13
Inside Ego's office, the monitors flickered with data from across the Blue Lock facility. Anri stood with her arms crossed, watching Ego slurp instant yakisoba from a plastic container. The room smelled of artificial flavoring and stale coffee.
"Ego-san," she said, her voice tight, "I'm asking about Blue Lock's progress. The first selection is almost complete. We need to evaluate—"
"We're still in the honeymoon phase," Ego interrupted, twirling noodles around his chopsticks. "The real test comes after. When they've tasted victory and defeat in equal measure. When they've learned what they're willing to sacrifice."
Anri's eye twitched. "And your lifestyle? Ever since Blue Lock started, you've been eating nothing but instant ramen and yakisoba. This is—"
"What do you think about Isagi?"
The question caught her off guard. She blinked, her lecture about nutrition dying on her lips.
"Isagi? As in Isagi Yoichi?"
"Yes." Ego set down his chopsticks, his glasses catching the light. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his voice—an intensity, a focus—that made Anri's professional detachment waver.
She considered the question carefully. "At first, I was quite skeptical about why you had to recruit him. Personally, I didn't see much talent. He was ranked 299th, his school team hadn't made it to Nationals, and there was nothing in his record that suggested—"
"And now?"
Anri hesitated. "Now... I can see why you chose him. His spatial awareness is exceptional. His decision-making under pressure has improved dramatically. And that goal against Team Y..." She shook her head. "I underestimated him."
Ego smiled—a thin, knowing thing. "What I see in him is his unyielding interest in soccer. Did you know I watched his matches before Blue Lock? From when he was still in France?"
Anri's ears perked up. This was new information. "France?"
"He was good. Very good. He had his own ego—selfish, never giving anyone else a chance to take the goal. Hogging all the shots for himself. The criteria I needed." Ego's voice hardened. "But something happened."
He pulled up a file on one of the monitors, videos of matches playing in quick succession. Isagi, younger, smaller, moving across a field in a jersey that wasn't Japanese.
"Each time I watch his past matches, they get worse. He was slowly losing his ego. His selfishness. I noticed his teammates treated him like a ghost—never passing to him, never celebrating when he scored. They gave him scornful gazes." Ego's jaw tightened. "And in the background, after games, I could see his coach. The hand gestures. The facial expressions. He was ruining Isagi."
Anri's chest tightened. What had he gone through?
"How could he dare to ruin such a talent?" Ego's voice was low, dangerous. "He molded Isagi to fit the Japanese way—pass first, score later. Team before self. I doubt the others didn't bully him. Japanese soccer players hate selfishness."
Anri wanted to ask more. Wanted to know about the boy who had been slowly crushed by a system that prized conformity over brilliance. But Ego's next words stopped her cold.
"I had been watching him ever since he started appearing in soccer matches three years ago. When he was fifteen." His eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "I knew he had a talent. With his beautiful eyes and sexy moves, he truly deserves my attention."
Anri's mouth fell open.
"As expected of my future wife."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Anri stared at Ego—at his bowl cut, his glasses, his blue Crocs—and felt something that might have been horror or might have been the dawning realization that she had been working for a madman.
"Ego-san," she said slowly, "have you been stalking a sixteen-year-old boy for three years?"
Ego picked up his yakisoba. "Observing," he corrected. "Professionally."
"That's—that's not—" Anri sputtered, her professional composure crumbling. "He's a minor! You're an adult! In a position of authority!"
"The heart wants what it wants."
"The law wants what it wants!"
Ego waved a dismissive hand. "Focus on the football, Anri. That's what matters."
Anri pressed her fingers to her temples, suddenly understanding why she had never been able to find a full-time assistant for this job.
The training field echoed with the sound of feet on turf, shouted instructions, the rhythmic thud of ball after ball striking the goal frame.
Isagi was not scoring.
He had been at it for an hour, running the same drills, taking the same shots, missing by the same margins. Every time he thought he had the angle right, the ball curved wide. Every time he adjusted, it found the goalkeeper's hands.
