5
It had been seven years since Isagi Yoichi moved to France.
Seven years of croissants for breakfast, of speaking French until it became second nature, of kicking a ball across fields and streets and playgrounds. Seven years of friendship—of laughter, competition, and the quiet comfort of knowing that no matter what happened, there were people who had his back.
Isagi was happy here.
He had Charles, with his sharp tongue and sharper fang, who demanded attention like a cat
He had Loki, who would always pamper him with sweets.
And he had Hugo.
Hugo, who had been there from the very first day. Hugo, with his dark red hair and long eyelashes and eyes that seemed to see straight through to Isagi's soul.
The three of them were always there when he needed them.
Today, they were walking home together after a long afternoon of football. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The streets were quiet, the usual bustle of the neighborhood giving way to the peaceful lull of evening.
Isagi was walking beside Hugo, as he often did. Loki had gone ahead to buy drinks from a vending machine, and Charles was trailing behind, kicking a pebble along the pavement.
It was comfortable. Familiar.
But Isagi's mind was wandering, as it often did, to the strange things Hugo sometimes said.
"Hey, Hugo," Isagi began, looking up at the red-haired boy beside him.
Hugo had grown a lot over the years. At sixteen, he was tall and lean, with the kind of effortless grace that made everything he did look elegant. His features had sharpened, his jaw more defined, his eyes deeper. He was beautiful in the way a painting was beautiful—something to be admired from afar, untouchable.
But to Isagi, he was just Hugo.
"Why do you always stare at people like they did something wrong?" Isagi asked, genuinely curious.
He had noticed it for years. That particular look Hugo gave strangers—a cool, assessing gaze that made people squirm. It wasn't cruel, exactly. Just... judgmental.
Hugo looked down at him.
Time had treated Isagi well too. He was still small for his age—a fact that Loki never let him forget—but there was a brightness to him that had only grown stronger over the years. His blue eyes were as clear and captivating as ever, and the two little sprouts of hair on top of his head still stuck up in that endearing way they always had.
Right now, those sprouts seemed to move up and down, as if reflecting their owner's curious mood.
Hugo felt a familiar warmth spread through his chest. Without thinking, he reached out and stroked the two sprouts, his fingers gentle against Isagi's hair.
Isagi let him. He was used to Hugo's touch by now—the casual hand on his shoulder, the arm slung across his back, the way Hugo always seemed to find an excuse to be close.
"I just pity them," Hugo said finally, his voice thoughtful. "Why would they waste their time doing something that is not their destiny?"
"Destiny?" Isagi tilted his head, the movement brushing Hugo's fingers deeper into his hair.
Hugo's hand stilled.
"Yes," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "Destiny."
He turned to face Isagi fully, their faces suddenly only a few millimeters apart. Isagi's blue eyes met his dark ones. His lips—those luscious, teasing lips that had been tormenting Hugo's patience for years—were so close.
Hugo could count every eyelash. Could see the faint freckles dusted across Isagi's nose that only appeared in summer. Could feel the warmth of his breath.
Say something, Hugo told himself. Say something intelligent.
"Do you believe in destiny, Yoichi?" he asked instead, his voice barely above a whisper.
Isagi blinked, seemingly unaware of how close they were. He considered the question seriously, his brow furrowing in that way it always did when he was thinking hard.
"I don't know..."
Hugo held his breath.
"But," Isagi continued, and suddenly, a smile broke across his face like sunrise. "If it's with you, Loki, and Charles, I don't care what destiny has for me!"
The smile was radiant. Pure. Utterly devastating.
Hugo stared at the boy in front of him.
Isagi Yoichi possessed eyes that captivated anyone who stared into them, making them fall into a deep, inescapable pit. Hugo knew this. He had known it from the moment they met, when a tiny, energetic child had run up to him, grabbed his hand, and touched his face like he was something precious.
The gears of destiny began to move that day, Hugo thought. And they haven't stopped since.
"You will stay with us forever, right?" Hugo asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
He sounded desperate. He knew he sounded desperate. But he didn't care.
"Yes!" Isagi said, without hesitation.
Hugo's heart clenched.
Forever, he repeated silently. That's a promise, Yoichi. You don't get to break it.
Eight hours later, everything changed.
Isagi returned home that evening tired but content. He had dinner with his mother, did his homework, and went to bed thinking about the next day's football practice. He fell asleep with his Noa doll—still worn, still loved—tucked under his arm.
He was dreaming of scoring the winning goal in a World Cup final when his mother's voice cut through the darkness.
"Yoichi! Wake up!"
Isagi sat up, disoriented. His mother was standing in his doorway, her face pale, her hands shaking.
"Mom? What's wrong?"
"Pack your bag," Iyo said, her voice tight with barely controlled panic. "We're leaving France tonight. In one hour."
Isagi stared at her, stunned.
Tonight?
In one hour?
"What—why?" he asked, scrambling out of bed. "What happened?"
His mother didn't answer immediately. She was already moving, grabbing his suitcase from the closet, throwing clothes into it with frantic movements.
Isagi watched her, a cold dread settling in his stomach. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
"Mom," he said again, his voice smaller. "Please. Tell me what happened."
Iyo stopped. Her hands fell to her sides. When she turned to face him, her eyes were red-rimmed, her composure crumbling.
"It's your father," she whispered. "Yoichi, there was an accident. He's... he's in critical condition. We have to go back. Now."
The words hit Isagi like a physical blow.
Father.
Accident.
Critical.
His father. His kind, gentle father who always had time for him. Who bought him the Noel Noah doll for his birthday. Who taught him to ride a bike. Who called every week from wherever his business trips had taken him, just to hear Isagi's voice.
His father was dying.
"No," Isagi breathed. "No, that can't—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He was already moving, grabbing clothes, shoving them into his bag, his hands trembling so badly he could barely grip the fabric.
His mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion. He thought about the conversation he'd had with Hugo just hours ago—about destiny, about staying together forever.
Forever.
How could forever exist when his father might not?
He didn't have time to say goodbye.
The thought struck him mid-pack, freezing him in place.
Hugo. Loki. Charles.
He couldn't leave without telling them. He couldn't just disappear.
But his mother was already pulling him toward the door, their bags in hand, the taxi she had called waiting outside.
"There's no time, Yoichi," she said, her voice cracking. "The flight leaves in an hour. We can't miss it."
"I have to tell them!" Isagi cried, pulling against her grip. "Mom, I have to—"
"There's no time!"
Isagi's eyes darted around the room, searching for something—anything—that would let him reach his friends. His phone was in his hand, but Hugo's number... Loki's number... he didn't have them saved. They had never needed them. They lived next door, around the corner, a few streets away. They saw each other every day. Who needed phone numbers when you could just walk to someone's house?
But now, in this moment of crisis, that casual oversight felt like a knife in his chest.
He grabbed a piece of paper from his desk, scrawled a note with shaking hands:
I'm sorry. My father is hurt. We have to go back to Japan. I don't know when I'll return. Please don't be angry. I'll find you again. I promise.
— Yoichi
He ran to the front door, pressed the note against it where they would see it when they came looking for him tomorrow, and let his mother pull him into the taxi.
The car pulled away from the house he had called home for seven years. Isagi pressed his face to the window, watching the familiar street disappear behind him.
I'll come back, he told himself fiercely. I'll find them again. This isn't goodbye forever.
But even as he thought it, a small, terrified voice in his chest whispered: What if it is?
The airport was chaos.
Iyo moved through it like a woman possessed, her grip on Isagi's hand so tight it hurt. They checked in, ran through security, and boarded the plane with minutes to spare.
Isagi sat by the window, staring out at the tarmac. The lights of the airport glowed orange against the night sky. Somewhere out there, Hugo was sleeping. Loki was probably still awake, practicing drills in his backyard. Charles was curled up in his bed, his stolen camera hidden under his pillow.
None of them knew Isagi was leaving.
None of them knew he might never come back.
The plane took off. France shrank beneath him, a glittering map of lights and shadows, until it was gone entirely, swallowed by clouds and darkness.
Isagi pressed his forehead against the cold window and cried.
Japan was different.
After seven years away, the familiarity of it felt strange—like wearing clothes that had once fit perfectly but now hung awkwardly on his frame. The language, once his mother tongue, now came with a slight French accent. The streets, once memorized, now felt unfamiliar.
But none of that mattered. Not really.
The only thing that mattered was the hospital.
They arrived at dawn. The building was white and sterile, the hallways too quiet, the smell of antiseptic clinging to everything. Isagi's heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst.
His mother spoke to a nurse, her voice tight. Then they were walking, down corridor after corridor, until they reached a door.
"Yoichi," Iyo said, her hand on the handle. "He's... he's stable now. But it was close. Very close."
She opened the door.
Isagi's father lay in a bed, surrounded by machines. His face was pale, his eyes closed, tubes running from his arms to bags of fluid hanging overhead. He looked smaller than Isagi remembered. Frailer.
But he was breathing.
He was alive.
Isagi's legs gave out. He sank into a chair beside the bed, reaching out to take his father's hand. It was warm. Familiar.
"I'm here, Dad," he whispered. "I'm here."
His father's fingers twitched, a weak squeeze in response.
Isagi bowed his head and let the tears come.
The days that followed were a blur of hospital visits and hushed conversations.
Isagi's father had been in a car accident. A drunk driver had run a red light. The damage was severe—broken bones, internal injuries, a traumatic brain injury that had required emergency surgery. The doctors said he was lucky to be alive.
But recovery would be long. Months. Maybe years.
And Iyo, who had left her job in France to be here, had to make a decision.
"I'm moving back to Japan," she told Isagi one evening, her voice tired but resolute. "Your father needs us here. He needs support. Care. I can't do that from halfway across the world."
Isagi sat at the kitchen table of their old family home—the house they had never sold, the house that had been waiting for them all these years. He stared at his hands.
"What about..." He couldn't finish the sentence.
Iyo's expression softened with understanding. She reached across the table and took his hands.
"I know," she said gently. "I know you have friends there. People you love. But Yoichi... your father needs us. And we can't afford to keep a house in France while paying for your father's medical bills here. The company I worked for... they were understanding, but my position has been filled. I have to find work here."
Isagi understood. He did.
But understanding didn't make it hurt less.
"So we're... staying? For good?" His voice cracked.
Iyo squeezed his hands. "For now. Maybe forever. I don't know. But right now, this is where we need to be."
Isagi nodded slowly. He thought about Hugo's question—You will stay with us forever, right?—and the easy, immediate yes he had given.
I lied, he thought, and the guilt was a heavy stone in his chest. I didn't mean to. But I lied.
"I don't have any way to contact them," he said quietly. "I never got their numbers. We never needed them."
The absurdity of it struck him. Seven years of friendship, and he couldn't call them. Couldn't text them. Couldn't tell them what had happened or where he had gone.
They would wake up, find his note, and wait.
And wait.
And eventually, they would stop waiting.
Please, Isagi prayed, to whatever gods might be listening. Please don't let them be angry. Please let them know I didn't want to leave. Please let us find each other again.
He wasn't sure anyone was listening.
But he kept praying anyway.
Two Years Later.....
Isagi Yoichi, Age 16
The air in the stadium was thick with the scent of grass and the roar of a crowd that Yoichi Isagi could barely hear over the thumping of his own heart.
It was the final of the Saitama High School Football Tournament. The stands were packed with students, parents, and scouts, their voices merging into a wall of sound that pressed down on the field from all sides. The floodlights bathed the pitch in harsh white light, casting long shadows that shifted and danced with every movement.
The scoreboard read 0-1.
Isagi's team, Ichinan High, was down.
He wiped sweat from his brow, his chest heaving. His legs burned. His lungs ached. They had been playing for eighty minutes, and every second had been a battle. Matsukaze High was good—organized, disciplined, ruthless.
But Isagi had the ball now.
He was a second-year striker, and right now, the ball was at his feet. He had broken past the defenders with a burst of speed that had surprised even himself. The goal was wide open. The goalkeeper, Shohei Inaba, had come out too far, too eager, and now he was scrambling to get back into position.
I can do it, Isagi thought, his eyes locked on the goal. With this goal, I'll go to Nationals!
His heart soared. His muscles coiled. He could see it—the ball hitting the back of the net, the crowd erupting, his teammates mobbing him. Everything he had worked for, everything he had dreamed of, was right there.
Then he heard his teammate's voice, sharp and desperate from the side.
"Isagi! Pass!"
He hesitated.
His foot, already drawn back to shoot, faltered. His eyes darted to the side. Tada was there, unmarked, waving frantically. The pass was open. The smart play was to pass.
One for all, all for one, the coach's voice echoed in his mind. Football is a team sport.
Isagi's body moved before his mind could catch up. His foot shifted, his ankle turning, and he squared the ball across the face of the goal. It was a perfect pass. An open net.
Tada swung his leg.
Clang.
The ball hit the post.
The sound was like a gunshot, silencing the stadium for one terrible moment. The ball ricocheted off the metal frame and bounced away from the goal, away from everything Isagi had worked for.
"No!" Isagi gasped.
Matsukaze High didn't hesitate. The ball was swept up, passed forward, and then the star of their team—Ryosuke Kira—was running. He moved like water, fluid and unstoppable, his white hair streaming behind him. His golden-brown eyes were cold, focused, utterly without doubt.
He didn't pass. He didn't hesitate.
He took the ball the length of the pitch, his speed leaving Ichinan's defenders in his wake. When he reached the penalty box, he struck. The shot was a rocket, low and hard, perfectly placed in the bottom corner.
Isagi's goalkeeper dove.
The ball was already in the net.
Goal.
The referee's whistle blew. Full time.
Ichinan had lost.
Isagi stood frozen in the center of the pitch, staring at the goal. His teammates were on their knees, some crying, others staring blankly at the ground. The Matsukaze players were celebrating, their cheers a distant, hollow sound.
We lost.
My dream of Nationals is dead.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Tada was there, his face streaked with tears.
"I'm sorry," Tada choked out. "Isagi, I'm so sorry. I should have scored. I should have—"
Isagi couldn't answer. He couldn't speak. He could only stand there, the weight of the loss pressing down on him like the entire stadium had collapsed onto his shoulders.
After the game, Isagi walked home alone.
His legs moved automatically, carrying him through streets he had walked a thousand times, but everything looked different tonight. Grayer. Smaller.
He passed a convenience store with a television in the window. A familiar face filled the screen.
Ryosuke Kira.
The "National Treasure" of Japanese football. The player who had scored the winning goal against Isagi's team. The player who had been selected for Japan's U-18 National Team.
Kira was being interviewed, his expression calm, his voice measured. A small mole sat below the corner of his right eye, a subtle mark on an otherwise flawless face. He was tall, slender, and undeniably handsome. The kind of player who looked like he was born to be in front of a camera.
"I couldn't have done it without my teammates," Kira was saying. "Every goal is a team effort. Football is not a sport for individuals. We win together, we lose together."
Together, Isagi thought bitterly.
He watched as Kira smiled, accepting congratulations, the epitome of grace and humility. The perfect teammate. The perfect player.
If only my team were like his, Isagi thought. If only I had teammates who could finish the chances I create. If only I had taken that shot myself... would my life have changed?
He tore his gaze away from the screen and kept walking.
The streets of Saitama blurred around him as he walked, his mind churning.
Football in France was different, he thought. Hugo, Loki, Charles—they understood. They knew when to pass and when to shoot. They trusted each other, but they also trusted themselves.
Here, in Japan, football was about the team above all else. The coach's mantra echoed in his head, drilled into him since the first day of practice: One for all, all for one.
But what good was "all for one" if no one could score?
Isagi remembered playing with Loki, the way his friend would streak down the wing, his golden eyes blazing with confidence. Loki never passed when he had a clear shot. He never hesitated. And when he scored—which was often—his teammates celebrated with him because they knew he had earned it.
He remembered playing with Hugo, the way his touch was always perfect, his passes always finding their target. Hugo could have scored a hundred goals himself, but he chose to assist because he saw the bigger picture. He was generous, but never at the expense of victory.
And Charles... Charles was something else entirely. His style was selfish, unapologetically so, but he made it work. He would dribble through entire defenses, ignore open teammates, and curl the ball into the top corner from impossible angles. And when he succeeded, you couldn't be angry. You could only watch in awe.
Playing with them was fun, Isagi realized. It was free. Here, football feels like a cage.
He kicked a pebble on the sidewalk, watching it skitter into the gutter.
I was happy in France. I was getting better. I was becoming the striker I wanted to be.
And then I came back, and suddenly it was all about passing. About sharing. About sacrificing my own goals for the team.
But what if the team can't score? What if I'm the only one who can?
He thought about Kira again. About the shot he had taken, the cold efficiency of it. Kira didn't pass. He didn't share. He saw the goal and he took it.
Is that what it takes? Isagi wondered. To be selfish? To trust yourself above everyone else?
He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. That wasn't how football was played in Japan. That wasn't how he had been taught.
But the thought lingered, a seed planted in the back of his mind, waiting to grow.
When Isagi finally reached home, his parents were waiting for him.
His father was in his wheelchair by the window, his recovery slow but steady. His mother was beside him, her hands clasped in her lap. They both looked at him with soft, understanding eyes.
"Yoichi," his father said, his voice still weaker than it used to be but steady. "We heard about the match."
Isagi's throat tightened. He had been holding himself together all evening, pushing the grief and frustration down, down, down. But now, standing in the doorway of his childhood home, with his parents looking at him like they knew exactly how much it hurt...
He broke.
The tears came without warning, hot and uncontrollable. He sank to his knees on the floor, his shoulders shaking, sobs tearing out of his chest.
"I should have taken the shot," he choked out. "I should have—I could have—but I passed, and he missed, and we lost—"
His mother was there in an instant, her arms around him, holding him tight.
"Shh, shh," she murmured, stroking his hair. "It's okay. It's okay, sweetheart."
"It's not okay!" Isagi cried. "I wanted to go to Nationals! I wanted—I wanted to be someone! I wanted to be like—"
He cut himself off. But the name was already in his mind, heavy and familiar.
Noel Noah.
The number one striker. The player who never passed when it mattered most. The player who carried his team on his back and demanded the ball because he knew, deep in his bones, that he would score.
I wanted to be like him, Isagi thought. But I passed. I passed, and we lost.
His father wheeled closer, his movements slow but determined. He reached out and placed a hand on Isagi's shoulder.
"Listen to me, Yoichi," his father said, his voice firm despite its weakness. "You played your best. You made a decision in the moment, and it didn't work out. That doesn't make you a failure. It makes you human."
"But if I had taken the shot—"
"You don't know what would have happened," his father interrupted gently. "Maybe you would have scored. Maybe the goalkeeper would have saved it. Maybe you would have hit the post too. You can't live your life on what-ifs."
Isagi looked up at his father, his vision blurred with tears.
"Then what do I do?" he whispered. "How do I move forward when all I can think about is what I should have done?"
His father smiled, a tired but genuine smile.
"You keep playing," he said simply. "You keep playing, and you learn, and you grow. And one day, when you're in that position again, you'll know what to do."
Isagi wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "What if I get it wrong again?"
"Then you learn again. That's what football is, Yoichi. It's a game of mistakes. The best players aren't the ones who never fail—they're the ones who fail and keep going."
His mother squeezed him tighter. "We're proud of you," she said softly. "No matter what. We're so proud of the player you've become, and the person you are. Never forget that."
Isagi leaned into her embrace, letting her warmth chase away some of the cold that had settled in his chest.
Keep playing, he told himself. Keep learning. Keep growing.
Maybe that's enough for now.
Later that evening, after Isagi had washed his face and changed out of his uniform, his mother called him into the living room.
"I almost forgot," she said, rummaging through a pile of mail on the counter. "This came for you a few days ago. I was going to give it to you after the match, but... well."
She handed him a thick envelope.
It was official-looking, the return address stamped with the logo of the Japan Football Union. Isagi's hands trembled slightly as he took it.
"What is this?" he asked.
"I don't know," his mother admitted. "But it looks important."
Isagi sat down at the kitchen table, his parents watching him expectantly. He turned the envelope over in his hands, his heart beginning to beat faster.
What could the Japan Football Union want with me? he wondered. I'm nobody. I'm a second-year striker from a team that just lost the finals. I'm not like Kira. I'm not a National Treasure.
He opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter, formal and official, printed on high-quality paper. The logo of the Japan Football Union was embossed at the top. Isagi's eyes scanned the words, his breath catching as he read.
Dear Yoichi Isagi,
You have been selected to participate in the Blue Lock Project.
This project is a specialized training program designed to identify and develop the next generation of Japan's ultimate striker. Participants will be subjected to a rigorous, high-stakes curriculum aimed at fostering individual ego, self-reliance, and goal-scoring ability.
The project seeks players who have not yet been "spoiled" by the team-centric mindset of traditional Japanese football. You have been identified as a candidate with the potential to become a striker who can lead Japan to victory on the world stage.
Please report to the address below on the specified date. Failure to appear will be considered a withdrawal of your candidacy.
We look forward to your participation.
Isagi stared at the letter, his mind reeling.
Blue Lock?
A project to develop strikers?
They want to foster individual ego? Self-reliance?
His eyes lingered on the phrase: not yet been "spoiled" by the team-centric mindset.
They're looking for players who don't pass. Players who take the shot themselves. Players who trust their own abilities above all else.
He thought about Kira. About the goal he had scored without passing. About the cold, ruthless efficiency of it.
He thought about Noel Noah. About the way he dominated matches, demanding the ball, expecting his teammates to serve him because he was the one who would score.
He thought about the pass he had made. The post it had hit. The goal he had lost.
If I had taken that shot...
He looked up at his parents. His father was watching him with quiet intensity. His mother's expression was curious, slightly concerned.
"What is it?" she asked.
Isagi set the letter down on the table. His hands were steady now. His voice, when he spoke, was clear.
"A player improvement project," he said.
He looked down at the letter again, at the words that promised something different. Something new. Something that might just be the answer to the question that had been burning in his chest for two years.
What if I had taken the shot?
Maybe, in Blue Lock, he would find out.
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Timeskip is here! finally. To be completely honest . I didn't expect to go on sn upload frenzy-
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