The AI system's metallic voice resonated through the vast corridors of the facility, its digital tone removing any trace of humanity from the significant announcement.
"The First Selection is about to begin. Every participant is required to gather into teams of five and make their way to the assigned pitches. The structure consists of five players on each team.
"The team that scores three goals first will move on to the next round. Failure leads to a complete removal from Blue Lock."
The words lingered in the atmosphere, a grim declaration for most. The next phase unfolded as a sociological experiment focused on the essence of survival. The atrium, which was once alive with the confident conversations of many hopeful minds, transformed into a frantic scene resembling a marketplace of despair.
Egos transformed into forms of currency, skills evolved into valuable bargaining tools, and desperation emerged as the dominant force in the marketplace.
The players gathered closely, gesturing, urging one another, and weighing their options with an intense urgency.
Their voices intertwined, creating a chaotic symphony of desire and apprehension.
Kyomu Jashin stood as a statue, perfectly still, even in the midst of the raging tempest. He remained still, not seeking to join a group, and his eyes did not search for potential allies with any visible hope or plan.
He stood as an observer, his keen eyes absorbing the chaotic flow of human actions and reactions.
He observed the way logical, power-oriented groups began to assemble around players such as Kunigami; he noticed the technical, efficiency-focused clusters that were drawn to Rin Itoshi's presence; he recognized the emotional, almost interconnected partnerships that existed between Nagi and Reo.
The dataset provided an ideal, real-time glimpse into the behavior patterns that occurred before extinction.
Yet, his silence did not escape attention. In this desperate economy, his mysterious presence, along with the recollection of his unique recognition by Ego himself, symbolized an unpredictable asset.
A boy named Iemon, known for his keen eyes and a mind adept at numbers, stepped away from a small trio and made his way toward him, his face marked by a constantly calculating frown. Iemon's two teammates observed from afar, their expressions cautious.
Kobayashi, a lean defender, stood alongside Tanaka, the strong and quiet goalkeeper.
A fourth individual, a flashy winger by the name of Kenta, observed with clear skepticism.
"Jashin," Iemon started, his voice strained under the weight of the situation.
"We require a fifth one. Our analyst has determined the best team compositions, and it appears that our unit is missing a clear wild card."
"You were acknowledged by Ego."
"This is a data point that we must pay attention to. The status of your variable might just be the unpredictable factor that sways the odds in our direction."
Kyomu's eyes, resembling a tranquil, deep lake, gradually turned their attention to Iemon. His gaze held a unique intensity; it wasn't aggressive, yet it had a deeply disarming quality. It felt as though he was peering through Iemon's eyes, delving into the intricate workings of his mind.
"Your premise has two significant flaws," Kyomu remarked, his voice steady and calm, creating a serene space amidst the surrounding turmoil.
"First, my selection was not an endorsement of 'strength' in the simplistic metric you are employing. It served as a recognition of my role as a distinct catalyst."
"Second, your initial analysis of your own team is not fully complete. You have recognized the necessity for a 'wild card,' yet you have not pinpointed the fundamental instability."
He tilted his head just a bit, his eyes gliding over Iemon's three companions with the precision of a scanner.
"Subject Kobayashi shows a lateral agility deficit of about twelve percent when compared to the average for his designated role within the facility. His recovery time following a failed interception is far too long."
"Subject Tanaka exhibits a noticeable flinch when shots are directed at his upper-left quadrant, suggesting a psychological impact stemming from a previous goal conceded.
"Kenta's decision-making becomes three times more uncertain when he is in crowded spaces, resulting in predictable and low-percentage crosses."
"Your team does not simply lack a wild card; rather, it is constructed upon a base of significant, unresolved issues. Without any corrective influence, your chances of being eliminated in the first round are greater than ninety-four percent."
Iemon remained motionless, his lips parted just a bit. The precise and harsh analysis of his teammates, presented without any trace of ill will, proved to be more damaging than the harshest of insults. Kobayashi's face turned red with anger, while Tanaka averted his gaze, focusing on his gloves, and Kenta let out a loud scoff.
"So, what then?" Lemon managed, his voice tight with effort. "You won't join? We're just supposed to lose?"
"That's not what I said," Kyomu responded.
