{Isagi Yoichi's POV – After One Week of Hell}
My muscles are screaming. My lungs are shredded. Every fiber of my body feels like it's been run through a shredder—and yet I've never felt more alive.
A week ago, I'd have collapsed after half of today's drills. Morning endurance run. Midday strength circuit. Evening agility hell. Cold-water immersion to finish. Repeat. Seven days straight. No mercy. No excuses.
But here I stand, stumbling over the final hurdle of the last obstacle course, chest heaving, sweat stinging in my eyes. I feel… hungry. Hungry for whatever's next.
"Yoichin!" Bachira pants beside me, head spinning. "Can you feel your legs?"
I grin, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Barely—but I wouldn't have it any other way."
Just then, the intercom buzzes, cutting through the ringing in my ears.
"All survivors of the First Selection, please proceed immediately to the Central Gathering Hall beneath the stadium. Your next instruction awaits."
Bachira blinks. "Central Gathering Hall? Beneath the public stadium?"
We exchange a look with the others: Kira, rubbing his calves; Kunigami, who cracks his knuckles in anticipation.
I push off the ground, legs still wobbly, and head toward the tunnel that leads below the massive stadium above us. Each step hurts, but it also feels like proof—proof that I survived, that I grew.
Because I know Ego's waiting. And whatever he has planned next, it won't be pretty. But it will matter. It will push us further.
And I'm ready.
The tunnel walls rattled with distant shouts as we made our way under the stadium. My body throbbed from the week's torture, but every step felt purposeful. We were survivors—chiseled by Ego's methods—and we were about to face the next test.
Then, at the base of the stairs, we came across a line of gray tracksuits flowing in the opposite direction.
Eliminated players.
Faces I recognized—some frantic, others hollow, most in stunned silence. They shuffled past, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped as they exited through the side door marked "Survivors' Exit."
Kira stopped short, head whipping to the side. His chest tightened; he looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Kira's thoughts (3rd person):
Tch... that could've been me. I barely made it.
Igaguri's usual smug grin was gone. His jaw worked, oxygen-starved as he watched player after player vanish.
Igaguri's thoughts (3rd person):
I played dirty fouls, but I almost didn't make it either.
Raichi halted too, arms folded but eyes wide. The world felt smaller now, every elimination a reminder of how close we'd come to being those walking corpses.
Raichi's thoughts (3rd person):
They trained just as hard—and still failed. There's no mercy left. Not for me, not for any of us.
Bachira glanced at me, his face unreadable in the dim light. I caught his eye and gave a subtle nod.
We didn't speak. No need to say it out loud.
Now… The real battle was about to begin.
I swallowed hard, then forced my legs forward. Pain was just fuel now.
"Stay focused," I murmured under my breath. "No mistakes."
And with that, we slipped past the exits and into the Central Gathering Hall—every muscle in my body still humming from the week's training, but my mind razor-sharp and ready.
Team V fell in behind us as the massive doors clanged shut.
At first glance, nothing seemed out of place. Then I noticed…
Ranks in the 200s, stamped on every survivor's arm, just like ours.
I cocked an eyebrow. Didn't Ego say Wings One through Four outranked us? My pulse quickened—this had "mind game" written all over it.
"Did you notice those numbers on their arms? Yoichin?"
Ahh, yes, that new nickname from Bachira.
I shot him a grin. "Welcome to stage two of Ego's circus."
....
Oh?
Players shoved each other, water bottles rattled, and fists pounded benches.
When's Ego going to make his grand entrance? I wondered.
Hey, I actually jinxed it?
The screen flickered, and there was the four-eyed serial killer.
Ego's calm, calculating face appeared. The hall fell silent.
"Welcome, diamonds in the rough."
"You're all wearing ranks in the 200s because I made you believe you were the lowest of the low—so you'd unleash your full potential once that illusion shattered."
His maniacal grin stretched across the screens. In an instant, riotous players convulsed as sparks of stun-circuitry zapped through their suits—some toppled, dazed, half-passed out.
Basically he shocked them. What a shock indeed.
.....
….
.
That was a bad one.
Kira reeled, eyes wide. "Isagi… remind me never to talk back to Ego, okay?"
I gave him a diplomatic nod. No argument there.
I glanced back: Igaguri and Raichi lay roasted, steam rising from their fatigued bodies. Naruhaya hovered nearby, stunned into stillness. Perfect comedic timing, I thought, stifling a laugh.
