The adrenaline that had flooded the small, concrete room dissipated as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence. The exit door had clicked shut minutes ago, sealing Kira Ryosuke's fate, but the remaining eleven boys of Team Z were still standing in the blast radius of his departure. The air felt ionized, charged with the lingering static of a career abruptly terminated.
Kiyotaka Ayanokouji sat on his assigned sleeping bag, his back resting against the cold wall. To the others, he appeared to be in shock, staring blankly at the floor, blending perfectly into the background of traumatized teenagers. In reality, he was running a comprehensive defragmentation of his cognitive drive. The "Oni Gokko" had provided a wealth of initial data—spatial awareness metrics, fear responses, acceleration limits—but the erratic movement required to dodge Raichi's kick had burned 2.4% more glucose than his baseline resting state. Recovery was prioritized.
[SYSTEM STATUS: RECOVERY MODE ACTIVE. METABOLIC RATE: NORMALIZED. CORTISOL LEVELS: NEGLIGIBLE. MUSCLE FIBER INTEGRITY: 99.8%.]
"So," a voice cracked the silence. It was Igarashi, the monk, rubbing the angry red mark on his calf where Kiyotaka's calculated ricochet pass had struck him. "We... we survived. Right? That's what matters."
"We survived because we got lucky," Raichi spat, pacing the room like a caged animal, his fists clenching and unclenching.
"And because that guy," he pointed a trembling finger at Isagi, "went crazy at the last second. We almost got wiped out because you idiots were playing around!"
Isagi flinched. He was still staring at his own hands, the tactile sensation of the impact against Kira's face lingering like a phantom limb. "I... I just moved. I didn't think. I just knew I had to beat him. If I didn't... my life ended."
"You eliminated the strongest player," Kiyotaka interjected calmly. His voice was low, lacking the emotional resonance of the others, yet it cut through the tension effectively. "In a zero-sum environment, removing the highest-value asset of the opposition—or in this case, the competition—is the most logical course of action. You merely executed the optimal strategy, Isagi. Regret is a computational error."
Isagi looked at Kiyotaka, searching for comfort but finding only cold arithmetic. "Optimal strategy... is that all it was? It felt like... something else took over."
"Call it a monster, call it instinct," Kiyotaka countered, closing his eyes. "Whatever it was, it was efficient. Emotion is a lag in the system. You bypassed it."
The conversation died there. The boys, exhausted by the sudden trauma, retreated to their corners. Night fell over the Blue Lock facility, not marked by the sun, but by the harsh, synchronized dimming of the industrial lights.
Sleep was a necessary biological function, but for Kiyotaka, it was a vulnerability. He lay in the darkness, listening to the breathing patterns of ten other males. Snoring, restless shifting, the muttering of nightmares.
[AUDIO ANALYSIS: BACHIRA MEGURU - REM CYCLE ACTIVE (LUCID DREAMING SUSPECTED). ISAGI YOICHI - ELEVATED HEART RATE (INSOMNIA/ANXIETY). KUNIGAMI RENSUKE - DEEP RHYTHMIC BREATHING.]
Suddenly, a shadow moved. Isagi sat up, gasping silently. He grabbed his water bottle and headed for the door. Seconds later, Bachira followed him, moving with the silent grace of a predatory cat.
"Bonding event," Kiyotaka noted internally, shifting his head two millimeters to the left to optimize auditory reception. "Isagi and Bachira are forming a nucleus. Two variables combining to create a stronger unit. I will monitor the outcome of their interaction tomorrow. If they form a passing lane, it changes the team dynamic."
He closed his eyes, commanding the Nano-Somatic Colony to initiate deep-tissue repair on the micro-tears in his quadriceps caused by the earlier movements. He needed to be perfect for whatever hell awaited them at sunrise.
Morning arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. A deafening buzzer vibrated the very concrete of the walls.
"Wake up, sludge!" Ego's voice blared from the speakers, distorted and unpleasant. "Training begins in 10 minutes. Nutrition is available in the cafeteria. Rank determines quality. Eat, or die."
