{Isagi's POV}
They were testing our physical stats right now. And in most of them, I was above average.
The things I could rely on were my speed, stamina, and shooting strength. But overall, I was a well-balanced player, which led to my rank of 265.
Yeah, the rankings had gone up. After eliminating a player from every block and every team, a total of 25 people's football careers were gone. That just hammered in the whole "survival of the fittest" thing even harder. And that was exactly why we were measuring and training now.
And now, about the other players in the dorm… I've gotten to know their names and some basic stuff.
Team Z and Their Ranks:
Me (Isagi Yoichi) – 265
Kira Ryosuke – 266
Kunigami Rensuke – 267
Bachira Meguru – 268
Raichi Jingo – 269
Gagamaru Gin – 270
Chigiri Hyoma – 271
Kuon Wataru – 272
Naruhaya Asahi – 273
Imano Iemon – 274
Igarashi Gurimu – 275
These were the current rankings.
With the day's training finally over and most of the tests done, I made my way to the dorm and collapsed onto the nearest seat, letting my body finally calm down. The exhaustion from all the drills and measurements was creeping in, but I wasn't the only one feeling it.
The others filed in one by one, all looking just as drained. Some threw themselves onto their beds without a word, while others just sat on the floor, catching their breath. The air was thick with fatigue.
But one thing I noticed was how everything in this facility ran on discipline— even the food. There was a clear hierarchy in place. My meals were of better quantity and quality compared to others. Meanwhile, some guys were stuck eating natto or pickled radish. Three times a day.
Just thinking about that made me shiver. How could anyone survive on that?
Night fell, and most of the guys knocked out instantly, their exhaustion taking over. But me? I couldn't sleep.
Maybe I was too excited—no, I definitely was. My body was shaking just from the thought of the opponents I'd be facing soon.
After lying in bed for what felt like hours, I exhaled sharply.
"Ahh, screw it."
If I couldn't sleep, I might as well make the most of it. Extra training it is.
I got up and quietly made my way toward the training ground.
And that's when—
THUD!
Something slammed into the back of my head.
A ball.
I blinked.
"Let me tag along too, monster~"
That voice.
I turned around, already expecting the culprit.
Bachira.
He grinned at me, that usual mischievous glint in his eyes.
I sighed, deadpanning. "Seriously, bro?"
"Come on, don't make that face!" he laughed, spinning the ball under his foot.
I shook my head but relented. "Fine. Sure, Bachira."
Well… gotta be normal, gotta be normal. I don't have schizophrenia.
We made our way inside the training area. The facility was insane—it had everything. A football field, high-tech equipment, floodlights illuminating the space. Even though it was slightly smaller than a full-sized field, the setup was top-tier.
I was already enjoying using the training machines here. No one could match Blue Lock's equipment.
But then—
Thud.
I heard the sound of a ball being kicked.
Turning around, I barely had a second to react before Bachira rushed straight at me, the ball at his feet, eyes burning with excitement.
A smirk tugged at my lips.
"1v1, huh?"
Sounds good.
I lowered my stance.
Time to play.
Bachira wasted no time.
The moment I lowered my stance, he was already on me—the ball glued to his feet like it was part of his body.
Shit—!
My eyes barely kept up with the way he moved. His dribbling was effortless, fluid, unpredictable. He wasn't just sprinting past me—he was toying with me. A tap here, a flick there. Every time I thought I had an opening to steal the ball, he twisted his body in some weird, unnatural way, shifting the ball to the other side before I could even react.
I lunged—too slow.
I reached out—too late.
Within seconds, he was past me.
The ball thumped against the net behind me.
"One-nil," Bachira grinned, already jogging back.
I clenched my jaw, shaking off the frustration. Calm down, think.
Bachira wasn't just fast. He was slippery, hard to pin down, like a puzzle with missing pieces. I knew I had to adapt—but how?
"Again," I said.
Bachira chuckled. "You sure, monster~?"
I didn't answer. I just took my stance again.
And just like before, he came at me—fast.
I focused on his feet this time. But that was a mistake. He sold me a feint so hard I nearly stumbled.
He slipped past me again.
"Two-nil."
I exhaled sharply, gripping my knees. Think, Isagi. Don't just react. Read him.
My mind worked to piece things together, the puzzle shifting in my imagination.
Bachira's movements weren't random. They were free-flowing, yes, but they followed a pattern—his body always gave away slight hints before he made his moves. His shoulders, the angle of his foot, the way his weight shifted right before a cut.
That's it.
I straightened up.
"One more."
Bachira's smile stretched wider. His eyes lit up.
"That's more like it."
