The Blue Lock facility loomed like a concrete fortress against the gray morning sky. Akira stepped off the bus with forty-nine other young men, each carrying their own dreams and desperation. Some looked confident, others nervous. A few he recognized from various youth teams and tournaments.
None of them looked at him directly, but he caught the whispers.
"Isn't that Yamamoto? The guy who—"
"Yeah, the penalty miss..."
"What's he doing here?"
Akira pulled his hood up and followed the group through the imposing entrance. Inside, the facility was sterile and maze-like, all white walls and artificial lighting. It felt more like a research laboratory than a football training center.
They were herded into a large auditorium where a massive screen dominated the front wall. As they settled into their seats, the lights dimmed and the screen flickered to life, revealing a thin man with wild hair and an unsettling grin.
"Welcome, you diamonds in the rough, to Blue Lock."
The man's voice carried an almost manic energy that made Akira's skin crawl.
"I am Jinpachi Ego, and I will be your guide through hell. You are here because Japanese football is weak. Pathetically weak. We've never won a World Cup because we lack the one thing every great team needs—a world-class striker who can score when it matters most."
Akira's hands clenched in his lap. Those words hit like a physical blow.
"Look around you," Ego continued, his wild eyes seeming to stare directly through the screen at each of them. "Forty-nine of you will fail and have your football careers ended forever. Only one will emerge as Japan's ultimate striker. The question is simple: do you have the ego to devour your teammates and stand alone at the top?"
The screen switched to show a diagram of the facility's layout—five separate wings, each housing teams of different skill levels.
"You will be sorted into teams and pitted against each other in a series of matches. Lose, and you're eliminated. Forever. Win, and you advance to face stronger opponents. The weak will be consumed by the strong until only the apex predator remains."
Ego's smile widened, becoming almost predatory.
"But first, we need to see what you're made of. Your first test begins now."
The lights came back on, and staff members began distributing tablets to each player. Akira looked down at his screen to find a comprehensive questionnaire—psychological profiles, playing preferences, past performance data.
*"Describe your ideal goal,"* read the first question.
Akira stared at the blank text box. His ideal goal? Three months ago, he would have written about scoring under pressure, about rising to the moment when everything was on the line. Now...
He began typing: *"A goal that doesn't matter enough to ruin everything."*
He deleted it immediately.
*"A goal scored with certainty, not desperation."*
Delete.
*"Any goal that goes in."*
The honesty of it stung, but he submitted the response before he could second-guess himself again.
The questionnaire continued for an hour—questions about leadership, teamwork, individual ambition, fear, pressure, failure. Each answer felt like reopening a wound that had barely begun to heal.
When they finished, Ego's voice echoed through the auditorium once more.
"Your responses have been analyzed. Team assignments are now complete. You'll find your uniform and room assignment waiting in the lobby. Report to your designated areas immediately."
As they filed out, Akira caught fragments of excited conversations around him.
"I hope I get Team V—"
"Did you see how they ranked the facilities? Team X looks insane—"
"As long as I'm not in the bottom tier..."
Akira said nothing. He had a sinking feeling he knew exactly where someone like him would end up.
At the distribution table, he was handed a blue jersey with the number 12 and a keycard marked "Team Z - Wing 5."
Wing 5. The bottom rung.
The staff member, a stern-faced woman with a clipboard, didn't meet his eyes as she handed him his materials. "Your room is Z-12. Team meeting in one hour. Don't be late."
As Akira made his way through the facility's sterile corridors, following the digital signs toward Wing 5, he passed other players heading to higher-ranked wings. Their facilities looked progressively better—newer equipment, larger spaces, better lighting.
Wing 5 felt like a basement in comparison.
He found his room—a simple space with a bed, desk, and small window that looked out onto what appeared to be their practice field. It was smaller than the others he'd glimpsed.
Sitting on his bed, still holding his Team Z jersey, Akira realized that Blue Lock had already made its judgment about him. The boy who'd failed on the world's biggest stage belonged with the other failures.
Maybe they were right.
But as he pulled on the blue jersey and felt the unfamiliar weight of the number 12 on his back, something stirred in his chest. Not hope—he wasn't ready for that yet. But something else.
Curiosity.
For the first time in months, he was somewhere that expected him to fail. Maybe that would make it easier to prove them wrong.
Or maybe it would just make the inevitable disappointment hurt less.
Either way, he was about to find out.