9
Currently, there are eleven members that survived the entrance exam. As follows:
Jingo Raichi. Wataru Kuon. Yudai Imamura. Okuhito Iemon. Asahi Naruhaya. Gin Gagamaru. Gurimu Igarashi. Hyoma Chigiri. Rensuke Kunigami. Meguru Bachira.
And last but not least, Isagi Yoichi.
These are the eleven members of Team Z.
It has been three days since we first came to Blue Lock.
Three days of tests. Three days of evaluation. Three days of being measured, weighed, and found wanting.
The first test was a running test. Endless laps around the indoor track, the artificial surface pounding against our legs, our lungs burning, our minds screaming for rest that wouldn't come.
Isagi was running with Raichi and Igarashi, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. Raichi had taken the lead from the start, his long legs eating up the distance, his face twisted into a permanent sneer.
"HAH!" Raichi's voice cut through the air, loud enough to echo off the distant walls. "You two are too weak! How could you be tired from just running for a few minutes? What weaklings!"
Isagi gritted his teeth, his legs burning, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Beside him, Igarashi was faring even worse, his face pale, his steps unsteady.
"And you two fuckheads think you can become the best strikers in the world?!" Raichi's laugh was sharp, mocking. "DREAM ON!"
Isagi's hands curled into fists at his sides. Raichi was ranked 294th—higher than Isagi's 299th, higher than Igarashi's 300th. He had every right to look down on them, by Blue Lock's cold arithmetic. But knowing that didn't make the words sting any less.
Raichi was tall, with a muscular build that spoke of years of training. His pale blonde hair was flat against his skull, sweat-darkened from the run. His amber eyes were framed by thick, dark lashes that would have been almost pretty if not for the sharp, shark-like teeth he bared every time he opened his mouth.
Those teeth flashed now, his grin widening. "What's wrong? Running out of steam already? Pathetic!"
But still... Isagi thought, forcing his legs to keep moving. A little kindness wouldn't hurt. It's not like we're not working our asses off...
They had spent most of the last three days doing endurance tests. Sprint intervals. Distance runs. Agility drills that left Isagi's ankles aching and his knees weak. Every player in the room was worked up, pushed to the edge of exhaustion and told to keep going.
Isagi slowed to a stop, his hands on his knees, his chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his face, pooling on the floor beneath him. His breath hitched in his throat, each inhale a struggle.
Hot...
The word drifted through Kuon's mind as he stole a glance at Isagi.
The smaller boy was kneeling, his face flushed with exertion, his hair plastered to his forehead. Those two ridiculous sprouts on top of his head—the ones that refused to lie flat no matter how much he tried to press them down—were drooping with fatigue. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, and there was something about the way his breath caught, the way his lips parted, the way his eyes squeezed shut against the burn...
Kuon looked away quickly, his face warming.
He had been helping Igarashi, who had stumbled to the side and was now bent over, vomiting onto the floor. The temple boy's enthusiasm from the first day had curdled into something more desperate, more fragile. He needed the help.
But Kuon's eyes kept drifting back to Isagi.
He pulled a bottle of water from the cooler by the wall and walked over.
"Hey!" He crouched beside Isagi, his voice warm, concerned. "You good? Here's some water."
He handed the bottle to Isagi, and as the younger boy took it, Kuon's hand found its way to his head, rubbing gently, soothingly, as if calming a frightened animal.
"You did well to keep up with Raichi," Kuon said softly. "He's a beast, but you held your own."
For a moment, Isagi leaned into the touch. The warmth of Kuon's hand, the gentle pressure, the steady rhythm of the motion—it was comforting. It was kind.
Then Isagi's eyes snapped open.
Why is everyone always petting my head?
His face flushed—with embarrassment, with irritation, with something he couldn't quite name—and he jerked away.
"Can you people stop petting my head?!" His voice came out sharper than he intended, his scowl fierce despite his exhausted state. "I'm not a pet!"
Kuon's hand froze in midair. His expression flickered—surprise, maybe, or something else—before settling back into that easy, unreadable smile.