The cafeteria was a sterile, white expanse filled with long tables. The hierarchy was immediately, painfully visible. The higher-ranked teams—V, W, X, Y—were seated closer to the serving stations, their plates piled high with varied proteins, complex carbohydrates, fresh fruits, and steaming stews.
Team Z, rank 290 through 300, was at the back near the trash cans.
Kiyotaka collected his tray. A bowl of white rice. A cup of miso soup. And a single, small, sticky packet of natto.
"Seriously?" Igarashi wailed, holding up his natto packet as if it were a dead insect. "Just rice and fermented beans? Where's the meat? Where's the gyoza? Look at Team V! They're eating steak! Actual steak!"
Raichi slammed his tray down, rattling the table. "This is bullshit! How are we supposed to build muscle on this? How are we supposed to compete with those guys when they're fueling up on prime beef and we're eating peasant food?"
Naruhaya sighed, poking his rice. "We're the bottom of the heap. I guess we starve until we win."
Kiyotaka sat down and cracked the natto packet efficiently. His movements were surgical. He pierced the film, added the mustard and soy sauce, and mixed the beans in three perfect circles to maximize the aeration and activation of the nattokinase enzyme.
"Natto," he murmured, lifting a sticky cluster to his mouth. "45 grams. Approximately 95 calories. 8 grams of protein. High in Vitamin K2 and probiotics. It is highly efficient fuel for endurance, Raichi. While steak provides creatine and iron, it requires significant energy to digest—energy that is diverted from muscle recovery. Natto is readily bioavailable. The glycemic index of the rice will provide immediate glycogen replenishment."
Kunigami, the orange-haired muscle of the team, looked at Kiyotaka with a raised eyebrow. He was chewing his rice stoically. "You talk like a nutritionist textbook. You realize we need calories to burn, right? We're growing athletes."
"Rice provides the glycogen," Kiyotaka replied, eating mechanically, every bite chewed exactly twenty times for optimal digestion. "The constraint isn't the food; it's the mindset. You are focused on the pleasure of eating. I am focused on the utility. If you require more protein, simply consume the miso soup dregs; the soybean concentration is higher at the bottom."
"Man, you're weird, Ayanokouji," Naruhaya chuckled, stealing a pickled radish from Gagamaru's tray. "But I guess if you're okay with being bottom rank, natto fits you."
Kiyotaka ignored the jab. He wasn't okay with being bottom rank; he was orchestrating it. The lower the profile, the less data the enemy—and Ego—had on him.
After the meal, they were herded into a massive indoor training facility. It was a vast space of artificial turf, smelling of rubber and sweat.
"Physical Conditioning," the hologram of Ego announced. "To survive Blue Lock, you need a vessel capable of housing your ego. Run. Until you vomit. Then run some more."
The training was primitive. A simple endurance test. Twenty kilometers around the track.
The team started running. At first, it was a pack. But by the fifth kilometer, the group began to fracture. Raichi and Kunigami took the lead, their superior physiques driving them forward. Isagi and Bachira held the middle ground. Igarashi dragged behind, wheezing.
Kiyotaka settled into a rhythm.
[CURRENT PACE: 12 KM/H. HEART RATE: 110 BPM. SWEAT GLAND ACTIVATION: 15%.]
As he ran, he engaged the Scanner function of his cerebral chip, analyzing the biomechanics of the players ahead of him.
Kunigami Rensuke: Dominant left leg. Heavy heel strike. Incredible explosive power, but his turning radius is wide. Threat: High linear velocity. Weakness: Agility.
Chigiri Hyoma: The delicate-looking boy with long red hair. He was running well within his limits. [ANOMALY DETECTED: RIGHT KNEE. STRIDE IMBALANCE OF 4%.] He is protecting his right leg. A past injury? Or a fear of recurrence? Threat: Currently suppressed. Potential: Unknown.
"System. Analyze the average pace of the group's median,"
Kiyotaka commanded.
[MEDIAN PACE: 10.5 KM/H. SUGGESTED ACTION: DECELERATE TO MATCH MEDIAN. HIDE OUTPUT CAPABILITY.]
