"Great block, Chigiri!"
Reo sprinted over, grinning wide, his hand shooting up for a high five.
Chigiri met him halfway, their palms slapping together with a satisfying crack as a smile pulled at his lips.
"How'd you even see Kurona from back there?"
Reo asked, eyes gleaming with adrenaline.
"He came outta nowhere!"
Chigiri's smile deepened—part pride, part something else.
"It was all thanks to you, really…"
He said, brushing dirt off his knee.
"If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have noticed Kurona at all."
"Huh?"
Reo blinked, caught off guard.
Then it clicked.
He turned slightly, his eyes widening as realization set in.
Since the moment Isagi blocked his shot and launched that counterattack, everything had orbited around Isagi.
Everyone's eyes had followed Isagi: his drag-backs, his body feints, the way he toyed with Kunigami and Yukimiya, pulling them apart like threads. He'd become the Sun of that sequence, pulling the whole game into his orbit.
And behind him, in the shadows…
Kurona had moved like a ghost.
Ducking behind defenders. Timing his run. Creeping forward as Isagi held the spotlight.
Like a Second Blade.
Isagi had drawn all attention to himself… just to cast a deeper shadow for Kurona to slip through.
Reo had caught a glimpse of that brilliance too late. He had started sprinting back the second he noticed Kurona on the move… but by then, Isagi had already curled that vicious pass through the defense.
There was no reaching it. Not in time.
But Chigiri—always scanning, always running—had noticed Reo dashing back.
And it was that motion, Reo's sudden urgency, that made Chigiri look deeper… and spot Kurona breaking through.
That was all he needed.
A trigger.
The flash of recognition.
And with his blinding acceleration, he was there—sliding in like a red comet to erase what could have been a sure goal.
As Reo connected the final dots of the play, the depth of Isagi's strategy fully hit him. He gave Chigiri a quiet nod—an acknowledgment not just of a great save, but of a deeper understanding they both now shared.
Both of them wanted to win and beat Isagi.
And after witnessing this play, they realized just how much effort it would take for them to even get Isagi flustered.
On the sideline, Ness was already poised. The second the whistle blew for the throw-in, he snapped into action.
A swift flick of the wrists.
The ball was hurled toward Kaiser—already stationed dangerously close to the box.
This time, there was no hesitation.
There was no posturing. No theatrics.
Michel Kaiser was done waiting.
The second the ball touched his boot, he sprang into motion—exploding toward goal with the hungry ferocity of a man denied.
Every step was laced with intent.
He didn't need to dribble. He didn't need finesse.
He just needed room—a sliver of daylight.
The box was crowded—swarming with defenders.
His eyes darted across the defensive line like a sniper calibrating his shot.
Kunigami was sprinting in from the right, long strides eating away the space, angling to cut off any potential link-up with Ness. His presence was loud—brutal—exactly what Kaiser expected.
Yukimiya was lurking on the other side, weaving closer like a snake in tall grass. He wasn't there to help—he was there to hijack. To intercept and finish the play himself if Kaiser faltered.
But Kaiser didn't falter.
He thrived in this pressure.
Ahead of him, the last wall loomed.
Agi. Damon. Driver. Young. Busby.
Five titans forming a nearly impenetrable blockade.
"It's a dead end for you, Blue Rose."
And just as he was gauging his chances, a blur of crimson entered from the side—Chigiri.
He was the last nail Manshine could drive into Kaiser's coffin.
Six elite players now stood in his way.
But Kaiser didn't see a wall.
He saw a thread.
A pinhole gap.
Almost invisible. Almost impossible.
But not to him.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, sharp as a blade.
"That's a tight hole right there."
He muttered, just loud enough for the nearest defender to hear—and just cocky enough to make it sting.
Then, without another thought, he struck.
His right leg arced forward in one clean, explosive motion.
BOOM.
The ball detonated off his boot with a sonic snap—loud enough to echo through the pitch.