"Sorry," he said, withdrawing his hand. "Didn't mean to overstep."
Isagi's anger deflated as quickly as it had risen. He looked at Kuon's face—open, friendly, the kind of face that made people trust him—and felt a twinge of guilt.
He was just being nice. Why am I being so sensitive?
"Thanks," Isagi muttered, accepting the water. He twisted off the cap and drank, the cool liquid soothing his raw throat.
Kuon settled beside him, his posture relaxed, his eyes on the other players still running laps. "Ignore Raichi. He's just being a buffoon right now. Once we get to the main point, I doubt he'll act the same."
Isagi nodded slowly, watching Raichi's distant figure pound around the track. "You think so?"
"I know so." Kuon's smile was confident, reassuring. "Raichi's all talk. When it comes down to it, he'll fight just as hard as the rest of us. We're all in the same boat, after all."
We're all in the same boat. The words should have been comforting. They should have made Isagi feel like part of something, part of a team, part of a group of people all working toward the same goal.
But something about the way Kuon said them made Isagi's skin prickle.
He looked at Kuon's face—that perpetual smile, those red eyes that were always watching, always calculating—and felt a flicker of something he couldn't name. Discomfort. Unease.
Like he's wearing a mask, Isagi thought. Like he's pretending to be someone he's not.
He pushed the thought away almost as soon as it came.
How could I be so prejudiced? Kuon's been nothing but kind to me. He helped Igarashi when he was sick. He brought me water. He's just... nice. Some people are just nice.
"Let's just do our best for now," Kuon was saying, his voice a warm current in Isagi's thoughts. "Give it everything we've got. That's all we can do."
Isagi nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah. You're right."
Wataru Kuon. Rank 293rd—one place above Raichi, yet utterly different. Tall, with dark brown hair that brushed his chin, red eyes that were rarely seen without a smile accompanying them. He was the kind of person who gave off "chill guy" vibes, who made people around him relax, who seemed to carry no sharp edges.
Isagi wanted to believe that was all there was to him.
He really did.
The next test was the vertical jump.
Isagi stood beside Kuon at the measuring wall, his legs still trembling from the running. The device was simple—a series of markers that would register the highest point they could reach.
"One..." The official's voice was monotone, bored. "Two..."
Isagi glanced at Kuon. The taller boy was relaxed, loose-limbed, his easy smile still in place.
"Go!"
They jumped.
Isagi's legs pushed off the ground, his arms reaching upward, his fingers stretching for the highest marker he could touch. For a moment, he was weightless, suspended in air, his whole body straining toward a goal he couldn't quite reach.
Then he was coming down, his feet hitting the floor, his eyes on the marker his fingers had just barely grazed.
61 centimeters.
Beside him, Kuon had landed with the grace of a cat. His marker read 68.
"Woah..." The word escaped Isagi's lips before he could stop it. That's super high.
Kuon's legs were longer, his reach farther, his body more naturally suited to this kind of explosive movement. It made sense that he would jump higher.
But still...
"Hmm?" Kuon turned to Isagi, his brow furrowed with concern. "Isagi, are you alright? You didn't jump that high. Are you ill?"
Isagi felt his face warm. He thought of Kira's words during the tag game—If you had been a little selfish, you could have scored a goal—and felt something twist in his chest.
I'm not sick. I'm just... not enough. Not fast enough. Not strong enough. Not good enough.
He forced a chuckle, pressing a hand to his chest as if to calm his racing heart. "Ahm... I'm fine. Just not feeling it, you know?"
He punctuated the excuse with a fake cough, hoping it would sell the lie.
Kuon studied him for a moment, those red eyes unreadable. Then his smile returned, softer now, almost paternal.
"If you say so." He reached down, offering Isagi a hand. "Come on. Let's get you some water."
Isagi took the hand, let himself be pulled to his feet, let Kuon's warmth chase away some of the cold that had settled in his bones.
He's a good guy, Isagi told himself. He's just a good guy.
The thought felt less certain than it should have.
Dong.
Dang.
Ding.
Deng.
Ding.