"Maybe that goal against Team Y was a fluke," Raichi called from across the field, his voice carrying that particular edge of mockery he reserved for moments when Isagi was already frustrated. "One lucky shot and suddenly you're the top ranker? Please."
Isagi's jaw tightened. He lined up another shot, struck it cleanly—
It hit the crossbar and bounced away.
Raichi's laugh echoed across the empty field.
Isagi stepped back from the goal, his chest heaving, his legs trembling. He needed a break. He needed to think. He drifted toward the sideline, grabbing a water bottle, letting the cool liquid wash away the taste of failure.
Everyone in Team Z is better than me, he thought, watching the others train. Kunigami has his left foot. Bachira has his dribbling. Gagamaru has his tackling. Raichi has his shooting. Even Naruhaya has his speed.
What do I have?
He closed his eyes, replaying the match against Team Y. The moment when he had known where the ball would be. The moment when he had known to pass to Chigiri. The moment when—
Spatial perception, Chigiri had called it. You have a good grasp of the field. You create ideal plays in an instant.
But that wasn't a weapon. Not like a cannon shot or a lightning sprint. It was just... seeing.
Isagi opened his eyes, and found himself looking at Chigiri.
The red-haired boy was standing apart from the others, his arms crossed, his face turned toward the field but his eyes somewhere else. He hadn't participated in training since the match against Team W. He hadn't spoken more than a handful of words to anyone.
He's scared, Isagi realized. Even after everything, he's still scared.
He thought about the night in the monitoring room. Chigiri's voice, cracking as he talked about his injury. The way his hands had shaken. The way he had run, not toward the field, but away.
I need to understand my weapon, Isagi thought. But maybe... maybe I need to understand him too.
He was still thinking about it when the screen on the training field flickered to life.
Ego's face appeared, a fresh bowl of yakisoba in his hands. He slurped a mouthful of noodles, swallowed, and said: "Results for the sixth match of the stratum."
A chart appeared behind him. Team V was in first place with 12 points. The rest of the teams were tied at 6 points each.
"Based on the rankings, all teams are tied except for Team V, who is in the lead." Ego took another slurp. "However, there have been changes in individual rankings within each team."
The chart shifted, showing Team Z's internal rankings. Names moved, numbers changed. Isagi scanned the list, looking for his own name, expecting it to have dropped after his lackluster performance in training.
Yoichi Isagi: Rank 247
His breath caught.
"The striker whose goals were most valuable for the team stands at the top of the chart," Ego explained. "Goals aren't just about quantity. They're about timing, pressure, and impact. Isagi's goal against Team Y turned a loss into a win. That's worth more than three goals in a blowout."
Isagi stared at the screen, something warm spreading through his chest.
"Remember this," Ego continued, his voice hardening. "If you want to rise, you need to score. Not just when it's easy. When it matters."
The screen shifted again, showing a countdown.
Team W vs Team Z: 23:14:58
"In less than a day, you face Team W. The twins are waiting." Ego's smile was sharp. "Don't disappoint me."
The screen went dark.
Isagi stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the blank screen, his mind churning. Rank 247. Top of Team Z. But I didn't earn it. It was one goal. One moment. I need to be more than that. I need to—
"You haven't noticed, have you?"
Bachira appeared beside him, his yellow eyes soft, his smile gentle.
Isagi blinked. "Noticed what?"
Bachira tilted his head, watching the other players return to their drills. "You've become the foundation of Team Z. When you passed to Chigiri, everyone followed. When you moved, everyone moved with you." He nudged Isagi's shoulder. "That's not luck, Isagi. That's you."
Isagi opened his mouth to argue, to say that he hadn't done anything, that Kunigami was stronger, Bachira was faster, Chigiri was—
But Bachira was already walking away, his voice drifting back over his shoulder. "Figure out your weapon. We need it for the next match."