This time, when he came at me, I focused—not on his feet, but his entire body.
My puzzle started forming.
He cut left—I was already shifting.
He twisted right—I adjusted my stance, refusing to be baited.
For the first time, I wasn't reacting. I was predicting.
I saw the tell—his left shoulder dipped slightly—a feint!
I didn't bite.
Bachira blinked.
I cut off his path. Blocked him.
He didn't stop.
No hesitation. No frustration. Just pure excitement.
His dribbling sharpened. His movements became even slicker, his "monster" surging forward, pushing him to go even further.
I was adapting.
And he was evolving with me.
Neither of us spoke, but we both felt it—a balance shifting.
The battle had just begun.
I planted my feet, eyes locked onto Bachira.
He grinned, the ball at his feet like an extension of his own body. He's confident. Too confident.
The moment he moved, I felt it again—that suffocating flow of his dribbling. It was chaotic, free, and yet… strangely intentional. I couldn't fully grasp it, but I knew one thing: if I just reacted, I'd lose.
And I wasn't planning on losing.
Bachira's body shifted—his weight pressing onto his right leg. He's going left.
No—his shoulder twitched. It was a feint.
I didn't bite.
Instead, I stayed firm, watching—no, reading.
Every small movement, every subtle twitch of his muscles—they were all signs, clues to his next move. My brain was piecing them together like a puzzle, the fragmented shapes forming into something clear, something I could predict.
'So this is it…
My physical shortcomings are being covered by my superior mental ability and vision.
I don't need to match his dribbling speed. I don't need to outmuscle him.
I just need to see through him.
Up until now, I had only used my vision to predict passes, to find open spaces on the field. But individual skills? One-on-one duels? I had always left those to instinct. Even the ones in matches, I left them to my instincts. Perhaps that's why I had lost to Kira in those 1v1 duels a few times.
So do I only want to rely on my instincts? Do I want to rely on that alone?
No… if I can control it—if I can consciously dissect my opponent in real time—then I can produce better results.'
A surge of excitement shot through me as I realized it. I could break down anything in front of me. Players, movements, patterns—I could read them all.
I saw the moment Bachira realized it too. His playful grin twisted into something sharper.
"Oh?" His voice was lower. "You're different, monster~."
He shifted gears. His dribbling exploded in speed, a wild surge of momentum. His body twisted, his movements sharper, his turns tighter.
His monster had evolved.
He wasn't just playing anymore—he was testing me.
I stepped forward, pressing closer than before.
Bachira's eyes flickered with excitement—he cut left.
Predictable.
I cut off his path. Blocked him.
His grin twitched. The thrill was getting to him.
But I wasn't done. In the heat of the moment, the words left my mouth before I even thought about them.
"That monster of yours," I muttered, eyes locked onto his. "Isn't it just an excuse?"
Bachira froze.
For the first time, I saw hesitation in his movements.
A beat of silence.
Then—his grin widened. But there was something different about it now.
"You're really interesting, Isagi." His voice wasn't teasing anymore—it was serious.
{Bachira's POV}
Isagi Yoichi.
He had a monster inside him. No… he was a monster.
I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on him. He wasn't like the others. While most people ran away from their instincts, from their deepest, most primal urges to chase after football, Isagi had already embraced his. He had tamed his monster. It wasn't something whispering in his ear—it was a part of him, moving in perfect sync with his thoughts.
And this 1v1? It only proved that further.
The way he adapted—it was unnatural. No hesitation, no fumbling, just a steady, terrifying progression. His body wasn't the strongest, nor was he the fastest, but his mind? His mind devoured everything in front of him.
Was his monster something like that? The ability to break down his opponent, to read their movements as if he were solving a puzzle in real time?
…It didn't matter.
Because I was enjoying this.
This thrill—the kind that made my blood boil and my heart pound—it was rare. Finding someone who truly understood me, who played on instinct and ego rather than logic and hesitation? It was addicting.
But then—
"That monster of yours," Isagi muttered, locking eyes with me, his voice calm yet sharp.
"Isn't it just an excuse?"
…Huh?
His words cut through the excitement like a blade, leaving me frozen for a split second.
An excuse?
What the hell was he talking about?
My mood shifted. For the first time in this match, I wasn't just playing—I was thinking.
He didn't see my monster?
That didn't make sense.
Everyone I played against was overwhelmed by it, terrified of it. But Isagi… He wasn't just unaffected—he was challenging it.
No, more than that.
If he wasn't seeing it, then… had his monster fused with him completely? To the point where he wasn't even aware of its existence?
I didn't know whether to be frustrated or thrilled.
"You're really interesting, Isagi."
And that wasn't a joke.
