"Damn, that pass was sick."
Nagi muttered, standing beside Isagi, his gaze locked onto the U-20 team's celebration. Their offensive players huddled together in triumph, while Niko and Gagamaru remained on the ground, frustration evident in their expressions. Both were replaying their mistakes in their heads, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.
A sharp whistle from the referee snapped them out of their daze. With a sigh, they forced themselves back to their feet.
Rin clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he muttered curses under his breath. He had tried—desperately—to intercept his brother, but Sae hadn't even acknowledged his presence. Without hesitation, he had pulled off that absurdly precise pass from midfield, setting up Shidou for the goal.
The referee signaled for the teams to reset. Players jogged back into position, some still simmering with frustration, others focused on what came next.
As the whistle blew, Nagi stepped forward for the kickoff, his usual lazy demeanor replaced by a rare flicker of focus. With a smooth touch, he sent the ball rolling toward Rin.
The instant it reached him, Rin exploded forward. His sharp eyes locked onto the field ahead, his body surging with pent-up frustration. There was no hesitation, no glance at his teammates—teamwork be damned.
His breaths came heavy, muscles coiled with tension. Every step pounded against the pitch like a war drum, his heart matching its rhythm. The sting of failure clung to him—Isagi had outplayed him, Sae had ignored him, and that humiliating goal had burned itself into his memory.
Enough.
This time, he wouldn't just stand in their shadows. He would crush them.
Rin charged forward, but his path was quickly obstructed. Standing in his way was Hayate, the lone defensive midfielder of the U-20 team.
For a brief moment, their eyes locked. Hayate braced himself, determined to halt Rin's advance—but he never stood a chance. With a sharp feint, Rin shifted his weight ever so slightly, baiting Hayate into lunging the wrong way. In the next instant, he cut past him effortlessly, surging deeper into enemy territory.
Nagi, Otoya, and Yukimiya sprinted forward in perfect synchronization, ready to support the attack. Yet, Rin never even spared them a glance. His mind was locked onto one thing—his own goal. His own dominance.
Then, just as he gained momentum, his balance wavered.
A sudden force clipped his legs, disrupting his stride. Before he could react, the ball was already rolling away from him. Rin snapped his head around, his narrowed eyes locking onto the culprit.
Sendou.
The U-20 striker had executed a precise tackle—not reckless, not dirty, but calculated. He had seen enough. Watching Shidou take command of the offense had lit something inside him, and now, he wanted to do the same. No more playing passive. No more hesitation. He had identified the problem—Rin—and he moved to erase it.
The ball, knocked loose by the challenge, spun wildly to the left.
Right where Isagi was standing.
Isagi had anticipated this exact moment. The instant Sendou lunged, he read the play, tracking the ball's trajectory before it even happened. And just like that, his patience paid off.
As the ball approached him, another presence closed in.
Sae.
"You've got a good head on your shoulders"
Sae muttered as he neared, his eyes studying Isagi with the slightest glint of amusement.
"Yeah, I'm aware"
But Isagi is already a step ahead. He knows. The second he gains possession, Sae will be on him. That's why—
He never traps the ball.
With a single, calculated touch of his right foot, he sends the ball cutting through the field—not stopping, not hesitating, only moving forward.
The pass isn't just a clearance. It's an execution.
The ball curves in midair, bending through the open space like a guided missile, streaking towards the left wing—towards Yukimiya.
And he's already there.
Yukimiya realized that having a one-on-one with Neru was challenging, and Isagi understood this as well. This pass was made after considering that situation, and Yukimiya was grateful for it.
Yukimiya doesn't break stride as the ball drops perfectly into his path, his off-the-ball movement slotting seamlessly into Isagi's intent. Not a second wasted. Not a touch misplaced.
"Shit...!"
Neru reacts too late. The precision of the pass—its weight, its curve, its purpose—makes it impossible to intercept. By the time he shifts, Yukimiya is already past him, untouched, unchallenged.
A perfect connection.
The field tilts, momentum swinging, the air charged with the next move—the goal is just ahead.