The monitoring room was crowded.
Team Z had gathered to watch footage of their upcoming opponents, their earlier optimism tempered by the reality of what they were facing. Iemon stood at the front, a tablet in his hands, his face serious.
"Team W's key players are the Wanima brothers," he said, pulling up images of two nearly identical faces. "Keisuke Wanima and Junichi Wanima. Rank 244 and 242 respectively."
The images showed two young men with sharp features and matching expressions of fierce determination. Their hair was dark, their eyes intense, their postures mirror images of each other.
"When they played against Barou's team," Iemon continued, "the brothers scored four goals combined. They have perfect coordination. They almost never pass to anyone but each other."
Isagi leaned forward, studying the footage. The twins moved like a single organism—passing, receiving, moving in patterns that seemed almost telepathic. But there was something else. Something in the way they hesitated when separated, the way their coordination faltered when they couldn't see each other.
"They're useless when they're isolated," Isagi said.
Iemon nodded. "That's what I was thinking. If we can split them up, keep them from coordinating, we can neutralize their offense."
Kuon entered the room then, his hair still damp from a long shower, his smile easy and relaxed. "Sorry I'm late. Had to clear my head."
Raichi snorted. "Took you long enough. We're trying to figure out how to beat the twins."
Kuon settled into a seat, his expression thoughtful. "For the next game, we need an improved version of our tactic. I've been thinking about it." He pulled out a marker, drawing on the whiteboard in the corner of the room. "We'll call it the '3x3 all-stars' formation."
He explained quickly—three forwards, three midfielders, three defenders, and a goalkeeper. A structure within the chaos. A way to use everyone's weapons without stepping on each other's toes.
Iemon would stay in goal. Chigiri would anchor the defense.
"What about me?" Isagi asked.
Kuon's smile flickered. "You're in the midfield. Your spatial awareness will be most useful there. You can see the field, direct the play, find the openings."
Isagi nodded slowly. It made sense. It was logical.
So why did it feel like something was wrong?
The match began with Team W in possession.
Isagi watched from the midfield as the twins took the ball, their movements synchronized, their passes precise. Keisuke had the ball, his eyes scanning the field, his brother already moving into position.
"Here they come," Kunigami muttered.
Keisuke passed. Junichi received. One touch, two touches, and the ball was already past Team Z's first line of defense.
But Isagi was watching something else. He was watching the twins' eyes. They weren't looking at the field. They were looking at each other. Every pass, every movement, every decision—it all came down to that moment of eye contact.
Their weapon is their connection, Isagi realized. But if that connection breaks...
"Chigiri! Left side!" Isagi shouted.
Chigiri moved, his body responding before his mind could catch up. He positioned himself between Junichi and the goal, cutting off the angle, forcing a pass.
Keisuke caught it, already moving, already looking for his brother. But Isagi was there, his foot hooking the ball away, his body turning, his eyes finding—
Chigiri.
He passed without thinking. The ball left his foot, arcing toward the red-haired boy, and for a moment, Chigiri stood frozen, his violet eyes wide, his body not moving.
He's hesitating, Isagi thought. He's still scared.
Then Chigiri moved.
His foot touched the ball, his body turned, his legs—those legs that had once been the fastest in Japan—began to carry him forward. But Keisuke was there, his voice sharp, his words cutting.
"Look who it is. The genius with the glass knee."
Chigiri's stride faltered.
Keisuke pressed forward, his face inches from Chigiri's, his voice a whisper that somehow carried across the field. "Your football career is over. One wrong move, and those fragile knees snap again. Is it worth it? Is any of this worth it?"
Chigiri's legs stopped moving.
Isagi saw it happen. Saw the moment when fear won, when the memories of pain and loss and everything that had been taken from him rose up and swallowed him whole. Chigiri stood frozen, the ball rolling away from his feet, his face pale, his hands shaking.
No.
