"And here it comes—Manshine City strikes back! Nagi Seishirō equalizes!"
The commentator's voice cracked with excitement, matching the deafening roar of Nagi. Cameras locked onto Nagi as he threw his head back, his triumphant scream echoing above the chaos.
A sound that carried from the pitch, to the bench, to living rooms all across the globe.
The Manshine City bench erupted. Players leapt from their seats, fists pumping. At home, millions watching could feel it—the surge of momentum shifting, the defiance of a team that refused to crumble even when the tide seemed lost.
"Unbelievable!"
The second commentator shouted, voice shaking with disbelief.
"After Isagi Yoichi got past Chris Prince, everyone thought Bastard München had it sealed—yet in the blink of an eye, Manshine City turned the tables! And who else but Reo Mikage, the star of Manshine City, to read it perfectly, stop the offense, and set the stage for this amazing equalizer!"
Replays flashed across the screen—Isagi's sombrero flick over Chris, the gasp of the fans as the World's No.2 was beaten, and then Reo's perfectly timed leap that had denied Bastard München's strike and given his team a lifeline. His gamble, his vision, had birthed the sequence that brought Chigiri blazing down the flank, Agi shaping the stage, and Nagi finishing in glory.
On the pitch, Nagi's chest still rose and fell with sharp breaths, his eyes glued to the net where the ball had finally settled. A faint haze of disbelief lingered on his face, mixed with the rare, intoxicating rush of triumph.
"Nice goal!"
The weight slammed onto his back without warning. Chigiri had leapt up as he landed on Nagi with a laugh that carried both joy and exhaustion. His arms wrapped around Nagi's shoulders.
Nagi tilted his head slightly, catching Chigiri's grin from the corner of his eye.
Chigiri had spearheaded the counter after Reo's intervention. Every meter, every cut, every ounce of speed had carved the path forward. A flicker of frustration stirred inside him—that it hadn't been his boot to finish the move, that the moment of glory hadn't been his. But as the scoreboard flashed the equalizer, those bitter thoughts dulled.
For now, none of it mattered.
What mattered was simple—Manshine City had clawed their way back.
Equal against Bastard München.
Nagi, meanwhile, felt something rare boiling inside him. Fire. His chest still trembled from the scream he had unleashed, and though his celebration was outward, the real eruption was happening within. Reo's words—the ones that had once cut deep—refused to leave his head.
'Is that seriously your limit, Nagi?'
That voice still echoed, clear and merciless. At first, he had resented it. He had believed his choice back in the Third Selection—to leave Reo, to chase his own growth alongside Isagi—was necessary. He had thought selfishness was the price of becoming stronger.
To follow his own Ego.
And yet, he had been blind.
He had cared for his own progress, yes—but in doing so, he had forgotten something vital. He had overlooked that Reo wasn't standing still, waiting for him. Reo wasn't content to simply follow. Reo had his own ambition—his own hunger to grow beyond, to stand shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Isagi.
And tonight, in front of the world, Reo had proved it.
Reo hadn't just survived without him. He had become the reason Manshine was alive in this match.
Nagi's chest tightened as the truth sank in. This wasn't just Reo trying to catch up. This was Reo leaving him behind—forcing him to realize that their bond, their dream, wasn't about one carrying the other. It was about both of them rising high enough to shatter the ceiling together.
That was why, in the final moments of the play, Nagi hadn't simply reacted. He hadn't just let instinct pull him like before. For the first time, he had tried to see the field the way others did—Reo, Kaiser, Isagi. He had borrowed their positional sense, tested it, shaped it into his own. Even his movement toward the left wing, though instinctual, had turned into the perfect angle for Agi's setup.
And in that instant, something clicked.
He hadn't just finished the play. He had created something of his own.
A spark of evolution had taken root.
And finally, Nagi felt satisfied by the simple truth of finally carving his own path and scoring it.
Isagi and Chris, who had been sprinting back to rejoin the attack, both skidded to a halt as the net rippled.
And just a few paces behind, another figure slowed.
Reo.
He stopped, his chest heaving, eyes locked on Nagi's wild celebration. For a heartbeat, he said nothing—only watching as the boy he had once dragged into this sport screamed his triumph to the world.
Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face.
No matter what sharp words he had thrown at Nagi, no matter how harshly he had pushed him, the truth was undeniable. It was their bond—their unlikely friendship—that had carried them to this point. Without each other, neither of them would have even touched the gates of Blue Lock.
Reo thought back, to that very first day. How he had been the one to shove a ball into Nagi's world. But in return, it was Nagi who had made football fun, who had given the game color and excitement beyond anything Reo could've found alone.
And now, here they were—both of them thriving. Not as a pair clinging to each other, not as one dragging the other along, but as individuals standing tall on the same field.
The satisfaction that filled Reo wasn't about the assist or the play. It was deeper.