Yukimiya receives the ball in perfect stride, and for a split second, the field freezes. Neru and Aiku, who had been tracking the ball with laser focus, are left stunned—caught off guard, a step too slow.
Before they can react, Yukimiya surges forward.
Free. Unmarked. Dangerous.
The shift in momentum is instant, like a spark igniting an explosion.
Niou abandons Nagi, his instincts screaming at him to close the gap. He charges in, pressing aggressively, his body leaning forward to cut off Yukimiya's path. A desperate move. A last-ditch attempt.
But Yukimiya doesn't care.
He was never planning to stop.
His eyes lock onto the target—the goal.
He's already in range.
With a sharp inhale, he plants his foot, shifting his weight. And then—he strikes.
The ball launches into the air, spinning with an unnatural, violent rotation—his signature Gyro Shot.
Niou halts mid-stride, his momentum thrown into chaos. His eyes snap upward, tracking the ball as it cuts through the air—twisting, bending, carving its own path toward the net.
The Gyro Shot starts to dip.
Aiku reacts instantly, pushing off the ground and moving toward the ball's projected landing spot. He has to reach it—there's no time to hesitate.
But he isn't the only one.
Nagi moves, too.
With his hand stretched out, Nagi subtly disrupts Aiku's momentum, just enough to throw off his timing. A split-second delay. A minor interference—but at this level, even the smallest hesitation is fatal.
The ball plummets toward the right corner of the goal.
Aiku grits his teeth. No choice. He jumps, fully committing, leaving Nagi behind. At the same time, Fukaku, the U-20's last line of defense, dives.
A race against gravity.
Fukaku's hand reaches it first. Fingers make contact—but the impact isn't enough.
The ball shifts course, but it's still in play, still heading toward the net.
Aiku is out of position.
Or so it seems.
Instinct takes over. His leg snaps out—one final, desperate attempt.
Contact.
The ball deflects, launching upward, spinning over the crossbar.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air.
Corner kick.
A deafening roar erupts from the crowd, a mix of disbelief and admiration at Aiku's last-second save. The U-20's defensive line rushes to him, clapping him on the back, gripping his shoulders—relief washing over them like a tidal wave. He had done it. He had kept them alive.
But on the other side of the pitch, Yukimiya stands frozen, his jaw tight.
His shot—his Gyro Shot—had been denied.
He exhales sharply, frustration curling in his chest like a storm. That was his chance. A golden opportunity, perfectly set up by Isagi. And he missed it.
Gritting his teeth, he turns, his eyes searching for his teammate.
Isagi is already walking toward the right corner, positioning himself for the kick. He looks calm—too calm.
A pit forms in Yukimiya's stomach.
He quickens his pace, calling out to Isagi.
"Hey"
Isagi glances back, his expression unreadable.
"…Sorry"
Yukimiya mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.
"That was my chance. You gave me the perfect setup, and I wasted it."
Isagi doesn't respond right away. He simply watches Yukimiya, assessing, calculating.
And that's what unsettles him the most.
Yukimiya knows Isagi sees the field differently. He doesn't just look at players—he evaluates them. Decides whether they belong in his formula or not.
But before the frustration can take root, a voice cuts through the tension.
"Don't mind that. Keep your eyes sharp for this corner, though."
Yukimiya blinks.
Isagi's tone is calm—too calm. And then, suddenly, a smile tugs at his lips.
It wasn't disappointment. It wasn't irritation.
It was excitement.
Isagi hadn't expected Yukimiya to get past Niou so cleanly. He had expected Aiku to step up and press to the immediate danger which he did not.
Even with Yukimiya charging straight at him, Aiku's eyes had never truly left Isagi.
That single realization sends a spark through his brain.
'I underestimated my own presence.'
His mind had been fixated on breaking down everyone else's abilities, analyzing their movements, predicting their plays. He had used their patterns to weave the perfect equation.
But in doing so, he overlooked one crucial element—himself.
His last attack had shaken them. His very existence on the field had become a gravitational force, bending the opponent's focus toward him. Even when he wasn't in direct possession, even when he wasn't making the final shot—his presence alone dictated their reactions.