Dong
The chimes echoed through the facility, a melody that had become as familiar as Isagi's own heartbeat over the past three days. Meal time.
At Blue Lock, daily activities were arranged to a precise schedule, every minute accounted for, every action designed to engrave discipline in the hearts of the strikers being nurtured here. Eat. Train. Sleep. Repeat. There was no room for deviation, no space for weakness.
Meal time would have been exciting anywhere else. But not in Blue Lock.
Here, the food you received was determined by your rank.
Isagi approached the dispensing machine, his heart sinking. He pressed his number against the scanner—the 299 on his shoulder glowing faintly as the machine registered his identity. A series of beeps. A whir of machinery.
Isagi Yoichi. Rank: 299th.
The small opening at the bottom of the machine slid open, revealing a tray.
Natto. Fermented soybeans. The stringy, pungent breakfast food that Isagi had always avoided at home. A small bowl of rice. Miso soup with no solid ingredients. Pickled vegetables.
Fuck me. Natto again.
Isagi stared at the tray, his appetite evaporating. Three days of this. Three days of watching higher-ranked players receive actual meals while he scraped by on scraps.
He took the tray and shuffled to a table, settling beside Igarashi. The temple boy's tray held even less—a bowl of pickled daikon radish, so pale it looked almost translucent, and a sad portion of rice.
"Natto must be nice," Igarashi said, his voice hollow. He poked at his daikon with his chopsticks, his expression defeated. "All I ever get is pickled daikon..."
He looked at Isagi with downcast eyes, as if personally blaming Ego for this tyranny of flavor. Isagi felt a pang of sympathy.
"It's fine, Igarashi," he said, reaching over to pat the shorter boy's shoulder. "We'll get good food in the future. We just have to move up."
Igarashi's face twisted. "Hmph. I hope so."
He was staring across the room now, his eyes fixed on something with an intensity that bordered on hunger. Isagi followed his gaze.
Gin Gagamaru sat at a table across the cafeteria, his tray laden with food that made Isagi's mouth water. Gyoza—pan-fried dumplings, golden and glistening. A proper serving of grilled fish. Rice that looked fluffy and fresh. Miso soup with actual tofu floating in it.
Rank 296th. The difference was stark.
"I'm so jealous," Igarashi muttered, his voice thick with longing. "It's not fair... People up in the rankings have it so good..."
He watched Gagamaru pick up a gyoza with his bare fingers, no chopsticks in sight, and his eye twitched. "That gyoza looks insanely appealing..."
Isagi stared, his own chopsticks frozen halfway to his mouth. "What the hell is he doing? Eating food without chopsticks? Where is his table manners?"
It wasn't just the lack of utensils—it was the way Gagamaru ate. The tall, lanky boy had his long black hair tied in a bun, dyed silver at the ends, and he was shoveling food into his mouth with the focused efficiency of someone who saw eating as fuel rather than pleasure. His large black eyes whih are giving him an almost alien appearance—were fixed on his tray, oblivious to the world around him.
"Hey, maybe he was raised in the Middle East or something?" Igarashi suggested, his brow furrowed. "They eat with their hands sometimes, right?"
"I don't think that's—"
Before Isagi could finish, a blur of motion caught his eye.
A smaller figure darted across the cafeteria, moving with the quick, furtive grace of a thief. Before Gagamaru could react, a hand shot out, snatched a gyoza from his tray, and was gone.
"Ooo~ Thanks for the gyoza ♡"
The voice was singsong, almost mocking. Gagamaru's head snapped up, his empty fingers still clutching air.
"H... hey. Midget." His voice was low, dangerous. "Give me back my gyoza."
The thief was already several tables away, the stolen dumpling held triumphantly aloft. Asahi Naruhaya was small—the smallest player in Team Z, with a build that looked more suited to a middle schooler than a high school athlete. His fluffy blonde hair bounced as he moved, his dark golden eyes bright with mischief.
"My bad~" Naruhaya called back, popping the gyoza into his mouth. "I already ate it!"