Isagi moved.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. His body simply acted, covering the distance between them in a sprint, his foot hooking the ball away from Keisuke's reach, his body placing itself between the twin and Chigiri.
"I don't have a past I can boast about," Isagi said, his voice low, fierce. "I don't have records or trophies or magazine interviews. I came to Blue Lock because I want to change my life. Through football."
He passed the ball—not to Chigiri, not yet. To Kunigami. To Bachira. To Gagamaru. The ball moved across the field in a pattern only he could see, a web of connections that grew tighter and tighter around Team W's goal.
"But you," Isagi said, finally turning to look at Chigiri, his blue eyes burning. "You have something I don't. You have a past worth protecting. You have something you're afraid of losing. That's not weakness, Chigiri. That's proof."
Kuon received the ball, his body rising, his head connecting with the pass. The ball flew past the goalkeeper's outstretched hands, into the back of the net.
1-0.
Isagi walked to Chigiri, stopping in front of him, their faces inches apart.
"I don't care about your past," he said quietly. "I care about who you are now. And who you are now..." He smiled. "Is someone I want on my team."
Chigiri stared at him, something cracking behind his violet eyes. His hands, still shaking, curled into fists.
"You don't know anything about me," he whispered.
"Then show me."
The first half ended with Team Z leading 3-0.
Kuon had scored all three goals—two from headers, one from a perfectly placed volley. The team was jubilant, laughing, slapping each other's backs, already counting the victory as theirs.
Isagi sat apart, watching Kuon.
The taller boy was smiling, laughing at something Raichi said, his whole demeanor radiating the easy confidence of a leader who had delivered. But Isagi had seen something else. In the moment after his second goal, when the team had surrounded him, when no one was looking at his face—
He had smiled. Not the warm, encouraging smile he wore for the team. Something else. Something cold.
He's hiding something, Isagi thought. But what?
The second half began, and everything fell apart.
It started with a pass. Raichi had the ball, was driving toward the goal, when Kuon called for it.
"Slow down! Pass it to me!"
Raichi hesitated, then complied. The ball left his foot, arcing toward Kuon—
And Keisuke appeared from nowhere, his foot intercepting the pass, his body already turning, already passing to his brother.
Junichi struck. 3-1.
"Kuon!" Raichi shouted. "What the hell?!"
Kuon's face was apologetic, his hands raised. "Sorry! Sorry, my timing was off. I'll do better."
The game resumed. Kuon had the ball now, Isagi open ahead, a clear path to the goal. Kuon passed—
Short. Too short.
Junichi intercepted again. Struck again. 3-2.
"What are you doing?!" Raichi's voice was a roar.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Kuon's voice cracked, his face twisted with apparent distress. "I don't know what's wrong with me today!"
Isagi watched him, something cold settling in his chest. He's not sorry. He's not.
The team accepted the apology. How could they not? Kuon had scored three goals. Kuon had led them to victory. Kuon was their captain, their strategist, their friend.
But Isagi had seen it. The smile. The flicker of something in his eyes when he thought no one was watching.
He's doing this on purpose. He's throwing the game.
But why?
The answer came twenty minutes later, when Isagi confronted him.
They were losing now. Team W had scored again, the score 4-3, and Team Z was scrambling, their weapons neutralized, their strategies broken. Kuon had told them everything—every weakness, every pattern, every secret they had shared in the darkness of their room.
Isagi grabbed Kuon's arm, pulling him away from the others, his voice low and dangerous.
"Did you betray us?"
Kuon's face flickered—surprise, then something else, something that might have been admiration. "You noticed."
"Answer me."
Keisuke's voice cut across the field. "He noticed! The little one figured it out!" He was laughing, his arm around his brother's shoulders. "Kuon came to us after your little meeting. Told us everything. Every weapon. Every weakness. All for the chance to score three goals."
Raichi lunged. A referee's whistle. A yellow card.
But Isagi didn't move. He stood in front of Kuon, his blue eyes fixed on the taller boy's face, waiting for an explanation that he already knew wouldn't satisfy.