And he loved it.
His grin widens.
This is it. This is the kind of play he wants to create. A field where everything revolves around him.
With that thought burning in his mind, he steps up to the corner. The players are already gathering inside the box, bodies jostling, shoving for position. The tension thickens, anticipation crackling in the air.
Every U-20 defender is in the penalty area—except for two.
Sae Itoshi and Shidou Ryusei remain outside, detached from the chaos.
But near the net, stationed like a final wall of defense, stands Niou.
He isn't taking any chances. He knows what Isagi is capable of.
A direct shot from a corner isn't impossible—not for someone like Isagi. And if that's even a possibility, Niou intends to shut it down before it can happen.
Isagi scans the box, eyes flicking over his teammates and opponents, piecing together the next step of his equation.
Then, with a steadying breath, he plants his foot beside the ball.
Time to make his move.
Isagi takes two steps back, his heartbeat steady, his mind razor-sharp. The referee's whistle cuts through the air.
Without hesitation, he surges forward.
With his left foot, he strikes the ball—hard.
A loud thwack echoes across the pitch as the ball rockets into the sky, slicing through the air with violent spin.
Inside the box, a split second of stunned silence.
The players watch, confusion flashing across their faces.
The ball isn't heading toward them.
Its trajectory is completely off-course—angling toward the left wing instead.
Aiku's instincts kick in. His head snaps toward the potential drop point, eyes narrowing—
And then he sees it.
"Am I the last piece?"
Bachira.
The moment their eyes meet, Bachira is already moving, dashing down the left flank.
Aiku isn't the only one who reacts.
Near the goal, Niou launches himself forward, sprinting toward Bachira with everything he has. If this ball is a pass, if Bachira gets to it first—
But he shouldn't have moved so soon.
Because just then—
The ball drops.
Sharp and sudden, it plummets like a meteor, still spinning wildly, its rotation bending the air around it.
Aiku's breath catches in his throat.
'Wait—this isn't a pass.'
His brain scrambles to process, but the answer is already there. The ball's movement, the unnatural dip, the aggressive spin—
It's the same Gyro Shot Yukimiya had used before.
But this time, it's different.
This time, it's Isagi.
And unlike Yukimiya, Isagi isn't just relying on the shot's unpredictable movement—
He's controlling it. Directing it with precision.
Aiku's blood runs cold.
This entire sequence—the deceptive trajectory, Bachira's movement, Niou's immediate reaction—was all part of Isagi's equation.
Niou had been baited.
Cleared from the goal line.
Leaving a direct path—
For Isagi's shot to sink into the net.
Yukimiya stood nearby, his breath caught in his throat as realization struck. His eyes widened, disbelief and admiration flashing across his face.
A few steps away, even Sae Itoshi's ever-calm expression wavered, his eyes narrowing as he tracked the ball's descent.
It hadn't crossed the line yet.
But none of that mattered.
Because Isagi—
Isagi already had his arms wide open in celebration.
The sheer confidence in his posture was overwhelming, as if the outcome was inevitable. As if, from the moment he struck the ball, he knew.
And that certainty sent a jolt through Rin Itoshi.
'No way!'
No way he was letting Isagi have this.
Before he could think, he was already sprinting.
Aiku, the closest to the goal, reacted too, lunging forward with a singular goal—stop the ball before it crossed the line.
But Rin's desperation burned hotter.
This wasn't just about preventing a goal.
It was about taking it.
If he could get there first—if he could steal the shot at the last second—he could imagine it. The despair that would fill Isagi's face.
That would be the ultimate victory.
Rin wanted that more than anything.
But then—
Both he and Aiku realized it at the same time.
They weren't going to make it.
The ball's spin, its trajectory—it was unstoppable.
Aiku gritted his teeth, watching helplessly as the shot curved, the Gyro Shot bending reality itself.
At the last line of defense, Fukaku leapt, arms outstretched—
But his mind was still rattled, the shock of the trajectory clouding his judgment.
A moment's hesitation.
A reaction just too late.