He giggled, the sound high and unrepentant, as Gagamaru rose from his seat. The tall boy's expression hadn't changed—still that same flat, unreadable mask—but there was something in the way he moved that suggested violence.
"I just love gyoza," Naruhaya said, still giggling, as Gagamaru began to advance. "It tastes so good ♡"
"You little midget." Gagamaru's voice was flat, but his steps were quick. "Where do you think you're going?"
He lunged. Naruhaya yelped and darted away, weaving between tables with the agility of someone who had spent a lifetime being chased.
Igarashi watched the chase with wide eyes, then turned to Isagi with sudden urgency. "Isagi! Hide your natto! Or that guy's going to steal it too!"
He threw his arms protectively over his own tray, as if Naruhaya might abandon his pursuit of Gagamaru's gyoza to raid their table of fermented beans and pickled radish.
Isagi sighed, watching Naruhaya's small figure disappear around a corner, Gagamaru in hot pursuit. "He won't even bother to take our food. It's not delicious anyway."
He looked down at his natto and felt his stomach turn.
There has to be more to Blue Lock than this. More than rankings and hunger and running until you collapse. There has to be.
---
That night, sleep didn't come.
Isagi lay on his futon, staring at the ceiling, the darkness pressing down on him like a weight. Around him, the other members of Team Z were scattered across the room, their breathing slow, their bodies still. Kunigami's broad form was curled on his side, his face relaxed in sleep. Igarashi had passed out almost immediately, exhausted by the day's trials. Raichi snored—loud, grating, somehow infuriating even in unconsciousness.
But Isagi's mind wouldn't stop.
Kira's face, the moment before the ball hit. The hatred in his eyes, the way his composure had shattered, the way he had looked at Isagi like he was something less than human.
Isagi... what have you done?
Raichi's words echoed too, sharp and mocking: You think you can become the best striker in the world? Dream on.
And Kuon's question, so simple, so innocent: Are you ill?
Maybe I am, Isagi thought, pressing his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. Maybe there's something wrong with me. Something that made me kick that ball. Something that made me aim for Kira instead of Igarashi. Something that made me want to destroy someone's dreams.
He lay there for what felt like hours, the darkness pressing in, the silence suffocating.
Finally, he couldn't take it anymore.
He slipped out of his futon, moving quietly, his feet silent on the cold floor. The door opened with a soft click, and then he was in the hallway, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, the white walls stretching on forever.
He walked without direction, letting his feet carry him wherever they wanted. Through corridors that all looked the same. Past doors that all looked the same. Under lights that never dimmed, never changed, never offered any respite from the endless white.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear the footsteps.
He didn't hear the whistle of the ball through the air.
All he felt was the sudden, sharp impact against the back of his head, sending him stumbling forward with a yelp.
"Ow! What the—"
He spun around, his hands flying to the point of impact, and found the ball rolling to a stop against the wall.
And there, sitting cross-legged against the corridor wall with the casual ease of someone lounging in a park, was Bachira Meguru.
"I~sa~gi~ ♥︎" Bachira hummed his name softly
"Can't sleep?" Bachira asked, his voice light, almost musical. He wasn't looking at Isagi—his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, that perpetual half-smile playing at his lips.
Isagi rubbed the back of his head, still processing what had just happened. "You... you hit me with that on purpose, didn't you?"
Bachira's smile widened before changing to a delightful grin. "Maybe."
For a moment, Isagi considered being angry. The sting on his neck, the shock of the impact, the frustration that had been building for three days—all of it could have coalesced into rage.
But something about Bachira's presence made it hard to hold onto frustration. He was too... relaxed. Too at ease. Like nothing in the world could touch him, like the chaos of Blue Lock was just another game to be played.
"What are you doing out here?" Isagi asked, leaning down to pick up the ball.
"Couldn't sleep either," Bachira said, finally turning to look at him. His eyes were bright, almost luminous in the fluorescent light. "Too much energy. Too much thinking and too much adrenaline."
Isagi nodded slowly. He understood that.
Bachira unfolded himself from the floor, rising with the fluid grace of a cat. "You were heading somewhere, right? To train?"
