Kurogane Shu used to shine.
Under stadium lights, under cameras that tracked every step he took, every touch he made. When he wore the U-18 jersey, the commentators spoke his name softly, as it belonged in a museum.
"Refinement.""Elegance.""A striker who turns football into art."
Shu remembered those words clearly. Too clearly.
Back then, the ball listened to him. His first touch killed momentum like a whispered command. His shots curved with intention, not desperation. He didn't force goals—he crafted them.
Then came the injury.
A single misstep during training. A sharp pull in his leg. A strained ligament, they said. Nothing serious, they said.
But football doesn't wait for healing.
Weeks passed. Then months. Shu returned to the pitch only to find himself returning to the bench instead. At first, coaches promised patience. Then they stopped explaining. Matches went on without him. New names replaced his.
The bench grew colder every week.
When he finally recovered fully, his body ready and desperate, the world had already moved on.
No cameras.No articles.No calls.
Just silence.
The envelope arrived on a gray afternoon, slid beneath his apartment door like an afterthought. Plain. Heavy. Official.
Shu stared at it for a long time before opening it.
There was no praise inside. No acknowledgment of his past. No mention of his former glory, his U-18 goals, his so-called "art."
Only cold words.
An evaluation.A final opportunity.A warning disguised as an invitation.
Blue Lock wasn't offering redemption.
It was offering disposal.
One last test to decide whether Kurogane Shu still deserved a place in Japanese football—or whether his name would be erased quietly, permanently.
Shu folded the letter and exhaled.
If this were the end, then he would face it head-on.
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the remnants of elegance and pride, something darker stirred.
If beauty had abandoned him—
Then he would learn how to survive without it.