Kiyotaka slowed his stride. He allowed his breathing to become audible, mimicking the slight labor of exertion displayed by Naruhaya and Imamura next to him. He wasn't tired—his nanobots were scrubbing lactic acid faster than his muscles could produce it—but he had to look tired. To be average was to be safe. To be safe was to control the flow of information.
Later that afternoon, back in the Team Z locker room, the atmosphere shifted from physical exhaustion to strategic anxiety.
Ego appeared on the screen again.
"The physical baseline has been established. Now, the real selection begins. You are in Building 5. There are five teams: V, W, X, Y, and Z. You will play a round-robin tournament. Only the top two teams will advance to the next selection."
The room buzzed. A tournament. This was familiar ground.
"However," Ego added, his grin widening, "the top scorer of the losing teams will also advance. This is Blue Lock. Victory is paramount, but Ego is absolute."
The screen flashed.
MATCH 1: TEAM Z vs TEAM X.
"Team X," Kuon, the tall boy with the friendly face, spoke up. He had naturally assumed the role of strategist. "I've been looking at the player data on the tablets. Their top player seems to be a guy named Barou Shohei. Rank 250."
"Barou..." Isagi muttered. "The guy with the King complex."
"Okay, guys," Kuon clapped his hands. "We need a formation. Since we're all strikers, this is going to be messy. But we need a goalkeeper, defenders, and midfielders."
The room erupted into chaos.
"I'm playing forward!" Raichi shouted. "I'm the best shooter here! My physique is superior!"
"No way! I'm playing forward!" Igarashi yelled, jumping up. "I need to score to survive! If we lose, only the top scorer survives! I can't be a defender!"
"Me too! Me too!" Bachira raised his hand, vibrating with energy.
Everyone wanted the glory. Everyone wanted to be the striker. It was a deadlock of eleven egos, a crash of conflicting software.
"This is inefficient," Kiyotaka observed from the corner. "A team of hammers trying to build a house. If they all crowd the ball, the spatial compression will make scoring statistically impossible."
"We can't all be forwards," Kuon tried to mediate. "Let's decide fairly. Rock, Paper, Scissors. The winner gets to pick their position first."
A childish solution for a professional problem. Yet, in the absence of authority, chance was the only accepted arbiter.
The team gathered in a circle.
"Rock... Paper... Scissors... SHOOT!"
Kiyotaka watched the hands. Ten hands thrown.
[VISUAL PROCESSING: ACCELERATED. PREDICTING MUSCLE TENSION. RAICHI: ROCK. KUNIGAMI: ROCK. ISAGI: PAPER. BACHIRA: SCISSORS.]
He could have won. He could have manipulated the delay in their throws to select the winning hand every single time. He could have claimed the Center Forward position and dominated Team X alone.
But that would destroy the camouflage. And more importantly, the Center Forward position was blind to the threats behind him.
Kiyotaka threw Rock. He purposely tied with the majority, forcing a second round, then a third.
Eventually, he "lost."
"Damn it!" Raichi screamed, having lost the final round to Isagi, Kunigami, and Bachira. "Why do I have to be a defender?!"
"I guess I'm stuck in defense too," Kiyotaka said, his voice neutral. "It seems appropriate for the lowest rank."
"I'll take Center Back," Kiyotaka volunteered quietly.
Kuon nodded, writing it down on the whiteboard. "Okay, Ayanokouji. Thanks for being flexible. You and Igarashi will hold the center defense."
Kiyotaka sat back down. Center Back. The position at the rear. It offered the widest field of view. From there, he could observe every player on the pitch—both friend and foe. He could manipulate the defensive line, control the offside trap, and feed passes to the "test subjects" up front. It was the position of a puppet master.
The Next Day. The Pitch.
Team Z stood in the tunnel. The light at the end was blinding. The roar of synthetic crowd noise was pumped in through speakers to simulate a stadium environment.
"Let's go, Team Z!" Isagi shouted, trying to hype himself up. He was wearing the number 11 jersey.
Kiyotaka adjusted his shin guards. He wore number 12. A substitute's number, fitting for his role.
They walked onto the field. Team X was already waiting.
They were massive. Or at least, they projected mass. At the center of their formation stood a titan. Barou Shohei. With his jagged teeth and X-shaped hair design, he looked less like a high schooler and more like a medieval executioner. His pheromones spiked with aggression—testosterone levels estimated at 95th percentile.