"I..." Isagi hesitated. He hadn't been heading anywhere specific. He had just been walking, just trying to outrun the thoughts that chased him. But now that Bachira said it... "I just needed to move. Clear my head."
"Same thing," Bachira said, already walking down the hallway. "Come on. I'll join you."
Isagi found himself following before he could think to object.
The indoor training field was vast and empty, the artificial grass pristine under the lights. It smelled like new equipment and ambition, and the silence felt heavy with possibility.
Isagi stood at one end, the ball at his feet. Bachira stood opposite him, that same easy smile on his face, but something in his posture had shifted. He looked... hungry.
"One-on-one," Bachira said. "You try to get past me. I try to get past you. Simple."
"Simple," Isagi repeated, though his stomach was tightening with nerves. He had seen Bachira move during the tag game. He had felt the impossible weight of that final pass.
"Before we start..." Isagi's voice caught for a moment. The question that had been burning in his chest for three days finally forced its way out. "I need to ask you something."
Bachira tilted his head. "Ask."
"During the tag game..." Isagi's hands clenched at his sides. "Why did you pass to me? At the very end, when you could have aimed at Kira yourself, when you could have—"
"Could I have?" Bachira interrupted.
Isagi blinked. "What?"
"Could I have hit Kira?" Bachira's smile hadn't wavered, but there was something sharper beneath it now. "I tried. He dodged. I tried again. He dodged again." He took a step forward, and Isagi instinctively tensed. "So I passed to someone who could hit him."
"But why me? Why did you think I would—"
"Because the monster told me to."
The words hung in the air between them. Isagi stared at Bachira, waiting for the punchline, the explanation, the something that would make those words make sense.
"Monster?"
Bachira began to move.
The ball was at his feet in an instant, his body dropping low, his legs weaving an impossible pattern around it. Isagi tried to track his movements, tried to predict where he would go, but Bachira flowed like water, like light, like something that didn't have to obey the same rules of physics as everyone else.
"There's a monster inside me," Bachira said, his voice perfectly calm even as his body twisted and turned. "It's only there when I play football. It whispers to me."
He cut left, and Isagi lunged to block.
"Steal the ball, it says. Dance, it says. Pass to that guy, it says."
He cut right, and Isagi's feet tangled beneath him.
"During the tag game, the monster looked at you, and it said..." Bachira stopped, the ball frozen beneath his foot, his face inches from Isagi's. "That one. Pass to that one. He has a monster too."
Isagi's breath caught in his throat.
"What?"
"You heard me." Bachira stepped back, giving Isagi room to breathe, but his eyes never left his face. "You have a monster inside you too, Isagi. I can see it."
"I don't—"
"Then how did you hit Kira?"
The question hit Isagi like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to respond, to say something about instinct, about luck, about the ball coming too fast for him to think.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because he knew, somewhere deep in his chest, that it hadn't been luck. It hadn't been instinct.
It had been something else. Something that had risen up from the darkest part of him, 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 don't know what that was," Isagi said quietly.
"That's the monster," Bachira said, and for the first time, his smile softened into something almost gentle. "All the famous strikers have one. It's proof of how great they are. It tells them to do things they don't understand. It pushes them places they don't want to go."
He tapped the ball, sending it rolling gently back to Isagi's feet.
"I'm glad I came to Blue Lock," Bachira continued, his voice lighter now, almost playful. "Because I got to meet you. Someone else with a monster."
Isagi looked down at the ball, then back up at Bachira. Something was shifting inside him—something that had been sleeping since the moment he'd eliminated Kira. Something that was only now beginning to stir.
"I want to understand it," Isagi said. "This monster. I want to know what it is. Why it's there. What it wants."
Bachira's grin returned in full force. "That's the spirit. Now come on—" He dropped back into a defensive stance, his eyes sparkling. "—let's play. Let the monster out to play, Isagi."
Isagi looked at the ball at his feet. He thought about Kira's face. He thought about the weight of that final kick. He thought about the thing that had risen up inside him in that moment—the thing that had wanted to win more than it wanted to be good, more than it wanted to be fair, more than it wanted anything else in the world.