"Why?" Isagi asked. "Why would you do this?"
Kuon's smile was gentle, almost kind. "Because I want to survive."
"Then why—"
"Because I've seen this before." Kuon's voice was soft, sad. "I came to Blue Lock wanting to win the World Cup. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I was good enough, I could make it. But one by one, my teammates gave up. They said the World Cup was too far. Too high. An unreachable dream." His hands curled into fists. "I won't let anyone drag me down again. I won't be the one left behind."
"So you'd rather betray us than trust us?"
Kuon's smile didn't waver. "Trust doesn't win. Ego does. My ego is survival. My ego is winning—even if I have to burn everyone else to do it."
Isagi stared at him for a long moment. Then, quietly: "You're wrong."
He turned away, walking back toward his teammates, toward the chaos of a game that was slipping away from them. But before he went, he stopped.
"You think you're the only one who's scared? You think you're the only one who's been told their dreams are too big?" He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes burning. "I've been told that my whole life. But I'm still here. I'm still fighting. And I'm not going to let you take that away from us."
The game was almost over.
Three minutes left. Team Z was losing 4-3, their weapons neutralized, their strategies broken, their captain a traitor. Isagi stood in the midfield, watching the ball move from foot to foot, watching the clock tick down, watching everything he had worked for slip away.
We can't win, he thought. There's no way. Not like this.
But something inside him refused to give up. Something that had been there since the beginning, since France, since the moment he first kicked a ball and felt something click into place.
I can smell the goal.
It wasn't a scent. It wasn't anything he could explain. But standing there, in the chaos of a game that should have been over, Isagi could feel it. A presence. A shift. A possibility.
Chigiri.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. He just passed.
The ball left his foot, arcing across the field, toward a space that no one was occupying. Keisuke laughed. Kuon shook his head. The rest of Team Z watched in confusion as the ball sailed toward nothing.
Then Chigiri ran.
His legs moved like they hadn't moved in years, eating up the distance, catching up to the ball, his body a blur of red and white. Keisuke tried to stop him, grabbing at his jersey, his arms, anything to slow him down.
Chigiri didn't stop.
He burst past the twin, past the defense, past everything that had been holding him back. The goalkeeper was ahead of him, arms spread, body blocking the goal. But Chigiri didn't see him. He saw only the net, only the ball, only the dream he had been too afraid to chase.
If my legs give out after this, he thought, then so be it. That just means I wasn't worthy.
He struck.
The ball flew past the goalkeeper's hands, past the goal line, into the back of the net. 4-4.
The whistle blew.
The locker room was quiet.
Team Z sat in scattered groups, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and relief and something that might have been hope. The draw meant they weren't eliminated. They were still alive. Still fighting.
Isagi sat beside Chigiri, their shoulders almost touching, neither speaking.
"That was incredible," Isagi said finally. "Your speed. Your weapon. You could have been doing that the whole time."
Chigiri's hands were clasped in his lap, his fingers white-knuckled. "I was scared."
"I know."
"I'm still scared."
Isagi turned to look at him, really look. Chigiri's face was pale, his jaw tight, but his eyes—those violet eyes that had been so hollow, so empty—were burning.
"I won't hold back anymore," Chigiri said quietly. "Not for fear of what might happen. Not for anyone." He met Isagi's eyes. "I'm going to be the world's best striker."
Isagi smiled. "Then we'll fight together."
Chigiri shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "No. I'll be the world's best striker. You can be second."
Isagi laughed, and for a moment, everything was okay.
In the dining hall of the fifth stratum, Kuon sat across from three players who looked at him with expressions ranging from boredom to disgust.
Zantetsu Tsurugi—tall, with black spiky hair and glasses he kept pushing up his nose—was the first to speak. "Your proposal is not... optimal? No. Acceptable. That's the word. Your proposal is not acceptable."