[TARGET CONFIRMED: BAROU SHOHEI. PHYSICALITY: S-TIER. AGGRESSION: S-TIER. COOPERATION: F-TIER.]
Barou was juggling the ball, not looking at anyone. He stopped as Isagi approached.
"Don't get in my way, donkey," Barou growled, his voice vibrating in the air. "I'm the King of this field. You're just the peasants meant to polish my throne."
Raichi bristled. "Hah?! Who are you calling a peasant, you jagged-tooth freak?"
Barou ignored him. He looked past the forwards, past the midfielders, scanning the defensive line. His eyes locked onto Kiyotaka for a split second.
Kiyotaka met the gaze with absolute emptiness. He didn't project fear. He didn't project challenge. He projected... nothing. Like a stone by the roadside.
Barou scoffed and looked away. "Boring. Just don't make me sweat unnecessarily."
The whistle blew. Kickoff.
The game began, and with it, the chaos.
Team Z's plan—whatever semblance of it Kuon had drawn up—evaporated instantly.
Isagi passed to Bachira. Bachira started dribbling. Raichi ran over and stole the ball from his own teammate.
"Pass it to me, you weirdo!" Raichi screamed.
"No! I'm going to score!" Kunigami charged in, stealing it from Raichi.
"It's mine!" Igarashi ran up from the defensive line, abandoning his post next to Kiyotaka.
"Idiots," Kiyotaka thought, standing alone in the massive gap left by his teammates. "They aren't playing soccer. They're playing a battle royale over a single ball. They are collapsing the space, making defense effortless for Team X."
Team X watched, confused for a moment. Then, Barou laughed.
"Look at them," Barou sneered. "They're huddled together like scared sheep."
Barou didn't wait. He charged. He didn't need his team. He simply bulldozed through the cluster of Team Z players, his physical frame knocking Raichi and Igarashi aside like bowling pins.
He broke through. A one-on-one with the goalkeeper, Iemon.
BOOM.
A cannon shot from 20 meters out. Upper right corner.
Unstoppable.
TEAM X: 1 - TEAM Z: 0.
"I told you," Barou turned, pointing to his own chest. "I am the King."
The Team Z players were arguing. Blaming each other. The fracture was complete.
Kiyotaka watched Barou walk back. The shot had been impressive. Perfect form. Maximum power.
"Laplace's Demon," Kiyotaka engaged the system. "Analyze Barou's shot vector."
[ANALYSIS: CHOP KICK. RANGE: 27 METERS EFFECTIVE. WEAKNESS: REQUIRES 0.8 SECONDS OF WIND-UP. BLIND SPOT: RIGHT PERIPHERAL AT 45 DEGREES.]
"Understood," Kiyotaka noted.
The game restarted. The chaos continued. Team Z was imploding. Barou scored again. And again. Team Z was running around like headless chickens, stealing from each other, leaving the defense wide open.
TEAM X: 3 - TEAM Z: 0.
It was a slaughter. Isagi was frozen in the midfield, overwhelmed by the difference in quality. "We can't win... this is impossible..."
Barou received the ball again. He was hungry for a fourth. He charged down the center, ignoring his open teammates. He wanted to crush Team Z completely.
Raichi, panting and furious, lunged at Barou. Barou simply stiff-armed him into the turf. Kunigami tried to shoulder-check him; Barou absorbed the impact and kept running.
Only one person stood between Barou and the goal. Rank 300. Ayanokouji Kiyotaka.
"Move, peasant!" Barou roared, accelerating. He prepared to execute his chop dribble, a sharp cut to the right that had decimated the defense twice already.
Kiyotaka watched him come. The distance closed. 10 meters. 5 meters.
To the observers, it looked like Kiyotaka was frozen with fear.
Even Iemon in goal shouted, "Ayanokouji! Don't just stand there! Tackle him!"
Internally, the world slowed to a crawl. The red lines of the Golden Path appeared.
[THREAT: BAROU SHOHEI. CHARGE VELOCITY: HIGH. BALANCE: FORWARD-LEANING. PREDICTION: CHOP DRIBBLE TO THE RIGHT. INTERVAL: 0.4 SECONDS.]
"Too linear," Kiyotaka thought.
Barou initiated the cut. He chopped the ball sharply to his right, expecting Kiyotaka to be left behind.
But Kiyotaka was already there.
He hadn't reacted to the ball; he had reacted to the shift in Barou's center of gravity before the ball was even touched. Kiyotaka stepped into the space Barou wanted to occupy.
THUD.
Barou slammed into Kiyotaka.
But Kiyotaka didn't budge. He had engaged the Density Shift, locking the nanobots in his core and legs into a rigid lattice structure. To Barou, it felt like running into a concrete pillar bolted to the earth.
The impact jarred Barou, stopping him dead. The ball trickled loose.
Kiyotaka didn't hesitate. He stole the ball with a gentle touch.
Silence descended on the field. The King had been stopped. Stopped cold by the lowest-ranked player.
"What the..." Barou growled, shaking his head to clear the dizziness.
"Pass it! Pass it to me!" Raichi screamed from the sideline. "I'm open!"
"Me! I'm here!" Igarashi waved frantically.
Kiyotaka stood with the ball. He looked at Raichi. He looked at Igarashi.
"No," Kiyotaka said softly.
He ignored the screaming teammates. He ignored the safe pass. He looked upfield. His eyes scanned the grid.
[SCANNING... OPENING DETECTED. ISAGI YOICHI POSITION: LEFT FLANK. MARKER: DISTRACTED. KUNIGAMI RENSUKE POSITION: CENTER. MARKER: TIGHT.]
"If I pass to Raichi, he loses possession in 3 seconds. If I pass to Igarashi, he panics. The only viable route is to force a chemical reaction."
Kiyotaka raised his leg. He didn't wind up for a power kick. He sliced underneath the ball.
WHOOSH.
A long, high lofted pass soared over the midfield. It carried a tremendous amount of backspin.
Isagi looked up. The ball was coming to him? No, it was going past him... wait.
The ball hit the turf ten meters in front of Isagi and checked. The backspin bit into the grass, killing the forward momentum instantly. The ball sat up perfectly, begging to be hit.
It wasn't just a pass. It was an instruction. Shoot.
Isagi realized he didn't have to trap it. He didn't have to dribble. The ball had been delivered to the exact coordinate where his stride would meet it.
Isagi ran onto it. He swung his left foot. A direct volley.
BANG!
The ball rocketed toward the Team X goal. The goalkeeper dove, but the timing was too perfect.
GOAL.
TEAM X: 3 - TEAM Z: 1.
Isagi stood there, stunned. He looked back at the defense.
Kiyotaka was standing where he had been, adjusting his sleeve. He looked bored.
"You... you stopped Barou," Kunigami muttered, walking past Kiyotaka. "And that pass... that was insane. You put backspin on it from 40 meters out?"
"The wind was favorable," Kiyotaka lied smoothly. "And Barou is clumsy when he dribbles at top speed. It was simple physics."
Raichi ran up, grabbing Kiyotaka's collar. "Hey! Why didn't you pass to me?! I was closer!"
Kiyotaka looked at Raichi's hand, then into his eyes. For a second, the mask slipped. The obsidian eyes drilled into Raichi's soul with a pressure that made the delinquent recoil instinctively.
"Because Isagi was in a scoring position," Kiyotaka stated coldply. "You were in a position to lose the ball. Do not mistake your desire for utility, Raichi."
He brushed Raichi's hand off.
"Now," Kiyotaka addressed the stunned Team Z. "The King has bled. He is not invincible. If we want to survive, stop fighting each other and start using the space I create. I will control the back. You just run."
For the first time, the chaotic egos of Team Z fell silent. They looked at the Rank 300 player not as a burden, but as an anchor.
Barou was glaring at Kiyotaka from the center circle, his teeth grinding. "You... pebble. You think you can stop me again?"
Kiyotaka didn't answer. He didn't need to. The equation had changed. The variable of "Ayanokouji Kiyotaka" had entered the calculation, and the game was no longer a slaughter. It was a surgery.