Maybe that's what I've been missing. Maybe that's what I've been too afraid to look at.
"Ready," Isagi said, and for the first time in three days, he felt something like fire in his chest.
They played until their legs gave out.
Until the sweat soaked through their uniforms, until their lungs burned, until every muscle in Isagi's body screamed for rest. Bachira was relentless—faster, more skilled, more in tune with the thing inside him that made him move like water, like wind, like something that couldn't be caught.
But Isagi kept getting up.
Every time Bachira stole the ball, Isagi chased him down. Every time Bachira danced past him, Isagi adjusted, adapted, learned. He wasn't faster than Bachira. He wasn't more skilled. But he could see—he could see the patterns in Bachira's movements, the spaces he was trying to create, the openings he was leaving behind.
And once, just once, he managed to steal the ball back.
Bachira's eyes went wide as Isagi's foot hooked the ball away, as Isagi's body turned, as he drove toward the goal they had marked with their water bottles. Bachira recovered quickly, his legs pumping, his hand reaching—
Isagi shot.
The ball sailed past Bachira's outstretched fingers, past the water bottle goal, and struck the wall with a satisfying thwack.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Bachira laughed—a real laugh, bright and genuine, his whole face lighting up.
"There it is!" He clapped his hands together, his smile so wide it seemed to split his face. "There it is, Isagi! That's the monster!"
Isagi stood frozen, his chest heaving, his mind replaying that single moment over and over. He hadn't thought. He hadn't planned. He had just... moved.
Maybe that's what it means to be a striker. Not thinking. Not planning. Just... taking the shot.
He looked at his hands, still trembling with adrenaline, and felt something click into place.
The announcement crackled through the facility's speakers, pulling them from their exhausted reverie.
"All Team Z members, report to your quarters immediately for ranking announcements."
Bachira stretched, seemingly unaffected by the hours of training. "Finally. I've been dying to see if we've moved up."
Isagi followed him back through the sterile hallways, his legs burning, his lungs still heaving, but his mind clearer than it had been in days. The thing inside him had settled back into its hiding place, but he could feel it there now, waiting.
When they entered Team Z's quarters, the other members were already gathered. Igarashi was pacing, his injured ankle now wrapped but his energy undiminished. Kunigami sat against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Raichi was sprawled on the floor, his face twisted into a scowl. Kuon stood near the monitor, his posture open and welcoming, the same easy smile on his face that he'd worn during the tests.
"Isagi-kun," Kuon said, nodding as Isagi entered. "Good to see you. We were starting to wonder where you'd gone."
"Just... clearing my head," Isagi said, taking a spot near the back.
Kuon's smile flickered—just for a moment, just enough for Isagi to catch it—before settling back into place. "Well, you're just in time. They're about to announce the rankings."
The monitor flickered to life, and the room fell silent.
A list of names appeared, each with a number beside it. Isagi's eyes scanned the screen, searching, searching—
"YES!" Igarashi's voice shattered the silence. "I moved up! Look! I'm Rank 275!"
He was bouncing on his heels, his earlier exhaustion forgotten, his face alight with joy. "Isagi! Look at me! Look at me! My rank is higher now!"
Isagi chuckled, a genuine smile breaking through his fatigue. "Good job, Igarashi."
He found his own name.
Isagi Yoichi: Rank 274
His heart gave a strange lurch. He had moved up. Twenty-five places. From dead last to something that wasn't quite last anymore.
But something was wrong. Igarashi's celebration had died in his throat. The other players were staring at the screen with expressions that ranged from confusion to horror.
"Wait," Igarashi said, his voice cracking. "If I'm 275... and Isagi is 274... then that means..."
The screen changed.
A map of the Blue Lock facility appeared. Five blocks. Five strata. Twenty-five teams, from B to Z.
Ego's face filled the screen, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.
"Congratulations on surviving the first three days," he said, his voice smooth as oil. "I trust you've enjoyed the athletic tests. They were, of course, meaningless—designed purely to assess your baseline capabilities."