The ball ripped past him, burying itself into the net.
Goal.
And as the stadium erupted, Isagi Yoichi stood tall, arms still spread wide, basking in the moment he had already seen before anyone else.
The stadium roared with unfiltered chaos. Fans erupted, voices blending into a deafening wave of excitement.
And the commentators?
They were stunned.
Even though Sae had scored a direct corner kick in the first half, this—this was different.
Isagi's goal wasn't just a display of skill.
It was calculated.
It was beautiful.
The sheer precision, the manipulation of the defenders, the spin of the ball—it all came together in a moment of undeniable brilliance.
And what made it even more breathtaking—
Was him.
Isagi, arms stretched wide before the ball had even crossed the line, basking in the moment like he had already seen the future.
That kind of confidence—
It was intoxicating. It was the kind of presence that made everyone watching lean forward, unable to look away.
The commentators scrambled to put words to what they had just witnessed.
The scoreboard flickered, solidifying the impact of his play. 4-2.
The U-20 had just managed to claw one goal back, narrowing the gap, only for Isagi to crush their momentum and stretch the lead once again. Two steps ahead. Always two steps ahead.
A chilling realization settled over the field. Up until now, both Isagi and Rin had netted two goals each—but the weight of those goals felt entirely different. Isagi stood at the center of the battlefield, a gravitational force that dictated the flow of the game itself. The eyes of every spectator, every player, were locked onto him, not Rin.
And the reason was painfully clear.
While Isagi's goals had come from his own vision, his ability to read and bend the game to his will, Rin's had been nothing more than the aftermath of Isagi's influence. The meticulous build-ups, the opportunities created, the invisible threads of control—everything had been orchestrated by Isagi from the very beginning. Rin wasn't the protagonist of this match. He had been unknowingly playing the role of a Shadow Striker.
The thought gnawed at Rin's pride. A bitter truth wrapped in the brilliance of Isagi Yoichi's football.
As soon as the ball hit the net, a wave of exhilaration crashed over Blue Lock.
Nagi, Chigiri, Bachira, Otoya, and Karasu surged forward, their excitement exploding as they leaped onto Isagi, wrapping him in a chaotic, joy-fueled celebration. Their laughter and shouts of triumph filled the air, bodies colliding in a mess of arms and jerseys.
Isagi let himself sink into the moment, soaking in the energy of the crowd, the weight of his teammates pressing against him. This—this was football at its purest. The rush, the thrill, the shared euphoria of conquering the field.
Just a few feet away, Yukimiya stood still.
His gaze never left Isagi, his eyes filled with something deeper than admiration—understanding. He had just witnessed it again.
A technique, copied, refined, and then perfected.
This wasn't the first time.
Reo was known for his ability to replicate moves with near-perfect precision, but there was always a limit—a 99% ceiling he couldn't break through. Isagi, however, was different. He never simply copied. He evolved. He took a skill, twisted it, sharpened it, and made it his own, turning something already great into something otherworldly.
Yukimiya had spent countless hours perfecting his Gyro Shot, making it sharper, more unpredictable, believing that was its peak. He had imagined many possibilities—but never this. He had never thought it could become so devastatingly accurate.
Yet, Isagi had just done it. And he had executed it flawlessly.
A lesser player might have felt frustration, a creeping sense of inadequacy in the face of such overwhelming brilliance. But Yukimiya felt something else.
Excitement.
If this was possible, then his Gyro Shot could still evolve. If Isagi had shown him the path forward, then all that was left was to put in the effort.
And Yukimiya was more than ready.
The U-20 team was trapped in a fog of uncertainty, their every movement seeming slower, more calculated—yet still falling short. The pressure Isagi had applied to them from the very first whistle had morphed into an unrelenting storm. His presence was like a shadow, constantly looming over their decisions, leaving them second-guessing each move they made. Aiku, usually so sure of himself, found the puzzle that was Isagi growing more complex by the second. The young striker's unpredictability—it was suffocating. Aiku had once believed he could outthink Isagi, unravel his game like a thread being pulled from the fabric. But now, the more he tried, the more elusive Isagi became.