Ego's image steadied on the massive screen.
"With that, the First Selection ends. Out of 300 hopefuls, only 125 remain.
The rest… are heading home."
He let the silence linger—just long enough for the numbers to dig into our brains. The weight of reality was sinking in. Fast.
"Now, the Second Selection begins."
His voice sharpened like a blade.
"In the First Selection, your goal was to discover what it means to turn a '0' into a '1'—to awaken as a striker.
But that was just the starting line.
From here on, you'll be fighting to take that '1'... and turn it into '100'."
Behind him, a glowing holographic panel lit up, displaying a diagram with five ascending stages.
"The Second Selection is made up of five stages.
Clear one stage, and you earn the right to climb to the next."
Our eyes locked on the path ahead—each stage looked like a battlefield in its own right.
"Your first goal: clear the challenge in Stage One.
And those who make it through all five…"
The screen shifted again.
"…will earn a spot in a special training camp.
There, you'll train and play alongside elite players from across the globe.
Handpicked by me."
The room went quiet.
Mouths hung open. Minds raced.
It wasn't just about survival anymore—this was about evolution.
"Well, that covers it."
Ego leaned back, crossing one leg over the other like a smug puppeteer watching his marionettes squirm.
"You'll find crates of gear at each corner of the hall.
Warm up there.
And when you're ready, step through the door beneath me."
He pointed toward a heavy, steel door directly below the screen.
"One at a time."
"Wait—one at a time?" Kira spoke up, confused.
The room stirred.
Team Z went quiet.
The air shifted.
"So we're not going in together, huh? Yoichin?"
Bachira's voice buzzed in my ear, low and uncertain.
"Looks like it," I muttered.
Ego didn't wait for the drama to die.
"The first stage is an individual battle.
Once you go in… you don't come back.
And if you don't advance to the second stage—
You won't see your rivals again."
That hit harder than it should have.
Decisive. Cold. Just like Ego.
"I don't need to tell you this, but the difficulty of the Second Selection…
Is leagues above the first."
Gasps. Shuffling.
You could tell who was shaking just by the way their shoes scuffed the floor.
"No matter what you've accomplished until now—
It means nothing if you fail to pass."
Ego adjusted his glasses, his eyes practically gleaming now.
"Those of you who've coasted on your teammates' backs better be ready.
The Second Selection will sort out the dead weight.
And only the true egoists will be left standing."
He threw a final nod toward the steel portal at the far end of the hall.
"This is where your ego takes the field alone.
Prove yourself, or say 'tata' to your dreams."
And just like that—
"Warm up well, and good luck…
My lovely little lumps of talent."
The screen cut to black.
Silence—thick as fog—settled over the survivors. Then, one by one, my teammates turned to me: Kira, clutching his leg; Bachira, wide-eyed like an excited kitten; Kunigami, arms folded but twitching; Chigiri, drifting forward on eager feet. All of Team Z's eyes locked on mine.
"…Do I have something on my face?" I managed, sounding every bit the clueless hero.
Kunigami merely shook his head, stifling a grin. Bachira bounced on his heels. Kira swallowed hard. Chigiri's smirk said it all.
I took a deep breath and cracked a grin of my own. This was the true test. The real battlefield. No teams, no script—just me, the ball, and every ounce of ego I could muster.
Time to step through the door.
Suddenly, someone stepped out of the mob of players.
I felt a presence alone drew a ripple of attention, shaded black with green hair left freely to bounce on his face, eyes calm but lethal.
He didn't wait. He snagged two balls and moved to the free area as if it were second nature. He positioned himself at the first crate, planted his left foot, and swung his right with the outside of his boot.
The ball spun off his foot in a perfect trivela arc—curling wide, then dipping into the opposite corner. Before the first ball had even landed, he pivoted on his heel, readied the second, and launched a delicate finesse shot with the inside of his foot.
Both balls rose in the air—one with whip-like swerve, the other with soft precision—and collided midflight. They burst apart and dropped to the ground as if in perfect synchronization.
He let out a low exhale.
"I'm ready."
Above the door, a screen flickered to life in bold letters:
"Player - Itoshi Rin."
Rin stepped inside.
The door closed behind him.
My pulse quickened.
This was it.
These were the kinds of players I'd dreamed of running with—or exploding against.