"I will watch from inside your system. This serves as a valid starting point for my research, just like any other option available. Applying corrective pressure to a flawed model will produce valuable data."
He said nothing more, turning away as he started to walk toward the tunnel that would take him to the pitch assignments. It wasn't merely an agreement; rather, it served as a declaration of intent.
After a brief moment of stunned hesitation, Iemon waved his hands frantically to signal his team, and they fell in line behind Kyomu, resembling a quartet of bewildered and resentful ducklings trailing a wolf who had just coolly declared their shortcomings.
Their designated area was one of the numerous identical blue-lit enclosures, a sterile and confining rectangle of synthetic grass illuminated by the intense, shadowless brightness of the overhead lights.
The opposing team had already made their entrance, a group of five players, each showcasing a strong build and a confident posture that drew the eye.
Their team was founded on one clear and straightforward principle: the power of overwhelming physical force.
Their captain, a boy with a sturdy neck and a constant frown known as Goro, chuckled as Kyomu's team made their entrance.
"Take a look at this," Goro said with a sneer, his voice deep and resonant. A group of enthusiasts and a scarecrow. This will be over quickly.
The voice of the referee AI came to life with a soft buzz. "The match will begin in ten seconds." The team that scores three goals first will move on to the next round."
The match started just as everyone had anticipated. Goro's team advanced with unstoppable force, a powerful wave of strength and determination. They did not engage with subtlety; they engaged with impact.
They claimed every 50-50 ball with relentless force, their attacks a straightforward weapon targeting the core of Kyomu's defense. Iemon's analytical cries were overwhelmed by the thunderous sound of their advance.
Kobayashi was effortlessly dismissed, and Tanaka reacted just as anticipated, allowing a strong shot to find the upper-left corner of his net in the opening two minutes.
1-0.
"See?!" Kenta shouted, raising his hands in exasperation. "We can't win like this! "Take action, you weirdo!" He yelled at Kyomu, who stood in a central midfield position, barely moving, his face showing no change.
Kyomu chose not to respond to the taunt. He concentrated fully on the rival system. He was charting their patterns, their vectors of influence, and their cognitive connections.
They represented a straightforward yet strikingly elegant algorithm of aggression.
Their left-side attacker, a player known for a strong yet predictable dominant right foot, served as the main engine driving their offensive plays.
When the ball was directed to that left-side attacker for the second time, Kyomu was already in position. He refrained from making a tackle. He didn't even lower himself into a defensive position.
He positioned himself three yards away, at a precise sixty-degree angle that effectively divided the attacker's most apparent passing lane and his most preferred shooting path. The geometry was flawless.
Kenji, the attacker, was designed specifically for confrontation. The quiet, indifferent presence stood out as a flaw in his code.
He paused, his thoughts momentarily faltering. In that brief moment of confusion, Kobayashi found the opportunity he needed to regain control, executing a tackle that, while somewhat awkward, proved to be quite effective in dispossessing his opponent.
The event was relatively minor in nature. A solitary line of code, meticulously corrected, within a program that is experiencing a crash. However, it marked the beginning.
As the first half progressed, Kyomu maintained this quiet, precise intervention. He existed as a phantom within the system, a fixer on the field.
As a hefty adversary attempted to charge past him, Kyomu chose not to resist. Instead, he took a half-step back and to the side, skillfully leveraging the opponent's own momentum to throw him off balance, directing him safely out of the game.
He would softly share his thoughts, not to uplift, but to provide a steady flow of information.
"Subject Goro's lunging tackle features a recovery window of 0.7 seconds. Take advantage of it now."
"Their central defender primarily uses their right foot. Compel him to shift to his left."
"Kenta, there is a gap of 4.3 meters forming behind you due to your positioning. Adjust it by two meters."
At first, his teammates were hesitant, but they gradually started to follow his lead, driven by a bewildered sense of self-preservation. The commands were consistently, and quite frustratingly, accurate.
They were gaining possessions and fending off attacks, yet it felt empty. They were not engaged in a game of football; instead, they were manipulated by a detached and emotionless force.
The pleasure of the game was gradually fading, giving way to the cold satisfaction of a command executed flawlessly.
•••
In his observation room, Ego Jinpai sat quietly, his gaze fixed on the feed from Pitch 7, a steaming cup of black coffee left unattended in his hand. His typical smirk gave way to an expression of deep, scholarly intrigue.