If he couldn't see his own monster, then I'd just have to show him.
If Isagi was going to challenge my monster, then I'd show him exactly what it was.
A grin stretched across my face as I let go. No more thinking, no more analyzing—just pure instinct.
I flicked the ball forward, body loose, movements erratic. No rhythm, no predictability. My feet danced around the ball, twisting, flicking, shifting directions in an instant. Was I going left? Right? Through him? Not even I knew.
And Isagi—his eyes widened.
He wasn't predicting me anymore.
I surged forward. His body tensed. There! A small shift in weight—he thought I was cutting inside. So I did the opposite. A backheel tap, a sudden acceleration, and I was past him.
And that's when I felt it.
For the first time, he saw it.
The monster.
It wasn't something tangible, but I could tell. The way his pupils dilated, the slight shiver in his stance.
He saw it.
And the moment he did—his entire body froze.
A second passed. Then another.
And then—
"What the hell."
{Isagi's POV}
No. No, no, no, no—what the actual hell.
What was that?
I didn't just see Bachira—I saw something else.
It loomed over him, moving in sync, its presence twisting and warping around his every step. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real.
It was like a shadow, but wrong. Like an aura, but something more. Something alive.
And it stared at me.
My brain screamed at me to process it, to analyze it like everything else, to break it down into a formula I could understand.
But I couldn't.
Because there was no pattern. No logic.
And that terrified me.
My body didn't move. My thoughts scrambled.
And then—
"I HAVE SCHIZOPHRENIA."
I grabbed my head, backing up a step. This was it. I'd lost it. Blue Lock had officially broken me.
Bachira skidded to a stop, tilting his head, looking like he was actually considering the possibility.
"Maybe~" he said with a smirk. "But at least you can see it now, right?"
I swallowed.
This… this wasn't normal.
But… why did it make sense?
I could still feel it—the way Bachira moved, the raw unpredictability of his dribbling. It wasn't just technique or instinct. It was something more, something untamed, like a force of nature shaping itself however it pleased.
And the worst part? I couldn't read it.
Up until now, every movement, every shift in weight, every intention behind an action—I had been able to piece them together, like a puzzle forming a clear picture. But against this? Against Bachira going full monster? The pieces weren't fitting anymore. It was like trying to solve a puzzle with missing edges, the picture constantly shifting before I could pin it down.
I was losing.
But instead of frustration, something else burned inside me—excitement.
It clicked.
Football wasn't just about reading plays or predicting outcomes. It was about solving problems.
Every player approached the game differently. The field itself was a battlefield of ideas, every pass, every dribble, every movement a choice. If football was the ultimate problem, then the solution could be anything—a unique answer shaped by each player's philosophy.
For Bachira, that answer was his monster.
Something wild. Something irrational. A force that couldn't be dissected or broken down into logical steps.
And that was when I saw it.
A flicker—something hovering near him. It wasn't real, but in that moment, it felt like I could see it. A looming presence curling around Bachira, shifting with his every movement, like an extension of himself.
I clenched my fists.
Did I have a monster inside me?
No. Absolutely not.
But if that was the case, then why did part of me feel like… maybe it wasn't about having one? Maybe it was about becoming one?
I felt my own breath quicken, my body buzzing with an unshakable energy.
Was this why I loved football? The thrill of facing something unknown, something beyond me, and breaking past it?
I wasn't scared.
I was starving.
A sharp chuckle escaped me. Then another.
"Hah… Hahaha."
A wide grin spread across my face as I took a step forward.
"Bachira," I called out, my voice steady. "You should've passed me and taken the shot."
His eyes flickered, intrigued. I could see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure me out.
I tilted my head, the rush in my veins making me feel weightless.
"In your words…" My smirk sharpened.
"You just woke up my monster."
Bachira blinked, then his grin stretched even wider.
"Ohhh? Then show me."
I didn't know what my "monster" was supposed to be.
But I was about to find out.
—-------------——··——--——---——
The morning came early after Bachira and I finally bunked in after what felt like hours of 1v1s. Those were fun. My body was sore, but it was the kind of soreness that felt good—proof that I had pushed myself.
The rest of Team Z slowly dragged themselves out of bed, groggy but moving. Breakfast was the usual: a strict hierarchy based on rankings. My food was decent—way better than what the lower ranks were getting, but nowhere near what the top players in Blue Lock were eating.
I glanced at Igarashi's tray, barely holding in a grimace. Natto and pickled radish. Again.
"How do you even eat that three times a day?" I muttered.
Igarashi gave me a dead-eyed look. "I don't."
I shook my head and continued eating. Despite the casual atmosphere, a tension lingered in the air. We all knew something was coming—something that would push us further into this battle for survival.