It wasn't just a shot.
It was a statement.
Michel Kaiser had arrived.
The shot tore through the air like a railgun.
Every defender—every last one of them—reacted.
Chigiri was the first. His reflexes, elite by any standard, couldn't get him close enough. The ball screamed past his shoulder before he could even plant his feet properly.
Damon and Agi moved to intercept next, forming a secondary wall. But even together, their effort was a second behind reality. The ball sliced between their heads like a bullet through mist.
Driver, Young, Busby—Manshine's towering anchors—each lunged with everything they had. Their timing, footwork, reach—perfect. But the velocity of the strike was something else entirely. It bent through the last line like the ball refused to be caught.
Kaiser Impact, refined through humiliation and hunger.
A goal written in power.
Michel Kaiser's grin widened as he watched it happen.
Every defender falling short.
Every obstacle overcome.
This was it. His return.
His resurrection.
After the last match—a performance suffocated by Isagi's dominance—this was the moment to reclaim his crown.
On the right flank, Ness was already cheering, hands half-raised in celebration. The sight of the net about to bulge with Kaiser's first NEL goal sent a spark of vindication through his chest.
They had been silenced in the first match.
Reduced to spectating ghosts behind Isagi's brilliance.
But now—now they were about to roar.
The ball whipped past Busby's head—too fast, clean, and accurate.
A sure goal.
A perfect redemption.
.
But then—
A flash of violet slid across the line of destiny like a hand slapping away fate itself.
Reo Mikage.
He emerged from the blind spot—behind Young, behind Busby—from the very edge of visibility.
None of them had seen him.
Not even Kaiser.
The shot had already cleared five—six defenders. It was past the wall. Past the reach. The world was already rising in anticipation. The ball was screaming toward the net—its fate signed by Kaiser's precision.
But Reo wasn't done.
He had been trailing the play with a sniper's focus. Reading the chaos. Calculating options
A full-speed sprint.
A diagonal arc across the box.
And in one impossible instant—he threw his head into the line of fire.
THWACK!
The ball smashed against his forehead with the force of a cannon. Reo's body recoiled, his neck snapping back from the impact. It was like taking a bullet between the eyes. His vision spun. His breath caught.
But the ball—
It didn't just bounce aimlessly.
It didn't fly out for a corner or soar back to Bastard München.
It curved forward.
Intentional.
Because Reo wasn't just clearing the ball.
He was redirecting it. A precision deflection—risky, absurd—insane. But in that split-second of chaos.
It was genius.
Something he had copied from Isagi.
The trajectory shifted with a wild wobble, curving away from danger and arcing toward the midfield like a launched counterstrike.
The viewers exploded.
Ness, who had already lifted a fist in pre-celebration, stood frozen mid-pose—his eyes wide with disbelief.
Kaiser's breath caught in his chest.
He couldn't even curse properly.
Just a click of the tongue, a bite of air, a clenched jaw grinding with disbelief.
The goal he thought was his?
Gone.
And so was his moment to rise.
Because Reo Mikage, Manshine City's tactician-turned-warrior, had just denied Michel Kaiser.
Not with just a block. But with a read so sharp it cut through ego itself.
The ball spun through the air like a dying star flung from a collapsing system—rejected from the box, sailing farther and farther out, cutting a wide arc toward Manshine City's newest golden boy.
Nagi Seishiro.
His eyes tracked its flight. There was a flicker of something different in his gaze this time. Beneath the calm exterior, a pulse quickened.
"It's time to make my debut."
He murmured under his breath, a spark lighting in his usually vacant gaze.
But that moment—barely a second long—was shattered.
Because suddenly, a shadow dropped over him.
He blinked, startled, and tilted his head upward.
There it was.
That face.
Isagi Yoichi—suspended in the sky like he's floating. His body twisted mid-air, back facing Manshine's goal, legs coiled like a predator ready to strike. And on his face—
A smirk.
