Spring at Raimon Middle School was as chaotic as it was colorful. Clubs flung open their doors, sports teams paraded their best players, and every hallway was cluttered with posters shouting JOIN US! The soccer club's poster, however, hung lopsided and sun-faded, tucked between a martial arts flyer and a lost cat notice.
Nobody paid it much attention. Until today.
A tall, red-haired boy stood in front of it, arms crossed, scowling like the paper had insulted his ancestors. His name? Sakuragi Hanamichi.
"Soccer, huh?" he muttered, spitting the word like it tasted bad.
Truth be told, Sakuragi hadn't come to Raimon Middle to play soccer. He hadn't come for any sport, actually. He didn't quite remember why he'd come at all. One day, he'd simply woken up in this world, red hair and all, in a body that felt both unfamiliar and too familiar.
And then the memories hit. Not just from the life he now lived, but from other lives. He'd seen himself dunk basketballs with violent grace. He'd shouted about being a tensai (genius!) until people believed it. And stranger still—he had flashes of other people's moves. A man with lion-like eyes kicking a football with a shot so fierce it felt like a predator hunting prey.
He wasn't just reincarnated. He was a mashup. A recycled soul thrown into Raimon Middle one year before the soccer club's rebirth.
For a while, he did nothing.
No team. No ambitions. Just school, occasional scuffles, and drifting through a world that felt half-real. His teachers called him a delinquent. His classmates gave him a wide berth. He was loud, unpredictable, and had a vertical leap that made the volleyball captain weep. His emotions and thought process were a mess, and he tried some sports. But none of them clicked. Not like that.
Then came a day that changed things.
"Oi! Catch this!"
A wild shot soared through the air.
Sakuragi turned just in time for a football to smack him clean in the face. He staggered back, blinking.
The ball bounced off and rolled back to the sender: a boy with bright eyes, spiky brown hair, and an apologetic laugh.
"Ah! Sorry about that! I didn't think anyone was walking behind the goal."
Sakuragi squinted. "You trying to kill someone, shorty?"
"Nah! Just training. I'm Endou Mamoru. You new here?"
Sakuragi dusted himself off. "Yes. You ever train aim?"
Endou laughed, rubbing his head. "Well, uh, we don't have many people to train with."
Sakuragi looked around. A few students milled about, clearly more interested in chatting than chasing balls. "This is your club?"
"Yeah. For now. It's gonna be big one day! I'm gonna make the best soccer team in all of Japan!"
Sakuragi snorted. "With that shot?"
"Hey! I'm a goalkeeper! My real job is stopping shots. Want to try?"
And just like that, Sakuragi Hanamichi was pulled into something he didn't expect.
The first few sessions were chaos. Sakuragi had no sense of positioning. He kept asking why people didn't just pick the ball up and run with it. His passes were wild, and his tackles resembled rugby more than football.
But when it came to shooting…
When Sakuragi hit the ball with his full strength, it flew like a missile. The goalpost rattled. Endou started using extra padding. And the few idle club members suddenly had something to watch.
Endou's grandfather's notebook—his legendary playbook—became their unofficial training bible. While others ignored it, Sakuragi, out of sheer boredom and curiosity, flipped through it one day after practice.
It was filled with hand-drawn diagrams, notes on positioning, foot angles, body posture, and training drills. Sakuragi didn't understand all of it. But some parts lit a fire in him. Sections on shooting techniques, using your body to strike like a beast—those resonated.
He started showing up early. Practising alone. Hitting shots from insane angles. Focusing only on striking the ball, learning how it curved, dipped, screamed.
He wasn't smart in the classroom, but on the field—
He was a genius in motion.
A few weeks in, Endou dragged him to meet the rest of the "club."
"Sakuragi! Meet the team!" Endou beamed.
There was Someoka, a brash guy with spiky hair and an ego that rivaled a small planet. Kabeyama, a gentle giant who moved like a glacier unless food was involved. Kurimatsu, who was probably the most technically sound but barely spoke above a whisper. Handa, the all-rounder who tried too hard to act cool. Shourinji, zen and meditative, and Shishido, who showed up, did warmups, then vanished like a ninja.
Sakuragi blinked. "This isn't a team. It's a group project gone wrong."
Endou only grinned. "We'll become one. Just wait."
Time passed.
Sakuragi's mind started sorting the memories a bit better. He realized he wasn't normal. He had three sets of memories—well, two sets, and one set of strange, fragmented visions. He had memories of being an engineer, living a mundane life, and choking on noodles (he was never eating those again). He had memories of being a rambunctious brat, playing basketball to impress a cute girl (she did look cute). And the last set—just glimpses—came from a life where he was a striker in some "Blue Lock" experiment. He was a piece of work there, too.
He didn't tell his parents about this memory issue. Last thing he wanted was to be called mental and thrown in a hospital. Besides, the memories were sorting out, and he was getting better at it. So he focused on improving at soccer. Mostly because the third and second set of memories pushed him to dominate at sports.
Sakuragi didn't become a soccer player overnight. But he became a striker—a raw, wild one. The others laughed at his ridiculous declarations ("I'll be the #1 in Japan, you losers!"), but they started training harder too.
He brought chaos. And strangely, that chaos lit a spark.
Some of the teachers took notice. Some upperclassmen too. There was talk of a real coach. Of entering a local tournament. Of getting serious.
But all Sakuragi knew was that the ball—this stupid little thing—felt right when he struck it clean. And every time he sent it flying past Endou, he saw shadows of that lion-eyed striker again.
Maybe this was who he was meant to be in this world.
Not a basketballer. Not a fighter. Not a genius.
But a striker who devours everything in his path.
And when that real first match came—when Raimon finally stood as a real soccer team—
Sakuragi would be ready.