Once breakfast was over, we returned to our dorms, getting ready for training. Conversations were sparse, just the occasional murmurs between teammates or the sound of stretching muscles.
Then, the screen in our dorm flickered to life.
A familiar sharp voice filled the room, dragging all eyes toward it.
"Good mornings, Diamonds in the rough." huh….he called us 'lumps of talent.' before right? Why the change then? This guy is weird.
His sharp eyes scanned us through the screen, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Congratulations. You've all managed to survive the first stage of Blue Lock."
Some of the guys exchanged looks. It was weird hearing it put that way. But the truth was, we had already eliminated 25 players. They were gone. Their dreams of playing as strikers, over.
"Now, let's talk about the next step: The First Selection."
The screen changed, displaying five buildings labeled from V to Z, with our building—Team Z—at the very bottom.
"Your rankings place you in the lowest building, meaning you are officially the weakest group in Blue Lock."
"Tch," Raichi clicked his tongue. "Like we needed a reminder."
Ego ignored him and continued.
"Each building contains five teams, and for the First Selection, you'll be playing against them in a round-robin tournament. Five teams. Five matches. The top two teams in your building will advance to the Second Selection."
"Lose, and you're out. Win, and you survive. That's all there is to it." Ego's voice was as cold and sharp as ever, his expression unreadable.
A heavy silence filled the room. Even though we had already accepted that this was a battle for survival, hearing it so bluntly sent a chill down my spine. Five games. If we didn't perform, we were done.
"For the team ranking, points will be distributed as follows: a win earns three points, a draw earns one, and a loss gives you nothing." The screen flickered, displaying a simple chart of the tournament structure. "The top two teams with the most points at the end of five matches will advance."
"That's it?" Kunigami muttered. "Just normal football?"
Ego's smirk widened. "Oh? Did you really think I'd make it that easy?"
The screen changed again, showing a new set of rules.
"Here's where it gets interesting. Unlike the traditional league system, there is one more way to survive."
My eyes narrowed as I read the next part.
"The top scorer in each team will also advance to the Second Selection, regardless of their team's ranking."
Gasps rippled through the room.
"T-The top scorer?" Iemon stammered.
"Wait, so even if we lose every match, as long as one of us scores the most goals in our team, they'll move forward?" Igarashi asked, his tone quacking with shock.
Ego nodded, his grin widening. "That's right. This is Blue Lock, after all. I don't care about teamwork, and I don't care about friendships. What I want are strikers. So if your team is full of dead weight, leave them behind and carry yourself forward. Score, and you live. Don't, and you die."
Huh, so I guess I can advance regardless of whether my team wins or not.
Let's score the most.
The thought settled in my mind like a simple truth. This wasn't about playing clean, coordinated football. It was about survival. If I wanted to move forward, I had to be the top scorer.
I glanced around the room. Everyone else was processing Ego's words in their own way.
Raichi looked furious, his jaw clenched, muttering something under his breath. Kunigami's brows furrowed in frustration, his fists tightening. Chigiri, sitting a bit apart from the others, was unreadable—his eyes sharp, like he was already working through his next move.
Then there was Bachira.
His grin hadn't faded. If anything, it had grown wider, his golden eyes gleaming with excitement.
"Heh." He chuckled under his breath, barely containing his energy. "This is getting more fun."
I sighed. Typical.
Ego, clearly pleased with the tension hanging over us, leaned in closer on the screen, his sharp gaze scanning us like we were nothing more than test subjects in a grand experiment.
"I'm feeling especially generous today," he said, his smirk widening. "So I'll give you guys a few words of wisdom."
His voice dropped slightly, adding weight to his next words.
"Tell me, diamonds in the rough… How do you convert a 0 into a 1?"
Silence.
Some guys frowned, others looked confused, but no one spoke.
A 0 into a 1? What was he getting at?
"Simple." Ego's voice cut through the room. "It means creating something from nothing. It's the essence of a striker."
"In football, the difference between an ordinary player and a true striker lies in their ability to turn nothing into a goal. Space, positioning, instinct—those who wait for a perfect chance will never rise to the top. The best strikers create their own opportunities."
I already understood how to create something from nothing. That wasn't the problem.
The real question was—what comes next?
How do I take that something and turn it into something meaningful?
A goal wasn't just a single moment. It was a chain reaction.
I raised my hand.
"Mr. Ego, I have a question."
Ego stopped mid-sentence and turned his piercing gaze on me. A flicker of amusement crossed his face before he gave a slight nod, gesturing for me to continue.
"What should I do after converting a 0 into a 1?" My voice came out steady, factual.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, Ego grinned—wide, predatory.
"What should a striker do after he converts a 0 into a 1?" He repeated, his tone dripping with satisfaction. His gaze locked onto mine, sharp as a knife's edge. A shiver ran down my spine.
His smirk widened.
"It's simple, really. Make that 1 into a 10."
His words echoed in my head, sinking into my bones.
A striker wasn't just someone who created a goal from nothing. That was the bare minimum.
A true striker built momentum. They kept scoring, kept evolving—turning one goal into an avalanche.
Create. Devour. Repeat.
Ego's voice rang out again, his presence overwhelming even through the screen.
"A budding striker might manage to turn a 0 into a 1—but a fully bloomed one? He takes that 1 and turns it into a 10." His grin sharpened, eyes gleaming with challenge.
"Those who think a single goal is enough will never make it in Blue Lock. If you want to survive, don't just create one opportunity—turn it into an unstoppable force. Devour every chance, build momentum, and never stop hunting."
I exhaled slowly, my mind racing.
Turn 1 into a 10…
I understood.
It wasn't enough to create a chance. I had to keep pushing, keep breaking the limits of what was possible.
And in this place, the only way to do that—was to score.
Ego's gaze swept across the room through the screen. "Now then, let's talk about your first match."
The screen flickered, and a list appeared in bold letters.
Team Z vs. Team X.
Our first opponent was decided.
"In 24 hours, your battle for survival begins. There are no second chances, no do-overs. If you hesitate, if you falter, you will be crushed and cast aside."
Ego's voice grew sharper. "The only rule is this: win at any cost."
With that, the screen cut to black, leaving us in heavy silence.
A match. A real game.
I clenched my fists.
This was it. The start of everything.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The scene opens with a sports news broadcast. The studio is bright, with a professional yet casual atmosphere. The interviewer sits across from a young man with sharp red hair and striking green eyes, his posture relaxed but distant. His expression remains indifferent, arms crossed as he listens.
Interviewer:"Today, we have a very special guest—a player hailed as Japan's greatest genius, someone who has already made a name for himself overseas. Please welcome, Itoshi Sae."
Sae gives a slight nod, acknowledging the introduction without much interest.
Interviewer:"Itoshi-san, thank you for taking the time to be here today."
Sae:"Yeah."
Interviewer: "Until recently, you were playing for the youth team of the world-renowned Real Madrid. However, due to regulations preventing you from joining their top squad, you've returned to Japan. With that in mind, do you think we'll ever see you play in the domestic league?"
Sae:[Scoffs] "I'd rather drop dead. If I played football here, I'd be better off competing with German college students."
The interviewer visibly hesitates but quickly regains composure.
Interviewer: "You were recently selected as part of FIFA's Best Young Eleven, also known as the New Gen 11. As a highly sought-after midfielder, clubs from all over the world are after you. Do you have any aspirations to represent Japan in international football?"
Sae:"Not in the slightest. I can't become the best in the world playing for a country like this. My goal is to win the Champions League."
Sae abruptly stands up, making it clear the interview is over. As he turns to leave, he throws one last remark over his shoulder.
Sae:"There isn't a single forward in this country who can receive my passes. I was just born in the wrong place."
He walks off without another word, leaving the interviewer momentarily stunned.
Interviewer:"…Ah… Well, thank you for your time."
As Sae exits the studio, his expression remains indifferent, but his mind drifts elsewhere. His footsteps echo in the quiet hallway, and for a brief moment, a thought lingers.
"It's true… there isn't a forward in Japan who can keep up with me. Except maybe one."
A memory flickers in his mind—blurry at first, then sharpening into focus. The scorching summer heat, the sound of a ball being struck with precision, the weight of a perfectly timed pass meeting an unstoppable finish. A nameless, faceless figure, yet one that had left an impression even he couldn't ignore. Back then, it was just a fleeting moment, an insignificant game. But now… the thought of it resurfaces, refusing to be forgotten.
Sae exhales sharply, pushing the memory aside. It didn't matter. Not yet.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note:-
Yo, my guy Isagi is officially entering his delusional era. Honestly, if I had to justify some of the later illustrations in Blue Lock—like Nagi's skull visuals or Rin's creepy eye-hand thing—then yeah, Isagi imagining all that crazy stuff is my best bet.
So yeah, Isagi is my scapegoat for that.
Anyway, that's it for this chapter! Hope you guys enjoyed it. Drop some feedback so we can keep improving and fine-tune things even more.
Signing off,
SG
—---------------
Editor's note:-
We had fun brainstorming this chapter. Really hope you guys enjoyed it.
NB