Because his treasure—Nagi—was still shining.
Still growing.
Still alive in pursuit of the dream they had built together.
While Reo lingered in his own thoughts, eyes still fixed on Nagi's celebration, two figures stood shoulder to shoulder, gazes locked on the net.
Isagi and Chris.
"I'm counting that as my win."
Isagi said, voice low, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.
"Ha! As if! That one didn't count."
Chris barked back instantly, his pride stung. His eyes snapped toward Isagi, unwilling to let that smugness stand.
"If Reo hadn't gotten in the way, I was about to continue the pressure!"
He protested, his tone sharp, like a man refusing to accept even a scratch on his pride.
Isagi tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"That just means I won. I got past you."
"You…!"
Chris started, but the words caught in his throat. His jaw clenched, his body tensed, yet no argument came. The silence that followed was louder than any excuse.
Isagi's grin widened. He didn't need to hear it—he had already won.
He turned away, his strides calm, carrying him toward the center circle. Over his shoulder, he left Chris with a dagger of a remark.
"It's always losers making excuses."
Chris's expression twisted, but the bite had already landed.
As Isagi walked past, he gave Reo a small nod and a remark, casual but sincere.
"Nice one, Reo."
The words were brief, but the acknowledgment carried weight.
Isagi's pulse was still racing. Every second of this match was feeding him—filling him with an excitement he hadn't felt even against FC Barcha. Back then, he had been forced to concentrate on isolated threats—Bachira's creativity, Otoya's speed, Lavinho's flair. It had been intense, yes, but manageable, contained.
This, though—this was chaos on a grander scale. Every corner of the pitch was alive with weapons: Kaiser, Chris, Nagi, Reo, Chigiri, and Agi. A battlefield where evolution clashed against evolution.
It thrilled him.
And yet, beneath that thrill, a small pang struck his chest.
Because soon… it would end.
A match like this—a storm of egos and genius colliding—it wouldn't last forever. The clock was ticking, dragging it toward a conclusion.
And Isagi, caught between the thrill and the ache, found himself both ecstatic and strangely dejected.
Since it was now time—time to end this game.
The players began drifting back to their positions. Even the roaring energy of Manshine's equalizer could not stop the steady pull of order, the game forcing its rhythm upon them once more.
Kaiser moved as well, his steps deliberate, but as he approached the center circle, he froze.
There was Isagi.
Standing right at the heart of the pitch, one foot casually pressed against the ball. Around him, Hiori and Kurona exchanged a light chatter, relaxed, as though the weight of the moment was nothing.
But the sight cut into Kaiser like a blade.
Up until now, Isagi had never taken the initiative at kickoff. Even though they were listed as dual strikers in the formation, Isagi always yielded that right to him. It was Kaiser's stage. His privilege.
Though not anymore.
Kaiser's jaw tightened. Every nerve in his body was already on edge, strung so taut that even the faintest touch could snap him into rage. A bug brushing past him would have felt like an insult. And yet here was Isagi—standing at the center like he belonged there, like it was his natural place all along.
It was unbearable.
Because with each passing second, Kaiser felt himself becoming smaller.
Isagi had scored a hat-trick in his debut match. Noa, their coach, had shown favoritism toward him with substitutions that tilted the game in his favor. And worst of all—Isagi had outplayed him, again and again. So thoroughly that even the rest of the Blue Lock brats, who should have been beneath him, no longer saw Kaiser as the axis of this team.
They weren't intimidated by him.
They weren't even looking at him.
They were looking at Isagi.
Kaiser's pride twisted. He wanted to step forward, to demand the kickoff, to shove Isagi aside and reclaim what was his.
But he couldn't.
The fire inside him, once roaring, had been choked down to embers. His will to argue had withered under the reality of his defeats.
It was hard—no, it was impossible—to accept.
The whole world was watching. And today, with this performance, Isagi's value would explode. His market price, his salary, his prestige—everything would rise, possibly even to rival Kaiser's own.
And that was the wound that cut deepest.
In this system, in this formation, Kaiser had only two players left who moved around him, who played into his flow. Two weapons—and that wasn't enough to strike down Isagi Yoichi.
Kaiser's fists clenched. Desperation gnawed at him. He needed to score. To beat Isagi. To show the world that he was still Kaiser, still the Emperor of the field.
But the numbers didn't lie.
Isagi kept climbing. Four goals and one assist since the start of the Neo Egoist League. Every Bastard München goal had passed through him. And after the duel he had just fought—and arguably won—against Chris Prince, there was no denying it.
Isagi Yoichi's worth was skyrocketing.
And Kaiser… if he kept losing, if he let this spiral continue, he would return to that dark place he had clawed himself out of.
Back to the time when he wasn't even human.
"What do we do…? We haven't done anything at all. If nothing is done in this match either, Kaiser's reputation and control will be completely stripped away…"
The voice broke through Kaiser's haze.