Where the other Blue Lock players had mastered a one-track mentality, their choices streamlined toward either shooting or passing, Isagi existed in a world of grey. His options to shoot and pass were almost perfectly balanced, a seamless blend of opportunity and calculation that made him an impossible player to predict. Every time the ball came near him, the tension would rise—an invisible weight pressing on the U-20 defenders, making them hesitate just long enough for him to strike.
But it was Sae Itoshi, the field general, the one who was supposed to control the tempo and shape the flow of the game, who felt the full force of Isagi's unpredictability. The young prodigy had been a challenge from the very beginning, but Sae had resisted a direct confrontation, choosing to pull the strings from behind the scenes instead. After all, a midfielder's role wasn't to meet every challenge head-on—it was to guide the game, orchestrating it, feeding his strikers the perfect passes. But now, Isagi had become more than a mere obstacle in that path. He had become the problem.
Sae's focus sharpened as he tracked Isagi's every movement. This wasn't just about stopping the ball—it was about confronting the one player who had made a mockery of his authority on the pitch. He couldn't allow this young upstart to think he could dictate the game like this. Not on his watch.
And then there was Shidou. The wild card, the one who never seemed to take anything seriously. The one who thrived on chaos. He had been watching the game unfold with a grin plastered on his face, enjoying every twist and turn as the drama of Isagi's rise to prominence played out. With every move Isagi made, Shidou's voice seemed to get louder, his teasing sharper. It was like a game for him—especially when it came to Sae.
"Did you see that?"
Shidou's voice cut through the tension, a sharp taunt aimed directly at Sae.
"Isagi scored the same goal you did, but…"
His grin widened.
"It was way prettier. Also, he did it with his left foot. You should take notes, Sae."
The words were laced with mockery, but there was a challenge in Shidou's tone, as if he were daring Sae to do something—anything—to show that he still had control. But Sae's eyes narrowed, the competitive fire inside him igniting. He was done letting Isagi have the upper hand.
The referee blew his whistle, snapping the players back into focus. The U-20 team, still reeling from Isagi's latest brilliance, reluctantly shuffled into their positions, determined to hold onto any semblance of control they could salvage. But it was clear that something had shifted.
The Blue Lock players, on the other hand, stood with an almost palpable sense of confidence. The scoreline spoke for itself—4-2. Isagi's presence on the pitch had completely altered the flow of the game. He had become a force to be reckoned with, bending the momentum to his will. The match has become all about individual brilliance.
But not everyone was riding that wave of euphoria.
Chigiri, who had been darting up and down the flanks with his trademark speed, was starting to show signs of wear. His legs, once a blur of motion, now felt like lead. The constant sprinting, the sharp cuts, the relentless demands of the game—they were beginning to take their toll. He could feel the burn in his thighs, the familiar pull of cramping muscles that made every stride feel heavier than the last.
The intensity of the match had caught up to him, and his usual explosive pace was faltering. It wasn't like Chigiri to show weakness, but the exhaustion was undeniable. Sweat dripped from his brow, his breaths coming in shallow bursts as he tried to maintain his position.
And as always, Isagi noticed.
His sharp eyes locked onto Chigiri for a split second, catching the subtle limp in his teammate's step, the way his body was beginning to falter. Without missing a beat, Isagi adjusted his positioning, his mind already working out the next sequence of play.
"Chigiri, move inside"
Isagi called, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.
"I'll take the wing for now."
Chigiri, his face twisted in frustration and embarrassment at having to pull back, gave a small nod. He knew that Isagi wasn't offering pity—he was offering strategy. The play had to keep flowing, and if Chigiri couldn't keep up, Isagi would pick up the slack.
For a moment, there was a brief flash of pride in Chigiri's eyes. He trusted Isagi. He trusted his decisions, his vision on the field.
However, just as Chigiri adjusted to his new position, the piercing whistle of the referee signaled a break in play. That was the moment Ego decided to make his move.