"Meaningless?" Raichi's voice was sharp, his shark-like teeth bared. "We ran ourselves into the ground for nothing?"
"For everything," Ego corrected. "You have now been measured, catalogued, and ranked. The results are before you."
He gestured, and the map of the facility expanded.
"Blue Lock is divided into five strata. Each stratum contains five teams. The teams are ranked from B to Z, with B being the highest and Z being the lowest."
Isagi's stomach dropped.
"In other words," Ego continued, his smile widening, "you—Team Z—are the worst of the worst. The dregs. The failures who only survived because someone else was more pathetic than you."
Igarashi made a strangled sound.
"But don't let that discourage you," Ego said, and there was something almost kind in his voice, which made it infinitely more terrifying. "Football is king here. If you want to live like kings, all you have to do is win."
The screen changed again, showing images of meals—real meals, the kind Isagi had been dreaming about for three days. Steaming bowls of ramen. Platters of sushi. Golden, crispy katsu.
"Players of higher ranks from other blocks have better meals and training equipment," Ego said. "So if you want to seize such a luxurious lifestyle here, you have to win."
The screen shifted again, and a bracket appeared. Five teams: V, W, X, Y, Z.
"This is the First Selection. A round-robin tournament between the five teams in your stratum."
Kuon raised his hand. "What are the rules? What's at stake?"
"Simple," Ego said. "Only the top two teams will advance to the next stage. The rest will be eliminated from Blue Lock."
The room erupted.
"Only two teams?!"
"That's insane!"
"There's no way—"
"However." Ego's voice cut through the chaos like a knife. "There is one additional rule. The top scorers from the three losing teams will also advance to the next selection."
The room fell silent again.
"What does that mean?" Kunigami asked, his voice low.
"It means," Ego said, his eyes gleaming behind his glasses, "that if your team loses, you can still survive—provided you score more goals than anyone else on your team. If there's a tie, we'll look at fair play points. The player with the fewest penalties advances."
He let the words sink in, watching them with the patience of a predator.
"So let me be perfectly clear," he continued. "You have two paths to survival. Either you work together to win as a team, or you fight your own teammates to be the one who scores the most goals. Your choice."
Isagi felt something cold settle in his chest.
He's pitting us against each other. Even within the team. Even when we're supposed to be working together.
"This is a battle about creating soccer from zero," Ego said, and there was a weight to his words that made Isagi's spine stiffen. "The first match begins in two hours. Team X versus Team Z."
The screen went black.
"Ugh. I have to play with some fucking trash?" Raichi's voice was loud, dismissive, his amber eyes sweeping over the room with contempt. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Who are you calling trash?" Kunigami turned, his broad shoulders squaring, his auburn eyes flashing.
"Yeah!" Igarashi chimed in, his earlier celebration forgotten in the face of Raichi's insult. "You think you're so much better just because your rank is slightly higher?!"
"Enough." Kuon stepped between them, his hands raised in a placating gesture, his smile strained but present. "We're on the same team. Fighting each other won't help anything."
Raichi sneered, his shark-like teeth glinting. "We're not a team. We're a bunch of losers who got stuck together because no one else wanted us."
Isagi watched them argue, his mind still processing Ego's words. Work together to win as a team, or fight your own teammates to be the one who scores the most goals.
He thought about the thing inside him—the monster, Bachira had called it—and wondered which path it would choose.
To be the best striker in the world... I have to stroke my own ego and win in my own way. Throw away all those useless philosophies I learned outside of Blue Lock.
He looked at his teammates. He knew he wasn't close to them but they could work together to win the match.
Cause and ego. That's what I need to become the best striker.
This is what it means to be in Blue Lock.
The clock on the wall ticked down. Two hours until the first match.
Isagi looked at his hands. They were steady now.
Let the First Selection begin.
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This is the last chapter before I go to my boarding school. Sadly my boarding school does not allow their students to bring electronics into the dormitory so I won't be able to upload for a while.
Also im not sure of Hugo's age some said he was the same age as loki but some said he is the same age as charles so im not particularly sure of his official age so I'm just going to use the age I set on him for now.
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