The kind that didn't need words to declare war—but offered them anyway.
"Didn't I already say it, Nagi…?"
The ball was descending now—falling perfectly into the trap Isagi had set with his positioning. His eyes never left it. Not even for a second. He shifted his body, balancing in the air like a gymnast between dimensions—gravity and chaos fighting for control.
And then—louder, sharper, slicing the silence in two:
"…It's a grand debut for someone else!"
Time fractured.
The stadium held its breath.
And in that pocket of suspended silence, Isagi struck.
A bicycle kick—launched from well outside the box, defying logic and balance, executed not with desperation but with full-blown intent. His body arched backward, leg swinging in a clean, powerful arc, boot meeting ball with a thunderous crack.
The sound echoed.
The ball rocketed off his foot—spinning violently, ascending like a missile, a whip of motion too fast to track.
This wasn't Nagi's moment.
It was Isagi's masterpiece.
Nagi stood frozen.
His body, which had just begun to tense in preparation for control, now stood slack. His eyes, usually dull and unreadable, were wide—fixed on the figure that had dropped from the sky like a divine interruption.
Isagi Yoichi.
A player who wasn't even supposed to be there.
He had seen Isagi moments ago—deep in midfield. The whole pitch had. His last known position was yards away from this zone, clearly out of the equation.
But that was the trap.
Because just like before—just like that cruel instant when Isagi had denied Reo's masterpiece of a shot minutes ago—he had appeared again.
And now?
He hadn't just intercepted Reo's pass.
He had stolen the entire moment.
Reo, still recovering from the earth-shattering impact of his earlier save, watched in stunned silence. His brain, sharp and calculating, capable of reading the field in rapid 3D reconstructions, simply halted.
He had seen Isagi in midfield.
So had Kaiser.
Both of them had marked him out of the immediate play.
That's why they had relaxed. That's why they had allowed themselves to breathe, to believe this moment might belong to them.
That was supposed to be the safety net—the logic. Kaiser had made a perfect, accurate shot to score and reclaim his throne, while Reo had bent space with that deflection, sending the ball toward Nagi in a perfect arc.
And Isagi had read it all.
Had stalked its path like a ghost slipping through cracks in reality.
Just like he'd done to Reo a few moments ago.
And now?
He did it again.
To both of them.
Kaiser's jaw clenched as he stood rooted just outside the box, sweat streaking down his temple. His shot had been denied. His moment's been stolen. And now, the very field that should have cracked open for his redemption… was being rewritten again.
By Isagi Yoichi.
The same man who they thought was still recovering position… was now in the air, bicycle-kicking the ball that was never meant for him.
A play stitched together by Reo's desperation.
Meant for Nagi's debut.
But hijacked—utterly and unapologetically—by Isagi Yoichi's omnipresence.
And in that suspended second—as the ball screamed toward the net, curling with vicious backspin from Isagi's impossible kick—the field collectively understood something.
This wasn't luck.
This wasn't a fluke.
Isagi Yoichi had read everything.
And he had moved faster than all of them.
His bicycle kick had launched the ball into a deadly spiral, the kind that screamed danger and genius all at once. But as it spun, slicing through the air like a thrown scythe, its trajectory began to betray the moment. The curve was too hard—too wide.
It was drifting.
Out of bounds.
The net wasn't its destination anymore.
But then—thunder.
From the right side of the box, a blur of orange streaked into view, boots pounding the turf like hammers.
"Thanks for the feast, Isagi!"
Kunigami Rensuke.
He had been watching Isagi the entire time. From the moment Reo blocked Kaiser's shot and spun the play into a counter, Kunigami had made a decision—don't fall back.
Not when Isagi was still on the field.
Because if there was one universal law in football now, it was this:
Wherever Isagi is, something insane is about to happen there.
And this? This was exactly that.
Kunigami had timed his run perfectly—cutting across the box just as the ball veered right. But then he saw it—the spin, the bend, the shift.