From the sidelines, the Blue Lock mastermind observed everything with his usual calculating stare. He had seen the signs—the small cracks forming in their momentum. Chigiri was running low on gas, his once-blistering pace beginning to falter. Niko had failed to stop Shidou, a costly mistake against a predator like him. And above all, Ego had his own agenda—he wanted to see something new, something the next set of players could bring to the field.
Chigiri, standing near the center of the pitch, felt a surge of frustration coil in his chest. The moment he saw the substitutions being prepared, he knew. His time on the field was up.
He clenched his fists, jaw tightening as he swallowed the bitter pill of reality. He had no one to blame but himself. He had skipped training sessions since he had picked up that injury, and now, it was coming back to haunt him. His body wasn't where it needed to be, and now he was paying the price. Logic told him this was fair—but logic didn't make the helplessness any easier to bear.
Just as the weight of it all threatened to drown him, a firm hand landed on his shoulder.
Isagi.
Chigiri looked up, meeting the steady gaze of his captain. There were no words—there didn't need to be. The quiet understanding in Isagi's expression, the subtle grip on his shoulder—it was enough. A moment of silent reassurance.
Chigiri took a deep breath, letting himself absorb that small comfort before nodding. Without another word, he turned and made his way toward the sidelines, shoulders squared, determined not to let the disappointment show.
As he exited the field, two players stepped in—Reo Mikage and Hiori Yo.
Ego had thought this through meticulously. His adjustments weren't just about plugging gaps; they were about reshaping the entire flow of the match.
Reo was slotted into the defensive role in place of Niko. It was a calculated risk, but one Ego deemed necessary. Niko had struggled to contain Shidou, and against an unrelenting beast like him, failure was inevitable. Reo, on the other hand, had the physicality, the intelligence, and, most importantly, the ability to mimic and disrupt playstyles. If anyone could throw Shidou off his rhythm, it was him.
Meanwhile, Hiori was positioned on the right wing, while Otoya was pushed back to right-back position. This wasn't just a standard switch—it was a move meant to force Isagi's evolution.
Hiori was different from the other attackers. His strength wasn't in forcing his way into goal-scoring positions. He was a true playmaker, a strategist who saw the game through the lens of precision and timing. His passes were razor-sharp, calculated down to the finest margin. By pairing him with Isagi, Ego was engineering a shift—one that would push Isagi further into the striker role rather than drifting back into midfield.
If Isagi had someone constantly feeding him high-level passes, he wouldn't need to involve himself in playmaking as much. He would be forced to act as the finisher, the one who delivered the final blow.
As everyone settled into their positions, the referee blew the whistle, signaling the restart of play. From the center, Sae Itoshi wasted no time, sending a sharp pass forward to Shidou.
Shidou's signature grin stretched across his face as he surged ahead, ready to wreak havoc once more. But just as he took his first stride, a shadow cut into his path with startling aggression.
Rin.
With a burst of blistering speed, Rin Itoshi closed the distance, stepping in front of Shidou before he could fully accelerate. The sudden interruption caught Shidou off guard—his predatory instincts were sharp, but Rin had anticipated his move before it even began.
Shidou's gaze flicked upward, locking onto Rin's face. What he saw made his blood boil.
Rin's tongue was slightly out, his expression a twisted mixture of focus and something more—something unshakably confident. His eyes gleamed with an intensity that sent a clear message:
'I've seen enough.'
For Rin, it wasn't just about stopping Shidou. It was about reclaiming what was his.
Ever since Isagi's last goal, an uncomfortable weight had settled in his chest. No matter how much effort he had poured into the game, no matter how sharp his instincts were, Isagi had stolen the spotlight again.
'That bastard.'
Rin had tried to suppress it, but the frustration festered. Every fiber of his being screamed that he should have been the one to score that goal. Instead, he had been forced to watch as Isagi dismantled the U-20 defense and made his mark.
And now, something inside Rin had snapped.
He was in the zone.
Rin's zone was ruthless and simple—he would let his opponents play their best moves and then obliterate them at their peak. It was the purest, most egotistical way to play.
And right now, it had been triggered by Isagi's continuous dominance.
.
.
.
.
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