Reo Mikage sighed, his chin-length purple hair swaying as he shook his head. "What he means to say is that we're not interested in your little scheme. It's spineless. Lame."
Beside him, a boy with white hair and gray eyes was staring at his phone, his expression blank. Seishiro Nagi hadn't said a word since Kuon sat down.
"If you let me score against Team V," Kuon pressed, his voice desperate, "I can give you information about Team Z. Their weapons. Their weaknesses. Everything."
Reo's lip curled. "We don't need your information to beat the worst team in the stratum."
"I can help you—"
"You can help yourself," Nagi said, not looking up from his phone. "Those who can't win even after doing their best are just weak. They're meant to lose." He finally lifted his gaze, his gray eyes flat, uninterested. "Just quit."
Kuon's face went white.
Isagi stepped forward before he could stop himself.
"Don't mock people who are devoted to football," he said, his voice sharp.
Nagi's eyes shifted to him, something flickering in that blank expression. "Who are you?"
Isagi met his gaze, his hands curling into fists. "Isagi Yoichi. Team Z. And we're going to beat you."
Nagi stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sat up. His gray eyes traveled over Isagi's face—the blue eyes, the stubborn sprouts of hair, the set of his jaw—and something in his expression shifted.
"Cute," Nagi murmured.
Reo's head snapped toward him. "What?"
Nagi tilted his head, studying Isagi with an intensity that made the smaller boy's skin prickle. "Are you interested in a lover?"
Silence.
Zantetsu choked on his drink. Reo's face went through several shades of purple before settling on something that might have been outrage. "Nagi! You can't just—that's not—we're in the middle of—"
"What?" Nagi's expression didn't change. "He's a beauty."
Reo smacked the back of Nagi's head. "You're being vulgar! And straightforward! And—and—"
Zantetsu pushed his glasses up, his face red. "Such a direct approach! There's no romance! No courtship! No—"
"You're both overreacting," Nagi said flatly, rubbing his head where Reo had hit him. He looked at Isagi again, his gray eyes curious. "But I want to play against you. You look interesting."
Isagi stood frozen, his face burning, his brain short-circuiting. Did he just—did he actually—
Reo had dropped Nagi entirely and was now approaching Isagi, his earlier disdain replaced by something that looked like fascination. He stopped in front of the smaller boy, studying his face with the intensity of a gemologist examining a rare stone.
"Dark blue hair," Reo murmured, almost to himself. "Deep blue eyes. That little ahoge..." His hand reached out, fingers brushing against the stubborn sprout of hair that stuck up from Isagi's head. "Adorable."
Isagi's face went from red to crimson. He smacked Reo's hand away, his scowl fierce despite his burning cheeks. "What is wrong with you people?!"
Reo blinked, then laughed—a genuine laugh, warm and surprised. "Feisty. I like that."
"Reo," Nagi called from his seat. "Stop flirting with the enemy."
"I'm not—" Reo caught himself, his face reddening. "I was assessing our opponent! Professionally!"
Zantetsu shook his head solemnly. "This is why we can't have nice things."
Isagi retreated to his teammates, his face still burning, his heart pounding. Behind him, he heard Nagi's voice, soft and thoughtful:
"Team Z. Isagi Yoichi." A pause. "I want to see what he can do."
The night before the match against Team V, Isagi lay on his futon, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing.
We have to win. We have to.
He thought about Kuon's betrayal. About Nagi's lazy confidence. About the three undefeated players who stood between Team Z and survival.
What's my formula? What's my weapon?
He didn't know. Not yet. But as he closed his eyes, he could feel it there—something waiting, something watching, something that would not let him lose.
I'll figure it out on the field. When it matters. When it counts.
That's what a striker does.
---------------------------------------------------
Yeah, ego has been stalking Isagi ever since he got back from France ( He saw Isagi on a match randomly on some other Tuesday, he thought the match would be boring and saw Isagi. He was hooked and started watching him from afar). Such a scary thing...
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