He turned his head and found Ness standing further to his left, he was chewing his teeth, his whole posture trembling with unease. The ever-loyal puppy—normally full of blind devotion—was faltering.
Even Ness, who always barked for him without question, was quivering under the weight of defeat.
Kaiser's chest tightened. He glanced at Ness, only to look away in disgust and frustration, his eyes drilling into the turf beneath his boots. It was unbearable—seeing his most faithful pawn reduced to fear, reduced to despair, because of him.
Because he had failed.
The silence between them cracked when another voice slid into his ears.
"Hey, Kaiser. Care to have a chat?"
Kaiser's head jerked up.
There he was.
Isagi stood in the center circle, one foot resting on the ball as if it were his by birthright. His body faced forward, poised, but his head tilted just enough, his eyes gleaming over his shoulder. A small, infuriating smile curved across his lips.
.
.
.
FWEEEET!
The referee's whistle cut sharp through the stadium, and the finale of this war began.
Isagi's boot tapped the ball cleanly to his right, rolling it into Kurona's stride. The play was theirs to dictate.
Kurona didn't hesitate—his legs churned as he surged down the right flank. His gaze darting forward, already mapping Isagi's routes like second nature, while the field ahead trembled with the stampede of footsteps closing in.
Kunigami.
The egoist thundered across the grass. His eyes burned with hunger—always flickering between the space ahead and the ball at Kurona's feet.
He wanted it.
He was coiled, waiting—just one mistake from Kurona and he'd pounce.
But Kurona never faltered.
Instead, he angled his run sharper, dragging the ball so close to the sideline that the white paint almost kissed the leather.
His posture screamed recklessness—like he meant to blaze past Kunigami on the outside.
Kunigami bit instantly. He lunged right, cutting off the path, planning to shoulder Kurona down if he tries to move past him.
That was when Chigiri came into the frame.
Eyes locked not on Kunigami, but on Kurona. Manshine City had read Bastard München's fractures—the factions split between Kaiser's camp, Isagi's rising unit, and the lone wolf that was Kunigami.
If the ball slipped toward Kunigami, they risked chaos. So Chigiri made the choice—erase the option entirely. He didn't hesitate, racing straight past Kunigami to press Kurona head-on.
But Kurona, calm as ever, stayed composed. He let the tension coil tight, then released it in a single, precise action. His right foot snapped, and the ball skidded away, threading past Chigiri's rush.
The ball rolled clean, threading through the press and straight toward his commander.
Into Isagi's path.
Kurona didn't break stride—darting past Chigiri's rush to keep running, his presence trailing in support of Isagi's surge.
But before the pass could even reach him, a shadow cut across the lane.
Chris.
The Manshine City's Master screeched to a halt in front of Isagi, planting himself like a wall across the path. His breath was sharp, his tone edged with irritation still stinging from the duel he'd just 'lost'.
"Let's do this agai—"
He started, voice low, simmering with challenge.
But Isagi didn't let him finish.
"Sorry,"
He cut in, eyes glinting.
"That's not fun anymore."
The words dropped like a blade. And in the same instant, the ball arrived.
Isagi met it with a seamless one-touch—no hesitation, no flourish—redirecting it left in a swift kick that bypassed Chris entirely.
Chris's head snapped toward the movement, eyes narrowing as the receiver came into focus.
The third cogwheel of Isagi's machine.
Hiori Yo.
While Chris's gaze lingered, Isagi was already gone—slipping past him like water. Leaving the man caught between frustration and realization.
Hiori's touch was clean, the ball snapping into his control as if it had been waiting for him.
And in that moment—his eyes flared.
All that time on the bench, forced to watch from the shadows, he had wanted nothing more than this.
To be here.
To be next to Isagi.
His mind, sharp and calculating, naturally sought out the gaps, the hidden seams in a defense that led toward goal. But watching Isagi all this time had taught him something startling. The way Isagi wielded those same instincts wasn't logical, wasn't methodical.
It was reckless, audacious,a constant flirtation with chaos.
Isagi didn't just find the best routes—he created them.
Every choice he made was a gamble that defied reason, yet somehow twisted into brilliance. His playstyle was alive with unpredictability, brimming with arrogance and spectacle, enough to snare even those who hated the game and make them watch in awe.
It wasn't just football.
It was Liberation.
Freedom from order. Freedom from expectation.
Hiori's chest tightened as his gaze caught Isagi surging past Chris, leaving the man behind as though nothing could chain him down.
'Have I… ever felt that carefree?'
The thought stabbed through him, sudden and sharp.
Without burden. Without the weight of others' expectations.
His mind lit up, exploding with possibilities, ideas blooming faster than he could process. It was as if his imagination itself had been unleashed.
'I can't control it…'
A smile curled across his face, trembling with exhilaration.
'It feels… so good.'
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.
.
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