones—especially his dribbling.
If you've been following since the beginning, I did mention that Isagi practiced dribbling, and yes, I've been keeping his style consistent with that early setup. But up until now, he hasn't had the proper practice or consistency to make it reliable under pressure.
His dribbling needs more efficiency, more flow, and above all, consistency. And with the second selection being mostly 1v1s… yeah, you get the picture.
That's it for now.
Signing off,
SG
Editor's Note:-
Thanks you for 100 powerstones. we will keep on working hard to give you guys better chapters.
Another filler chapter but the next chapter is gonna be nice.
-NB