"Remarkable," he murmured softly to the vacant space around him. "He isn't participating in the game. He is in the process of administering it. He isn't focused on defeating his opponents; rather, he aims to demonstrate that their model falls short."
"He embodies the very essence of systemic collapse, a living testament to its reality. He is causing them to question their programming."
On the field, the score stood at 2-1 in their disadvantage. The pressure continued to build. Goro's team, feeling the weight of growing resistance, was starting to act recklessly, their physical play teetering on the edge of fouls.
The atmosphere in the cage was heavy with sweat, simmering anger, and a growing sense of existential dread that seemed to radiate from Kyomu's own team.
At that point, the time for calibration had come.
Tanaka, the goalkeeper, made a desperate clearance that soared high into the air, introducing a chaotic and unpredictable element to the game. It moved downwards towards Kyomu, who was closely guarded by two of Goro's players.
The traditional approach involved winning the header, countering physicality with more physicality. An unprofitable endeavor.
Kyomu discovered an alternative solution. A division within the fundamental idea of the play.
He allowed the ball to bounce once, a deliberate choice that attracted the attention of his two defenders.
Rather than attempting to exert control, he employed the inner part of his heel to execute a gentle, nearly dismissive flick.
The ball remained stationary, neither moving forward nor backward. It veered off course, making a precise right angle, gliding swiftly and low over the grass.
It was not a pass intended for a teammate. The action was a purposeful diversion targeting the gap between the shins of the two central defenders who were coming together.
The ball, a swift blur of white, collided with the shin guard of the first defender, producing a sharp thwack that echoed in the air.
The impact changed its course by exactly twenty-two degrees, causing it to bounce straight into the path of the second defender, who was running at that moment. The impact occurred in an instant, resulting in devastating consequences.
The second defender's ankle twisted awkwardly as he attempted to reposition himself; his weight shifted in an unnatural manner, leading him to collide forcefully with his teammate. The two pillars of Goro's defense transformed into a chaotic mass of limbs and anguished sounds.
The ball, seemingly directed by an invisible force, gently escaped the turmoil, rolling harmlessly into the heart of the penalty area.
A moment of stunned silence enveloped the room.
Iemon, his mind in a state of complete overload, moved ahead, his eyes filled with astonishment. Like a man lost in a dream, he awkwardly nudged the ball across the goal line.
2-2.
The equalizer was received not with cheers, but rather with a deep, unsettling silence from Kyomu's team. Although they had scored, they did not feel a sense of ownership over the goal.
It felt... authored.
Goro's team found themselves in chaos, voices raised in accusations, their straightforward and harsh system disrupted by an occurrence they struggled to understand. It was not merely a goal; it served as a philosophical counterargument.
The goal that secured the victory was already anticipated. The unity of the opposing team, the faith they had in their system, was shattered beyond repair. They moved as distinct beings, each harboring doubts about the other.
A straightforward, frantic back-pass was intercepted by Kenta, who now moved with an almost robotic precision, effortlessly slotting the ball into the net without a hint of celebration.
3-2. Victory.
As they left the pitch, the silence that enveloped them felt more profound than any loss they had experienced. Iemon gazed at Kyomu, his face a swirling mix of gratitude, resentment, and fear.
"We... we won," Iemon said, the words lingering in the air like a bitter aftertaste.
"You have successfully reached the goal of advancement," Kyomu affirmed, his tone suggesting that the discussion was now concluded.
"Your emotional struggle is a reaction to the gap between the success story you anticipated and the actual experience you are going through... The data is not relevant."
He chose not to wait for the completion of their processing. He had completed his work with this temporary and imperfect platform. The system demonstrated a remarkable responsiveness to his inputs. The calibration process was completed successfully.
His eyes wandered over the array of pitches, his awareness finely tuned to the distinct resonance of challenge radiating from one specific cage.
The match featuring Isagi Yoichi was approaching its thrilling climax. He sensed the chaotic energy of a mind being shaped in the moment, a puzzle piecing itself together under intense pressure.
A subtle, chilly smile, the first true expression of the day, finally graced Kyomu's lips. The initial trials have been completed. The laboratory had reached full operational capacity.
The truly fascinating specimens were prepared for their dissection.