Rin's trivela and finesse combo still pulsed in the air, and honestly? I didn't need to warm up.
I stepped toward the door, Bachira's eager bobbing head right behind me.
"Yoichin," he panted, "aren't you going to warm up at all?"
I shook my head, the corners of my mouth lifting. "After a week in hell, my muscles are already lit. This body's primed for anything."
Bachira blinked, then let out a high-pitched chuckle. "Fair point. Good luck in there, Yoichin~"
He entered the door.
A moment later, the screen above glowed:
"Player - Bachira Meguru"
I watched him disappear into the chamber, then exhaled slowly. Time to do this.
Above me, again, the screen flickered to life:
"Player - Isagi Yoichi"
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a tunnel with dim lights flickering like they were powered by Ego's last shred of empathy.
Creepy?
Oh, absolutely.
But honestly, what else would you expect from the mad scientist of football reform? A red carpet and welcome drinks? Nah. This was peak Blue Lock aesthetic—mild horror movie vibes with a hint of "surprise, you're trauma-bonded to a football."
I trudged through the corridor like a soldier headed to the boss fight. The sign ahead read Wing 1 – Training Room 1-10, which meant I had to walk across half the complex just to kick a damn ball.
Figures. Ego probably designed this layout himself just to mess with our sense of distance and hope.
By the time I finally reached the door, I half expected ominous chanting or fog machines.
Instead… silence.
And a standard-issue metal door.
Stepping inside, I blinked a few times.
Déjà vu.
It was just like the field from the First Selection—boxy, pristine, sterile. The only major difference?
This field was about half the size.
And there was a blue lock logo in the middle of it.
Tighter.
More confined.
A box within a box.
Like football had claustrophobia and decided to take it out on me.
Only one goalpost stood at the far end, almost taunting me. No defenders. Just empty space and tension.
"…Cool," I muttered, rolling my shoulders. "Let's see what hell tastes like today."
Right on cue, the screen hanging above the goal flickered to life, like a bored ghost had finally decided to flip the power switch.
And there he was.
Ego Jinpachi.
Still looking like he'd spent all his charisma points on sarcasm.
"Welcome, Isagi Yoichi," he said, in that ever-so-dramatic voice that somehow made even basic words sound threatening. "You are now in the first phase of the Second Selection."
I swear, the way he said that made me feel like I had just entered a reality TV elimination round.
"This room has been modified specifically for the new phase of evaluation. And yes, it's smaller. You're not imagining it. Congratulations on possessing basic spatial awareness."
Gee, thanks.
"In front of you is your opponent—an AI goalkeeper, programmed with the reflexes, prediction algorithms, and efficiency of the world's top five keepers. Its only mission is to stop you from scoring."
Ego's voice echoed, clinical and matter-of-fact.
"Yes, it's holographic too."
…Wait. Holographic?
Huh?
How the hell does that even work?
Almost like he could sense my confusion, Ego let out a sigh that screamed 'you dumbasses ask this every time'.
"Do you want a physics lesson?"
"...Nope."
"Anyways, the footballs have embedded sensors. When the hologram makes 'contact' with the ball, it triggers a directional force field that mimics real physics.
Basically, when it touches the ball, it reacts like a real keeper."
"It's a bunch of science shit."
He deadpanned.
His face practically said, 'Don't ask me more.'
Ego adjusted his glasses, and for a second, I swore I saw that little smirk twitch back onto his face.
Great. That look usually meant he was about to say something soul-crushing.
"Now, normally… a participant must score 100 goals in 90 minutes to clear this stage."
Straightforward. Brutal. Blue Lock classic.
"But a select few of you—due to your performance in the First Selection—will be undergoing a more 'special' test."
Oh boy. That word again. Special. From Ego, it's never a compliment.
"Isagi Yoichi."
…Ah, damn.
I knew it.
"You've been assessed to have abnormal potential for spatial awareness, adaptability, and game control."
Okay, sounds kinda flattering. So far so good—
"Which is why your goal is not 100."
"It's 200 goals in 90 minutes."
…Bro.
My eye twitched. Even the AI hologram looked at me like "good luck with that, pal."
"Special treatment, right? Consider it an honor. You get to suffer twice as much."
He flashed a smug grin that made me want to uppercut his pixelated jaw.
"The better you are, the more I'll squeeze out of you. That's how this works. You don't like it?
Prove me wrong and clear it anyway."
I let out a slow exhale, rolling my shoulders.
Yeah. Of course. This was Blue Lock.
Baptism by fire—no shortcuts.
"Get ready," Ego said, leaning back in his chair like this was just another Tuesday.
"Because once you step on that field, there's no reset button."
The AI keeper's hologram flickered into place, tall and imposing, already reading me like I was a math equation.
A hundred was brutal.
Two hundred?
Fine by me.
I cracked my neck, stared the bot down, and muttered—
"Let's dance, Tinman."
The words had barely left my lips when a football came screaming through the air straight toward my face.
I swerved my head just in time, the ball brushing past my ear with a whoosh that sounded way too personal.
I turned, eyes narrowing.
Four cannons.
Lined up neatly across the room.
Each one whirring, loaded, and locked onto me like they had beef.
A welcome gift, Ego-style.
Four mechanical launchers ready to obliterate my soul before the test even began.
"They want a fivesome, huh?"
I snorted under my breath.
Charming.
Except the timer hadn't started yet. Probably because I hadn't made contact with a ball.
Smart.
Which meant I had a moment.
A brief window.
How could I milk this setup?
Hmm...
"Alright. If I'm stuck here for 90 minutes, might as well turn this into a training montage."
I glanced at the AI keeper. Still unmoving. Still unreadable. Still judging me with that high-def poker face.
"Let's refine some finesse shots… a few trivela curves wouldn't hurt… maybe even a bicycle kick or two if I'm feeling flashy."
Then—FWOMP—another ball launched in from my left.
A flash of red light followed, slicing across the turf and reducing the width of the goal area like some virtual death trap closing in.
"Wait—seriously?"
I trapped the ball on instinct, but the pressure made me rush the shot.
The keeper dived.
Clean save.
"Tch. They're limiting space too?"
Of course they are.
Ego wasn't going to let anyone just stand around and pick their shots. This wasn't a penalty shootout—it was war.
A full-court, AI-fueled, spatial-hallucination-enhanced war.
The digital scoreboard flickered on.
89:40
That's all I got.
200 goals. 90 minutes.
Welcome to hell.
I took a deep breath. Rolled my shoulders.
And this time, I stepped toward the next ball with intent.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Ego's POV]
The control room was quiet, except for the soft hum of monitors and the occasional beep of data syncing across screens.
Perfect silence.
Perfect focus.
Exactly how I like it.
Rows of players were displayed on the large central monitor, each navigating their individual tests like rats in a labyrinth—scurrying for cheese they call "dreams."
My eyes, however, were locked on Training Room 7.
Yoichi Isagi.
That kid was interesting.
"...Two hundred goals in ninety minutes," Anri muttered beside me.
Her arms were folded, expression deadpan, brows narrowed at me like I just drop-kicked a puppy.
"You personally rewrote his objective. Everyone else has to score 100. But him?" She exhaled sharply. "That's not a test, Ego. That's punishment."
I didn't turn to look at her.
"Wrong," I said flatly. "It's a catalyst."
She gave me a blank look. I continued, because I always do.
"Pressure breeds evolution. Limitations are just invitations to shatter them. The moment a player's potential shows even a flicker of promise, it has to be tempered. Pushed. Stretched. Broken. That's the entire point of Blue Lock."
She arched a brow. "By doubling his quota?"
"Yes."
"Because that makes sense."
"It does—to those who understand football and human nature."
Anri's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Definitely not agreement.
More like the face of someone who'd heard this brand of bullshit before but didn't have the energy to argue.
"You're just making this up as you go, aren't you?"
I finally turned to glance at her, smirking.
"Of course I am. That's what visionaries do."
She snorted. "You're insufferable."
"I'm effective."
Anri rolled her eyes and leaned back against the console, her gaze shifting to one of the other monitors.
Together, we watched as other players began their trials. Balls flying. AI goalkeepers reacting with surgical precision.
Some stumbled. Some hesitated.
But only one was already sweating before the clock hit 88:00.
Yoichi Isagi.
I leaned forward, fingers steepled, the faintest grin creeping back onto my face.
"Let's see what you become… under fire."
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The room's lights blaze, cutting through the artificial twilight of the Blue Lock facility. The digital clock above the goal flickers: 0:00. Below it, the objective'
ISAGI YOICHI - 200 GOALS - 90 MINS. A single ball rests on the center circle.
The Onslaught Begins
The whistle shrills. Isagi taps the ball forward, sprints past it, and receives it again. This isn't a game; it's a test of his very existence. His 'Ego' roars.
Goals 1-10 (0:00 - 3:00): The first few minutes are a blur of pure, unadulterated instinct. The 'defenders' on the field are mere training drones, static obstacles.
Goal 1 (0:15): A powerful trivela from the edge of the box, curling wickedly with the outside of his right foot, kissing the far post as it rips into the net.Goal 2 (0:30): A clinical finesse shot with his left foot, finding the top corner.Goal 3 (0:45): A low-driven shot, a simple tap-in after dribbling around the goalkeeper. He was fast enough to close in before the space shrank.Goal 4 (1:10): A perfectly timed volley from a high pass, striking it cleanly with his laces.Goal 5 (1:30): A sharp cut-in from the right, then a thundering strike with his weak foot (left), straight through the keeper's hands.Goals 6-10: A mix of quick finishes, low shots, and exploiting empty spaces, each one fueling the next. He's moving with an almost animalistic grace, his spatial awareness mapping the field in real-time.
Goals 11-40 (3:00 - 18:00): He settles into a rhythm, each movement economical, each shot purposeful. His 'vision' begins to paint intricate pathways.
Goal 11 (5:00): He headed the ball directly from the cannon.Goal 15 (7:00): Another direct shot.Goal 20 (9:30): A long-range effort, struck with sheer power, the ball dipping just under the crossbar.Goal 25 (12:00): Another trivela, but this time from a tighter angle, bending around an invisible block.Goal 30 (14:30): A series of rapid one-touch finishes, receiving the shooting balls from the cannons and immediately slotting them home from inside the box.Goal 35 (16:00): A diving header, stretching every fiber of his being to connect with a low cross from the shooter.Goal 40 (18:00): A final finesse shot, curled with surgical precision around an imaginary defender, settling into the bottom corner.
As the scoreboard flashes 40 GOALS. A faint hum fills the air, then, without warning, shimmering, translucent barriers materialize on the field. They aren't static; they're dynamic, shifting, contracting, and expanding to block his favored routes and shooting angles. AI-linked walls.
Isagi skids to a halt, his eyes widening. His spatial map, once so clear, is now fractured by these unpredictable obstructions. His movement, once free, is now limited to narrow corridors and fleeting windows. The pressure mounts.
Goals 41-100 (18:00 - 35:00): He adapts. His instinct for finding "smells" of goals is now tested against an intelligent, reactive defense. He starts seeing the spaces between the walls, the moments of their transition.
Goal 41 (18:45): His first attempt slams into a newly formed wall. He reacts instantly, picking up the rebound, then fakes a shot to the left, drawing the wall's movement, before instantly hammering a low drive to the right, through the shrinking gap. It's not clean, but it's in.Goal 45 (20:30): The walls funnel him down the wing. He can't cut in. Instead, he improvises a cross-goal finesse shot from an acute angle, bending it around a vertical wall segment that appeared at the near post.Goal 50 (22:15): A volley, but harder. The ball is dropping through a narrow opening left by a retracting wall. He has to time his leap perfectly, striking it while airborne to avoid a rapidly expanding ground wall.Goal 60 (26:00): He's forced to slow down, his dribbling now a series of stop-starts, feints, and explosive bursts through fleeting openings. He finds a split-second gap between two horizontal walls and threads a low shot.Goal 75 (30:45): A header, but from an impossible angle. The walls have closed off his ground pathways. A high rebound bounces off a wall, and Isagi contorts his body, almost horizontally, to connect with it before it drops, redirecting it with a powerful flick of his neck.Goal 100 (35:00): His movements are more labored now, fatigue a dull ache in his muscles. He receives a loose ball, surrounded by closing walls. No clear shot. He unleashes a desperate trivela from over 30 yards out, a Hail Mary that somehow finds the top corner as the walls briefly shift to block another lane. A roar of effort escapes him.
Goals 101-150 (35:00 - 45:00): The AI walls grow smarter, more relentless. They anticipate his movements, converging faster, leaving him with even less room. His vision, once a boundless map, is now a frantic searchlight for micro-gaps. Every goal is a battle.
Goal 110 (38:30): He uses the walls themselves. He intentionally bounces a pass off a vertical wall to create a rebound that bypasses a horizontal one, then instantly takes the shot. A calculated ricochet.Goal 120 (41:00): A weak foot shot, but under immense pressure, squeezed between a closing wall and the sideline. The ball barely clears the line.Goal 135 (43:45): He's pushed into the corner. No angle. He shoves off an imaginary defender, then uses the last shred of space to chip the ball over a looming wall that blocked the keeper's view, arcing it into the far side of the net.Goal 150 (45:00): Half-time. He's panting, sweat soaking his jersey. The walls are a constant, suffocating presence. He sees a momentary gap at the near post, but it's only open for a blink. He drills a shot with everything he has, a direct hit that vibrates the net. 45 minutes, 150 goals. He's still on pace.
Goals 151-200 (45:00 - 57:30): The walls are a near-impenetrable fortress now, actively pushing him back, limiting his stride, making even basic dribbling a monumental task. His 'flow' is a constant fight against physical and digital resistance. Every inch gained is a victory. His legs are screaming.
Goal 160 (47:00): He's boxed in. He has to unleash a no-look backheel shot from the six-yard box, judging the keeper's position purely by his spatial awareness. It's audacious, and it works.Goal 170 (48:30): The walls have forced him wide. He manages a desperate cross, then somehow loops back to meet it, executing a powerful, albeit strained, diving header to redirect it into the net.Goal 180 (50:00): He's barely moving, relying solely on his vision and the last reserves of his energy. The walls are like a cage around him. A high ball is lofted in. He sees the angle, sees the slight opening above a horizontal wall. He leaps, twists, and connects with an overhead kick – not a full bicycle, more of an acrobatic scissor kick – slamming it home.
The clock ticks past 50 minutes. He has 20 goals left. The walls are closing in, threatening to seal him off completely. He needs something extraordinary. He needs a miracle, 20 times over.
Goal 181-195 (50:30 - 56:00): Each goal is a testament to pure grit. Desperate lunges, barely-there deflections, exploiting the tiny imperfections in the wall's algorithms. He's practically crawling, but the ball still finds its way. His internal voice screams: One more. Just one more.
The scoreboard reads 195 GOALS. Time: 56:00.
A high cross arcs towards him. The walls have formed a tight box around him, leaving him almost no space to move. He sees the ball, sees the infinitesimal window above the keeper, sees the desperation in his own soul.
He jumps. His legs, burning, rise. The world inverts. He swings.
Goal 196 (56:05): A bicycle kick. Not perfect, but the ball finds the top corner, a moment of airborne defiance.Goal 197 (57:10): Another high pass. Another wall-enclosed space. Another desperate, soaring bicycle kick.Goal 198 (58:15): The walls respond, trying to block the aerial route. He adjusts mid-air, shifting his body just enough for a second, more difficult bicycle.Goal 199 (59:20): He's falling, exhausted, but the ball is there. One last burst of power, one last flip of his body, and it's a bicycle kick from the ground, propelling the ball up and over the wall into the net.
199 GOALS. Time: 59:25.
One last ball. It's a high, challenging lob. The walls are a crushing, impenetrable circle around him. No space to even stand.
He looks up. He sees it. Not just the ball, but the entire equation. The exact millisecond the walls might shift. The precise angle. The last ounce of strength in his core.
He throws himself backward, his body arching like a bowstring. He connects.
Goal 200 (60:10): A perfect, soaring bicycle kick. The ball is a blur, an unstoppable force, tearing through the last sliver of air. It slams into the back of the net with a thunderous thwack.
60:10 - Objective Complete
The scoreboard blazes: ISAGI YOICHI - 200 GOALS - OBJECTIVE COMPLETE. The whistle blows, a definitive, triumphant sound. The AI walls flicker, then dissolve into nothingness, leaving the empty field.
Isagi collapses, his chest heaving, every muscle screaming in protest. The silence in the field is deafening, broken only by his ragged breathing. He did it. In 60 minutes and 10 seconds. With 29 minutes and 50 seconds to spare.
The monster has eaten.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Ego's POV]
"...He did what?"
Anri's voice sliced through the silence like a cold breeze.
I leaned closer to the screen, eyes gleaming as the counter froze:
200 goals. 60 minutes and 10 seconds.
My pupils narrowed, my grin widened.
He did it.
He actually did it.
Anri was frozen beside me, mouth slightly open, eyes flicking between the stats and the footage—like she was waiting for the system to admit it glitched.
"There's no way… That's 3.3 goals a minute. Every single minute. For a full hour." She blinked, shaking her head. "Did he break the AI?"
"No," I muttered, breath just shy of a laugh. "He broke himself."
And that's the point.
I stared at the screen, watching Isagi collapse on the field, arms spread out like he just finished a war. His chest rose and fell like a drum, sweat glistening down his face—but his eyes weren't empty.
They were burning.
He didn't look human right now.
He looked like someone who'd seen it—a new level.
Someone who clawed through the wall and stepped onto the next floor.
"He didn't just adapt to the challenge…" I said slowly, voice practically trembling with twisted excitement. "He devoured it. Took the AI's movement patterns. Turned the shrinking zones into precision guides. Even used the cannon launches to practice first-touch shots... Mid-battle. That's not instinct. That's evolution in real time. A madman who reproduced bicycle goals."
Anri folded her arms but didn't say anything this time. She was still staring at the screen. Still processing.
Isagi Yoichi eventually sat up, his shirt stuck to his skin, hair matted down in sweat. He looked around the room once, just once, and then stood.
No swagger. No showboating.
Just forward.
He limped toward the exit door, every step heavy, drenched in the aftermath of war. But his eyes? Still sharp. Still locked in.
And as he passed beneath the archway, the system flickered to life once more.
STAGE ONE — CLEARED
PLAYER: ISAGI YOICHI
GOALS: 200 / 200
TIME: 60:10
STATUS: ADVANCING TO STAGE TWO
CURRENT RANK: #001
For a few seconds, neither of us said anything. Not even Anri.
I slowly leaned back in my chair, elbows on the armrests, hands steepled in front of my mouth—barely able to contain the rush surging through my veins.
A low, twisted grin carved its way across my face.
"Isagi Yoichi…" I exhaled like I was breathing in gasoline.
"You're a monster in the making."
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Isagi's POV]
My back hit the turf with a dull thud, and I just lay there—arms spread, legs half-bent, chest rising like a dying engine.
"…That four-eyed bastard."
I muttered it.
And then again, louder.
"That four-eyed, psychotic, smug piece of—"
I paused to catch my breath, then resumed, "What kind of sick freak makes you score 200 goals against a damn AI that has five personalities?! Screw you, Ego. Screw your glasses. Screw your holograms. Screw your—"
I groaned and slapped my arm over my eyes.
"I swear if I ever see that guy outside of a screen, I'm curb-stomping his footballs first."
After what felt like a full therapy session's worth of cussing, I finally rolled to my side, took one more breath, and forced myself up.
Alright. Enough whining.
Time to move.
I dragged myself toward the exit door, legs heavy, calves ready to betray me, and passed under the archway.
The moment I crossed through, a calm electronic chime echoed, and a screen in the next chamber blinked to life:
STAGE TWO — INITIATED
CURRENT RANK: #001
PLAYER: YOICHI ISAGI
"…Huh?"
I blinked.
Wait—Rank one?!
A tired chuckle escaped my lips. "No way... I'm number one right now?"
I looked around. The new room was quieter than the grave, just the soft hum of machinery and that sterile Blue Lock lighting above. Clean walls, nothing flashy except a screen at the top in front and a holographic pillar at the center.
Well, if I'm first, that means…
I didn't even bother finishing the thought.
I dropped like a rock onto the floor and closed my eyes. My body was screaming. I was ready to knock out for a whole year.
But apparently, the universe was allergic to peace.
Barely two minutes passed before I heard the door hiss open again behind me.
I turned my head slowly, more annoyed than curious.
And there he was.
A tall figure, walking with the calm of someone who never needed to rush. Each step was deliberate. Controlled.
His presence hit like a blade—sharp, cold, and unapologetically precise.
…Yeah. I've seen him before.
But where?
I stared, trying to place the face.
He met my gaze, cool and unreadable. No hostility, no arrogance… just focus.
Then, without a word, he broke eye contact and walked past me, heading straight for the holographic screen at the end of the room.
…Hmph.
And just like that, it clicked.
Itoshi Rin.
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Author's Notes:
Yo!
Yes, I know… I'm late.
But please. Let. