8
In order for Japan to win a World Cup, we need to create the best striker in the world.
Which is why three hundred of the best high school forwards have been gathered for this project.
They have been given a contract letter for their consent on their participation. Those who sign the paper must commit to the rules and regulations of Blue Lock.
Isagi had just finished signing his.
The pen felt heavy in his hand, heavier than it should have. Each stroke of his signature felt like a seal on something irreversible. His mother's face flashed through his mind—the worry lines around her eyes when he had told her about the invitation. His father's hand on his shoulder, squeezing once, firm and supportive.
"Do what you need to do," his father had said. "We'll be here when you come back."
If I come back, Isagi had thought, but he didn't say it.
He handed the signed contract to the official at the desk, a woman in a crisp suit who gave him a curt nod and directed him toward the bus loading area.
The bus was already half-full when Isagi climbed aboard. He found a seat near the middle, pressing his forehead against the cold glass of the window. Outside, the city was waking up—commuters hurrying to work, schoolchildren in uniforms, the familiar rhythm of urban life that he was leaving behind.
He didn't know how long he would be gone. The contract hadn't specified. Days? Weeks? Months? The uncertainty gnawed at him, but beneath it, something else stirred.
Anticipation.
The bus rumbled to life, pulling away from the curb. Isagi watched the city shrink in the window, the buildings growing smaller, the streets thinning, until they were leaving Tokyo behind entirely.
They drove through mountains, the landscape shifting from urban sprawl to winding roads carved into hillsides. Paddy fields stretched out in terraced patterns, reflecting the pale morning sky like scattered mirrors. The road curved and climbed, each turn revealing more of the countryside—dense forests, mist-shrouded valleys, the occasional shrine tucked into the hills.
Where are they taking us? Isagi wondered, pressing closer to the window. The facility was clearly in a suburban area. Remote. Isolated. The kind of place where no one would hear you scream.
He almost laughed at the thought. This wasn't a horror movie. It was a football training program.
But the knot in his stomach didn't loosen.
The bus crested a final hill, and Isagi's breath caught in his throat.
There it was.
Blue Lock.
The building was massive—a pentagonal structure that sprawled across an entire cliffside, rising from the mountains like something out of a science fiction film. It was as tall as a skyscraper, its reflective surface catching the morning light and throwing it back in sharp, geometric patterns. Each of the five sections gleamed like a facet of a cut gem, and from this distance, Isagi could see the scale of it: multiple practice fields, training rooms, living quarters, and at the very center, what looked like a professional stadium.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
So that's...
Blue Lock.
The place that'll turn our football careers upside down.
The bus pulled through a security gate that looked more like a military checkpoint than a sports facility. Armed guards? No—just security personnel in dark uniforms, but their faces were serious, their movements efficient. They waved the bus through, and suddenly they were inside the complex, the building looming above them, blocking out the sky.
The bus stopped. The doors hissed open.
Isagi stood on shaky legs and stepped out into his new life.
The interior of Blue Lock was disorienting. White walls, white floors, white ceilings. Fluorescent lights that hummed at a frequency that seemed designed to set teeth on edge. The corridors stretched on forever, identical intersections repeating in patterns that made Isagi's head spin.
They were led into a large hall where Miss Anri was waiting.
Anri Teieri stood at a long table, stacks of paperwork spread before her, her expression businesslike but not unkind. Her brown hair was pulled back in its usual style, two braids tied at the back, square bangs falling over her left eye. Her chocolate-brown eyes moved over the players with practiced efficiency, checking names off a list.
"Wallets and phones," she announced, her voice carrying across the room. "Place them in the bins provided. You will retrieve them upon completion of the program."
A collective groan rippled through the crowd, but the players complied. Isagi pulled out his phone—a cheap model his parents had given him for emergencies—and stared at the blank screen for a moment. No messages. No missed calls. He had told his parents he wouldn't be able to contact them, but still, the finality of it struck him.
He dropped it in the bin.
"Only necessary items may be kept," Anri continued. "Clothing. Prescription medication. Medical devices. That is all."
One of the players raised his hand. "What about skincare? Face wash? Moisturizer?"
Anri's expression didn't change. "Prohibited."
Another voice: "Personal shampoo? Conditioner?"
"Shared toiletries will be provided."
A third player, his voice incredulous: "So we're all using the same soap?"
"You will survive," Anri said flatly.
She gestured to a series of tables at the side of the room, where stacks of towels, toothbrushes, and small bags of what appeared to be standard-issue toiletries were laid out.
"Each of you will take one towel, one face towel, and one toothbrush. Label them with your name. Personal items will be stored in your assigned lockers. Now, line up for your uniforms."
The line moved quickly. Isagi shuffled forward, his mind still processing the bareness of what they were being given. No phones. No outside contact. Shared soap. It felt less like a training camp and more like a prison.
But if this is what it takes to become the best...
He reached the front of the line.
"Isagi Yoichi!" Anri's voice snapped him from his thoughts.
He blinked, realizing he had been staring into space. Anri was holding out a jersey, her expression one of mild exasperation.
"You should pay attention to your surroundings, Isagi-san," she said, her tone carrying a hint of reproach.
Isagi flushed. "Sorry. I—thank you."
He took the jersey from her hands, his fingers brushing against the fabric. It was lighter than he expected, the material cool and smooth. He looked down at it, and his stomach dropped.
There, on the back, was a number inside an octagon.
299.
And below it, a letter.
Z.
299? Isagi stared at the number, his mind racing. What does this number mean? And the letter Z?
"Alright," Anri announced, stepping back from the table. "Each of you will go to the room matching your uniform's letter. You are not allowed to change your number under any circumstances unless Ego says otherwise. Is that understood?"
A chorus of murmured assent.
"Then go. Your room assignments are on the screens in the corridor."
She turned and walked away, her heels clicking against the polished floor, leaving three hundred confused strikers holding their jerseys.
Isagi looked down at the number again. 299. Almost last. The second-worst out of 300.
He swallowed hard.
The corridors of Blue Lock were a maze.
Isagi walked for what felt like hours, passing identical white walls and identical white doors, each intersection looking exactly like the last. The silence was oppressive—no windows, no natural light, just the hum of the ventilation system and the distant echo of footsteps from somewhere far away.
This place is like a labyrinth, he thought, remembering the online games he used to play, the ones where you had to find your way through twisting passages while something hunted you from the shadows. Except this was real. And the only thing hunting him was his own inadequacy.
299.
He turned another corner. Another identical hallway. Another set of doors.
What if I never find it? What if I wander these corridors forever, trapped in an endless white maze, my football career over before it even—
"Ahh... finally..."
He stopped in front of a door marked with a large, blocky Z.
"It's here. I thought it would take me a day to find it."
He sighed, the tension draining from his shoulders, and reached for the handle.
Today is the start of my struggles in Blue Lock.
He pushed the door open.
Let's see what this project will achieve.
The room was nothing like he expected.
White concrete walls. Concrete floor. Fluorescent lights. A row of lockers on the right wall, some already claimed, others standing empty. It was sparse, utilitarian, the kind of space designed for function rather than comfort. No windows. No decorations. No personality.
Players were scattered around the room—some sitting on the floor, their backs against the walls; one changing into his jersey by the lockers; others standing in small groups, eyeing each other with wary curiosity.
A few of them glanced up when Isagi entered. Some smiled—small, tentative things. Others gave him a single look and then looked away, dismissing him as quickly as they had registered him.
Isagi felt his face heat up.
So we're sharing a room. Ugh. This is so uncomfor—
"Yoichi!"
Hands grabbed his shoulders, spinning him around. Kira's face filled his vision, that golden smile back in place, his golden-brown eyes warm with relief.
"I'm glad we're in the same team!" Kira pulled Isagi toward him, an arm draping across his shoulders like they were old friends reuniting after years apart. "I'm relieved..."
Isagi blinked, still processing the sudden closeness. "Oh... yeah, me t—"
Twack!
Something soft hit Isagi square in the face.
"Gah!" He stumbled backward, hands flying to his face, expecting blood, expecting pain. But the thing that had struck him was fabric. Soft. Light.
A shirt.
"Oh. My bad." A voice, casual, unconcerned. "My shirt flew away. You good?"
Isagi lowered his hands, blinking the stars from his vision. The shirt was draped over his head like a hood, blocking half his view. He pulled it off, his eyes focusing on the person who had thrown it.
He was tall—much taller than Isagi—with broad shoulders that strained against the undershirt he was now wearing. His hair was bright orange, spiky, styled in an undercut that emphasized the sharp lines of his jaw. Auburn eyes looked at Isagi with mild concern, but no real apology.
Damn. Muscles.
The thought surfaced before Isagi could stop it. The boy's arms were thick, his chest broad, his whole frame radiating the kind of strength that came from hours of physical training. Isagi's eyes traced the lines of muscle visible even through the thin fabric of the undershirt.
I want to touch them...
The realization hit him like a freight train.
What the hell am I thinking?!
His face erupted in a blush so fierce it burned. He thrust the shirt back toward the orange-haired boy, his movements jerky, his eyes fixed somewhere around the other's collarbone because looking anywhere else seemed dangerous.
"Here! Your shirt! No problem! Mistakes happen!"
The boy took the shirt, his auburn eyes flickering with something that might have been amusement. "Thanks. Sorry about that."
He pulled the shirt over his head, the fabric stretching across those shoulders, and Isagi very deliberately looked away.
"I'm Kunigami Rensuke," the boy said, extending a hand. "Rank 291. I'd shake, but..." He glanced down at his own hand, then back at Isagi. "Maybe later."
"Sprout," Isagi said automatically, still flustered.
Kunigami blinked. "What?"
"I—no—that's not—" Isagi's face went even redder. "My name is Isagi. Isagi Yoichi."
Kunigami's lips twitched. "Right. Isagi." He looked at the two sprouts of hair sticking up from Isagi's head, and the twitch became a full smile. "Though 'Sprout' does fit."
Isagi's hands flew to his hair, pressing down the sprouts that refused to stay flat. "It's not—they're not—"
"Hey, Sprout."
Isagi froze.
Kunigami's voice had lost its teasing edge. He was looking past Isagi, his expression shifting from amusement to something sharper. Warning.
"Watch where you're walking. There's some sloth here."
Isagi turned, confused, and looked down.
There was a boy sleeping on the floor.
Right in the middle of the room, curled up on the cold concrete like it was the most comfortable bed in the world. His hair was black with golden underlights, cut in a mod style that reached his chin. His face was relaxed, peaceful, his breathing slow and even.
Huh? Isagi stared. How can anyone sleep in these conditions? On the floor? In the middle of a room full of strangers?
He took a step forward, intending to step around the sleeping figure, but before his foot could land—
A hand shot out.
Fingers closed around his ankle.
Isagi yelped as he was yanked off balance, his leg swept out from under him, his body crashing down onto the concrete. Before he could scramble up, arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, pinning his arms to his sides.
"Wha—"
A face pressed into his chest. Warm breath seeped through his shirt.
Hah?!
Isagi froze, his heart hammering, his brain short-circuiting. The boy on the floor had his eyes closed again, his cheek pressed against Isagi's sternum, his arms locked around Isagi's waist like a vice.
"Hey—let go—what are you—"
The boy's eyes opened.
Yellow. Bright, luminous yellow, framed by dark lashes. They stared up at Isagi with an intensity that made his words die in his throat.
Then the boy smiled. Slow. Lazy. Dangerously pleased.
"Sleep some more, yeah~?" His voice was soft, almost a purr, the words brushing against Isagi's ear, close enough that he could feel the warmth of them.
Isagi's entire body went rigid.
The boy's arms tightened, pulling Isagi closer, tucking his head under Isagi's chin like he was a blanket, a pillow, something to be held and kept. His golden eyes had closed again, his breathing already slowing, as if he had every intention of going back to sleep right there, with Isagi trapped in his arms.
What do I do?! Isagi's thoughts were a panicked scramble. He won't let go! I still haven't changed into my jersey! I need to—
"Get off him."
Kira's voice was cold.
Before Isagi could react, hands hooked under his arms and yanked him free. Kira pulled him back, positioning himself between Isagi and the boy on the floor, his golden-brown eyes fixed on the golden-yellow ones that had snapped open again.
The boy's expression shifted. The lazy contentment vanished, replaced by something sharp. His yellow eyes narrowed, his lips pulling back from his teeth—that sharp fang glinting—in something that was almost a snarl.
"You're in the way," the boy said, his voice losing its softness.
Kira's jaw tightened. "He was in the middle of changing."
"So?"
"So you don't grab people without their permission."
The boy rose from the floor in one fluid motion, his movements feline, predatory. He was shorter than Kira, lean where Kira was well-built, but there was something in his posture that suggested he didn't care about the height difference. He stepped forward, his face inches from Kira's, those yellow eyes burning.
"I'll grab whoever I want," he said softly.
Kira didn't back down. "Try that again, and I'll make you regret it."
The tension in the room spiked. Other players were watching now, some with alarm, some with interest. Kunigami had stepped closer, his broad frame positioned between the confrontation and the rest of the room, ready to intervene.
Isagi's heart was pounding. This is insane. We've been here less than an hour and they're already—
"Enough."
Kunigami's voice cut through the tension like a blade. He stepped between Kira and the golden-eyed boy, one hand raised in a placating gesture.
"We all just got here. Save the fighting for the field."
For a long moment, no one moved. Then the golden-eyed boy laughed—a short, sharp sound—and stepped back.
"Fine," he said, his eyes flicking to Isagi. "Later, maybe."
He turned and walked back to his corner of the room, curling up against the wall, his eyes closing as if nothing had happened.
Kira's hand found Isagi's shoulder, squeezing. "You okay?"
Isagi nodded, his voice still caught in his throat.
"Change," Kira said, steering him toward the lockers. "Don't worry about him. I'll handle it if he tries anything."
The jersey was a standard-issue bodysuit, dark blue with lighter blue panels, designed to hug the body. There was a matching tracksuit for warm-ups, the fabric lightweight but warm. Isagi changed quickly, his movements clumsy, his skin prickling with awareness of eyes on him.
When he turned around, the golden-eyed boy was watching him.
Not sleeping. Not pretending to sleep. His yellow eyes were fixed on Isagi with an intensity that made his skin crawl—or something else. Something he didn't want to name.
Why is he staring at me like that?
Kira appeared beside Isagi, his hands finding Isagi's waist, his fingers pressing against the fabric of the jersey.
"Your waist is so small," Kira said, almost wonderingly. "Look—I could almost circle it with one hand."
He demonstrated, his fingers spanning Isagi's waist, and Isagi's face went crimson.
"Kira—"
"It's true! Look at this, everyone. Isagi's waist is tiny."
A few of the other players glanced over. Some laughed. Kunigami looked vaguely amused. The golden-eyed boy's stare intensified.
Isagi tried to pull away, but Kira's grip was light but firm, his touch almost casual, as if this was something they did every day.
"Kira, please—"
"Sorry, sorry." Kira's hands dropped, but his smile didn't. "It's just surprising. You're so small."
"I'm not that small—"
"Isagi Yoichi? The Isagi Yoichi?"
The voice came from behind them, high and eager. Isagi turned to see a boy approaching, his face lit with the kind of enthusiasm that seemed entirely out of place in this sterile environment.
He was short—shorter than Isagi—with a slim build, short hair, thick eyebrows, and wide-open eyes that were black as ink. He moved quickly, his steps almost bouncing, and when he reached Isagi and Kira, he stopped and bowed—actually bowed—from the waist.
"I'm Gurimu Igarashi! Second-year forward! I was born in a temple!" He straightened, his grin wide and guileless. "That speech from Ego—incredible, right? Revolutionary! Just what Japanese football needs!"
Isagi blinked, still processing the rapid-fire introduction. "Uh... nice to meet you?"
"And you're Ryosuke Kira!" Igarashi's attention shifted, his eyes going wide with something like reverence. "The Treasure of Japan! I've watched all your matches! That goal in the Nationals final—the one against Ichinan—magnificent! Absolutely magnificent!"
Beside Isagi, Kira's expression flickered. The goal against Ichinan. The goal that had ended Isagi's dreams.
Isagi looked away.
"It was a team effort," Kira said, his voice carefully neutral.
Igarashi waved a hand dismissively. "Team, individual—it's all the same when you're that talented! And that speech from Ego! About egoism! About becoming the best striker in the world!" His eyes shone. "That's what I've been waiting for my whole life! A chance to prove myself! To show that a temple boy can become the best in Japan!"
Isagi found himself nodding along despite himself. There was something infectious about Igarashi's enthusiasm, something almost innocent in his belief that this was his moment.
Before anyone could respond, the television screen mounted on the wall flickered to life.
Ego Jinpachi's face filled the display, his pale skin stark against the black background, his glasses catching the light in a way that obscured his eyes.
"Are you done changing, unpolished gems?"
The room went silent.
Isagi's head snapped toward the screen, his heart lurching. Ego!
"Hey. Hey..." Ego's voice was calm, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. "Focus on me, will you?"
The players gravitated toward the screen, forming a loose semicircle. Isagi found himself between Kira and Kunigami, his eyes fixed on the man who held their futures in his hands.
"Starting from today," Ego continued, "these people in your room will be both your roommates... and your rivals."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"If you're wondering about the numbers on your uniforms, they represent your ranking in this facility. We have estimated your potential based on my judgments and my peers' calculations. With this feature, you can gauge your position among the three hundred players in this facility. The numbers are attached to your uniforms, so you can check your ranking there."
Isagi's hand went to the number on his back, his fingers tracing the octagon that held the number 299.
So that's what it means. I'm ranked 299 out of 300.
He thought of the players he had seen—Kunigami, ranked 291. The golden-eyed boy, who he now saw had 290-Z on his back. Kira, whose number he couldn't see but knew would be near the top.
I'm at the bottom.
Ego continued, his voice cutting through the murmurs that had started to rise.
"However... your ranking will not remain the same throughout the entire project. Your ranking will change daily based on several factors—your training, the results of your games. And unconditionally, the top five players are guaranteed to participate in the World Cup representing Japan."
Isagi's breath caught.
"There will also be others selected for Japan's U-20 national team playing at the World Cup," Ego added, as if this were an afterthought.
The U-20 national team? Isagi's mind raced. That's insane. That's—
"Those who are defeated at Blue Lock," Ego said, his voice dropping, "will be permanently barred from Japan's national team."
The room went deathly quiet.
"But you have to remember," Ego continued, his voice rising again, "we are looking for one crucial component here."
He paused. Smiled.
"Ego."
The word hung in the air.
"That is what will measure you as you live here in this facility."
He leaned back, his face relaxing into something almost casual.
"Now... let's play a game of 'tag,' shall we?"
Tag?
"The time limit is 136 seconds. The player who possesses the ball is the demon. And whoever is the demon when the time runs out... can get the fuck out of here."
Isagi's blood ran cold.
"Of course, no using your hands. Those are the main rules."
Ego's smile widened, his teeth catching the light.
"Have fun devouring each other."
The screen went black.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Igarashi's voice broke the silence, high and panicked: "The ball! Who has the ball?!"
Players scattered, looking around wildly. The ball—a standard size 5, bright white—was on the floor at the center of the room. Igarashi lunged for it, his fingers closing around it before anyone else could react.
The screen flickered again, numbers appearing in bright red:
IT: IGARASHI GURIMU
TIME REMAINING: 02:16
"The fuck?! It hasn't even been a day and we're already having a test?!" One of the players shouted.
"So the worst player in the room becomes a demon?!" Another voice joined.
"Gah! Let me out! I don't want to play this!" A third.
But no one moved toward the door. No one tried to leave.
Igarashi stood frozen in the center of the room, the ball clutched to his chest, his face pale. Then something shifted in his expression. His jaw tightened. His eyes hardened.
"I don't know if it's true..." He looked at the players around him, his gaze sweeping from face to face. "But I'll do it anyway! If I lose here, I go back to the temple. I become a monk!"
He laughed—a sharp, desperate sound.
"So don't take this personally!"
He kicked.
The ball rocketed toward Isagi.
Time slowed.
Isagi saw the spin on the ball, saw the trajectory, saw his own future compressed into a single choice: move or die. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. He threw himself to the side, the ball whistling past his ear, close enough to ruffle his hair.
"I got away!" The thought screamed through his mind.
Around him, players scattered. Some were laughing—nervous, hysterical laughter. Others were grim-faced, their eyes fixed on Igarashi as he retrieved the ball with clumsy feet.
Kira moved beside Isagi, his voice low, urgent. "Is this really how pros train? There's no way! I only entered Blue Lock to reject Ego's rotten ideology!"
Igarashi kicked again. Another miss.
Kira's voice grew sharper. "Staking our football careers on a two-minute game of tag? That's insane! I won't let him destroy my future!"
Isagi ran. His legs pumped, his lungs burned, but he didn't stop. Just keep running. Don't be it. Don't be the one who loses.
Igarashi spotted the sleeping boy—the one with golden underlights—still curled up against the wall, his eyes closed, oblivious to the chaos.
"Easy target!" Igarashi crowed, winding up for a kick.
The boy's eyes snapped open.
In one fluid motion, he rose, pivoted, and planted his foot directly into Igarashi's face.
Igarashi went down hard, clutching his nose, blood streaming between his fingers. "Foul! That's a foul!"
The golden-eyed boy stretched, his movements languid, unhurried. "The only rule is you can't use your hands," he said, his voice light, almost playful. "So that wasn't a foul."
Kunigami stepped forward, his jaw tight. "That's dirty play. You should fight fair and square."
The boy tilted his head, his yellow eyes gleaming. "Fair and square?"
Igarashi, forgotten, scooped up the ball from where it had rolled. His eyes locked onto Kunigami's exposed back.
"Got you."
The ball slammed into the back of Kunigami's head with a sickening thud.
Kunigami spun, his face contorting with rage. "WHAT THE—" He grabbed the ball, his fists clenching around it. "I'm Kunigami Rensuke! Rank 291! And I'll make you pay for that!"
He launched himself at Igarashi, ball at his feet, fury in his eyes. Igarashi, panicking, dove behind the nearest human shield.
Behind Isagi.
The kick came from Kunigami's foot like a cannon blast. The ball hit Isagi's chest with the force of a freight train, driving the air from his lungs. He stumbled backward, gasping, as the numbers on the screen changed:
IT: ISAGI YOICHI
TIME REMAINING: 01:03
"Ah..your not the person I aimed for.." Kunigami gasped.
Isagi stood frozen for a moment, the ball at his feet, the reality of his situation crashing down on him.
I'm it. I have one minute to hit someone, or I'm out. Forever. No more football. No more dreams. Nothing.
The other players circled him like wolves, their faces masks of calculation. Kira watched with something like concern. Igarashi cowered in the corner, his earlier bravado completely evaporated. Kunigami's fury had cooled into cold determination.
Isagi moved.
He kicked toward the nearest cluster of players, but they scattered like leaves before wind. Again. Again. Each kick found only empty space. The players were too fast, too alert, too desperate to survive.
I can't hit anyone. I'm going to lose. I'm going to—
His eyes found Igarashi.
The lowest-ranked player. The one who had targeted him first. The one who was now limping from Kunigami's assault, his movements hesitant, his eyes wide with fear.
If I hit him... I win. I survive.
He charged.
Fifty seconds.
Igarashi saw him coming and ran, his injured ankle protesting with every step. Isagi chased, the ball glued to his feet, his legs burning, his lungs screaming.
Forty-five seconds.
Isagi's pursuit was clumsy, desperate. The other players watched, some cheering, some silent, all of them safe as long as Isagi was chasing the crippled prey.
I can't end like this. I can't let my dream die here.
Bachira appeared from nowhere, his arms wrapped around Kunigami's torso, restraining the larger man with impossible strength. "Hey! Isagi!" he called, his voice bright despite the strain. "Over here!"
Kunigami struggled against the hold. "Let go of me!"
Isagi saw the opportunity. He drove the ball toward Kunigami's exposed side—
But Kunigami was stronger. He threw Bachira off with a grunt of effort, sending the smaller player flying. Bachira crashed into Igarashi, and both of them tumbled to the ground.
Igarashi screamed.
His ankle—already weakened—twisted at an unnatural angle. He clutched it, his face pale, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Kira's voice rang out across the room: "Isagi! Take the shot! Now!"
Twenty-nine seconds.
Isagi stood over Igarashi, the ball at his feet. The injured boy looked up at him, his earlier arrogance completely stripped away, leaving only terror and pleading.
"Please," Igarashi gasped. "Please don't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I targeted you before. Just... please. Don't end my career. Don't send me back to the temple."
Twenty-five seconds.
Isagi's foot hovered over the ball.
It's so easy. Just kick. He's right there. He can't move. One kick and I survive. One kick and he's gone.
Twenty-three seconds.
But that's not why I came here.
Twenty-one seconds.
I came here to become the best striker in the world. I came here to change. I came here to—
Fifteen seconds.
Isagi pulled back.
"No."
The word came out as a whisper, but it felt like a thunderclap. He turned away from Igarashi's prone form, his eyes scanning the room for new targets.
I won't take the easy way out. I won't survive by preying on the weak. If I'm going to win, I'll beat someone stronger than me. That's the only way I'll change.
"I came here to become the best!" His voice echoed off the walls.
Ten seconds.
Bachira appeared at Isagi's side, his eyes bright with something that looked like recognition. "That's more like it," he murmured, and before Isagi could react, Bachira's foot hooked the ball away.
"What are you—"
"I'm taking it!" Bachira laughed, already moving, the ball dancing at his feet like it had always belonged there. "If you're going for the strong ones, then I'll go for the strongest!"
Eight seconds.
Bachira's eyes locked onto Kira.
Kira, who had been called Japan's treasure. Kira, the player everyone knew was destined for greatness. Kira, who had crushed Isagi's dreams and now stood in the path of his future.
The ball flew from Bachira's foot toward Kira's face.
Kira moved—not running, but flowing, his body twisting out of the path with the grace of a dancer. The ball missed by inches.
Bachira was already there, his leg rising in a kick aimed at Kira's head. "Got you—"
Kira ducked. "Not today!"
Seven seconds.
Kira ran, his legs eating up ground, his eyes fixed on the far wall. Six seconds. Five seconds. He was going to make it. He was going to survive.
Bachira's foot connected with the ball again, not toward Kira this time, but toward—
Isagi.
Four seconds.
The ball rocketed toward him, spinning, humming, carrying with it the weight of everything he had ever wanted. Isagi saw the trajectory, saw the spin, saw the future unfolding in front of him.
Kira. It's aimed toward Kira's escape path.
Three seconds.
But the ball is coming to me.
Isagi's foot connected with the ball. He didn't think. He didn't calculate. He didn't hesitate. Something rose up inside him—something hungry, something desperate, something that had been sleeping since the day he passed instead of shot.
If I'm going to be the best...
The ball left his foot.
...I have to destroy the dreams of others.
Time stopped.
The ball hit Kira square in the face.
The timer hit zero.
Kira stood in the center of the room, the red mark of the ball blooming across his cheek, his eyes wide with incomprehension. The other players stared in stunned silence. Igarashi wept with relief. Kunigami's rage had cooled into something like respect.
Kira turned to Isagi, and for the first time, the golden boy's composure cracked. "Isagi... what... what have you done?"
Isagi opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. He looked at his hands, looked at Kira's face, looked at the ball now rolling innocently across the floor. "I... the ball came so fast... I just..."
The television screen flickered.
"Time's up."
Ego's voice was calm, almost bored, as if he had seen this outcome from the beginning. "Ryosuke Kira. You are expelled from Blue Lock."
Kira's composure shattered completely. He lunged toward the screen, his fists raised, his face contorted with rage. "What?! You're throwing away Japan's future! Expel Igarashi! Expel Isagi! They're the ones who should be—"
"Look around you," Ego interrupted.
Kira froze.
"This room," Ego continued, "is 16.5 by 40.32 meters. The exact dimensions of a penalty area. Seventy-five percent of goals are scored from this space. This is a striker's domain." His voice hardened. "If you cannot survive here, you have no right to call yourself a striker."
Kira's hands fell to his sides. "Tag has nothing to do with football!"
"Everything here is related to football," Ego replied. "For those fleeing, what's required is tactical awareness and positioning. For those pursuing—accurate dribbling and precise shooting." He paused. "The average time a player possesses the ball in a ninety-minute match is 136 seconds. You were given the exact same opportunity."
"But I only had ten seconds at the end! Ten seconds! You can't—"
Ego's voice cut like a blade. "If this were a real match, would you make the same excuse?"
Kira's mouth opened. No sound came out.
The screen showed a replay—the final moments, slowed down. The ball hitting Kira's face. The timer hitting zero. And then, Ego rewound slightly. One second remained. The ball was in front of Kira. Igarashi was still on the ground, injured, unable to move.
"You had one second," Ego said quietly. "You could have hit Igarashi. You could have survived. But you didn't even try. You gave up."
Kira's face went white.
"The striker who is 'it' decides who wins and who loses," Ego continued. "They carry all responsibility on their back. They keep attacking until the very last second." His eyes moved to Isagi and Bachira. "These two—who chose to aim for stronger opponents rather than easy prey—are the kind of egoism I'm looking for."
Kira's eyes met Isagi's one last time. There was no warmth there now. Only a cold, burning hatred that Isagi knew would haunt him for years.
"Isagi..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the silence, his shadow stretching long behind him.
The door closed.
Isagi stared at the door, his thoughts a hurricane. I hit Kira. I'm the reason he's gone. I destroyed his dream. I—
Bachira appeared beside him, his usual grin back in place. "That was fun!"
Isagi rounded on him. "Why did you pass to me?! If I hadn't hit it, you would have been eliminated!"
Bachira's smile didn't waver. "I thought you would kick it. So I passed."
"That's not—"
"Results are everything here," Bachira said, and for a moment, the playfulness vanished from his voice. "I believed in you. And I won."
Igarashi's voice rose from the floor, shaky but defiant. "This whole thing is nonsense! From beginning to end!"
Ego's laugh crackled through the speakers. "Of course it's nonsense. So is the world. You win, or you lose. While you've been celebrating mediocre successes, true strikers have been walking the path of victory and defeat every single day. Surviving."
He leaned closer to the camera, his face filling the screen.
"How did it feel? That moment of true danger? That taste of real victory?"
No one answered.
Ego smiled. "The football you've played your whole lives was for weaklings. Remember this feeling. Cherish it."
He straightened, his voice returning to its clinical calm. "The remaining players have passed the entrance exam. Congratulations. The eleven of you will now form Team Z."
The screen went black.
Isagi stood among the survivors—Igarashi, Kunigami, Bachira, and the seven others whose names he hadn't yet learned—and felt something shifting inside him. Something waking up. Something that had looked at an injured boy begging for mercy and said no. Something that had looked at Japan's golden child and fired anyway.
I came here to become the best striker in the world.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.
And to do that... I have to be willing to destroy anyone who gets in my way.
The weight of 136 seconds settled on his shoulders.
He didn't know it yet, but he would carry it for the rest of his life.
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Sorry Kira but I need ya gone for the plot 😞🤞
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