Isagi's shot wasn't headed for goal. Not directly. It was veering out, curling away like a masterpiece gone rogue.
Or—
To him.
His eyes widened.
'Did he… mean to do this?'
He couldn't afford to think about it. The angle was tight, the ball coming fast, and he had only a split-second to react.
But he didn't flinch.
He didn't care if it was intentional or not.
Because now, it was his.
Kunigami adjusted his stride, shifting his body into the perfect position as the ball dipped down—like a gift delivered at full velocity.
This wasn't just a follow-up.
This was a seized opportunity.
A chance to finish what Isagi started—
—or steal what he didn't finish.
Kunigami drew back his leg, muscles coiled—
But then—
A voice.
"He was right… You really are a meathead, Kunigami."
It hit like a chill down his spine. The words cut through the noise, laced with adrenaline and laced with… glee?
From his blind side—his left—a figure materialized.
A silhouette wrapped in shadow.
Eyes burning crimson in the dim light.
Kurona Ranze.
And his face—no longer the calm, calculative look he always wore. This was something different. Something wild.
A feral grin. Eyes wide with thrill. The same look Isagi wore when he smelled blood and tore into the field with ruthless glee.
Now Kurona wore it.
Kunigami's eyes widened as realization hit. He swung his left arm out, aiming to block—bar the way, protect his moment.
This was his goal.
But Kurona was already moving.
Fluid. Low. Like a predator ducking under a snare.
He raised his right arm—not to push, but to slip beneath Kunigami's outstretched elbow, turning his shoulder and torso as he sprinted through the narrowing window.
"Just like he said…
It's my Grand Debut!"
In one seamless motion, Kurona reached the ball first, twisting his body and striking it clean with his left foot. The shot snapped toward the near post—razor-sharp, low, and utterly lethal.
Rooke, Manshine City's goalkeeper, leaped.
Too late.
The net rippled.
Goal.
And for a moment, silence.
Stunned silence.
Because all of this chaos—the press, the interception, the fake, the arc, the curve, the run—wasn't for Isagi himself.
It wasn't for Kunigami.
It was for Kurona.
The shadow who had always existed in the background.
The one who never asked for the spotlight.
And now, the one who had scored.
Because every step, every thread of chaos that Isagi wove into this play—was for him.
A moment handcrafted for the most efficient, lethal, and underestimated finisher.
The ghost behind the genius.
Kurona Ranze.
For a second—just a second—there was nothing.
No movement.
No breath.
No sound.
Kurona stood still near the goalpost, the ball rolling in the net, the world slowing around him.
And then—
Both of his hands clenched into fists, trembling from the surge rushing through his veins.
His arms shot upward—exploding into the sky.
"YEAHHHHH!!!"
A primal scream tore from his throat—raw, unfiltered, pure release.
For the first time in a long time, Kurona Ranze felt the world see him. Not as the silent shadow. Not as the dependable pass option.
But as the finisher.
The killer.
The one who struck first.
And his voice roared above them all.
The commentators erupted with the energy of a bomb going off.
"Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable!"
"From start to finish—what a sequence!"
"Kaiser with a thunderous Kaiser Impact! Reo blocks it with an unreal intervention!"
"Then a deflection—heading for Manshine's new golden boy, Nagi—but out of nowhere, it's Isagi with a jaw-dropping bicycle kick assist!"
"And just when Kunigami thought he had it—Kurona Ranze comes flying in to steal the scene!"
"HE opens the scoresheet in this absolute warzone of a match!!"
The camera panned across the field like a war correspondent.
Kaiser's expression twisted in frustration.
Reo stood frozen—still replaying the impossible sequence.
Nagi blinked, mouth slightly open.
Kunigami stared at the ground, jaw clenched in disbelief.
And at the heart of it all—
Kurona, fists raised, voice still echoing, eyes shining.
He had felt it. Every beat of the play. Every shift in momentum. Every decision Isagi made to warp reality and bend fate toward this exact moment.
And he didn't just follow it.
He completed it.
The bench also thundered in response.
Raichi shot to his feet, fists pounding the air.
Naruhaya screamed with his entire body, voice cracking with unfiltered joy.
Even Neru, the former U-20 player, broke into a wide grin, arms raised as he shouted toward the pitch like he'd scored the goal himself.
It was raw, loud, and real.
But amidst the noise, Hiori Yo sat frozen.
His body refused to move, even as his teammates jumped around him.
His hands… they were trembling.
Eyes locked on Kurona, now swallowed in the spotlight, Hiori felt something he hadn't in a long time—not fear, not the pressure of expectations, but a burning, gnawing need.
He wanted to be out there.
To be on that field, beside Isagi Yoichi, in the middle of chaos. Not just watching brilliance happen—but creating it.
His mouth was parted slightly, but no words came out. His chest rose and fell as if every breath was a silent scream.
'That pass… That movement… That finish…'
His thoughts tripped over themselves, looped in his mind, playing repeatedly as if they're stuck on repeat. The speed of thought. The chain of reads. The precision of execution.
And above all—how Kurona, of all people, had stepped up and completed it.
Not Isagi.
But Kurona.
Hiori's lips twitched.
He was impressed.
So much so, it hurt.
He clenched his trembling fists, but couldn't stop the smallest of smiles from slipping onto his face—a smile of longing, of hunger.
Just a few feet away, Naruhaya was feeling the exact same thing—but unlike Hiori, he couldn't sit still.
"HELL YEAH!!"
Naruhaya shouted again, practically bouncing in place.
His grin stretched ear to ear, but beneath it was that same hunger. A burning desire to run down that tunnel and storm onto the field. He wanted to feel that pressure, that heat, that spotlight.
He wanted to be part of that chaos again.
To matter.
To play by Isagi's side—not behind him, not beneath him, but with him.
On the field, Kurona turned.
His breath still heavy from the sprint. His veins still buzzing from the goal.
But more than anything, he was pulled toward one thing—one person.
Isagi.
He stood a few feet away, rising to his feet after that impossible, arrogant bicycle kick. His back still turned.
But even from behind, Kurona could feel it.
That same energy pulsing from Isagi's frame—the same excitement that was exploding inside him.
Without thinking, Kurona ran forward—and leapt, crashing into Isagi's back with the energy of a man who had just shattered his limits.
He couldn't stop grinning.
Isagi stumbled forward slightly from the impact, but laughed—low and breathless.
Because the truth was…
They were both riding the high of the moment.
Their hearts in sync. Their pulses like war drums.
That play—its chaos, its improvisation, its pure creative ego—had brought both of them into the Flow State.
A zone where everything slowed down. Where instinct ruled. Where their egos weren't suppressed—they were unleashed.
On that play, Isagi Yoichi hadn't just passed.
He had orchestrated.
A no-look bicycle assist from outside the box—ridiculous. Insane.
Showboating at its highest degree.
But also: planned. Precise. Controlled to the millimeter.
And Kurona Ranze—the quiet shadow, the overlooked connector—had seized that chaos and etched his name into the story.
A debut goal. A perfect finish. A declaration.
The shadow had stepped into the light—and the world was forced to recognize him.
But in the center of it all stood one figure.
Isagi Yoichi.
Amongst a battlefield of goal-hungry Blue Lock players, of lions clawing for the spotlight, Isagi's declaration wasn't spoken—but it was undeniable.
He wasn't just another Egoist.
He was the Egoist who controlled the field.
Because when everyone else chased the ball—
Isagi controlled the game.
The strategist and the wildcard rolled into one.
In a world of selfish strikers—
Isagi Yoichi had revealed the truth.
He wasn't just a playmaker.
He wasn't just a scorer.
.
He was a Control Freak.
.
.
.
.
.
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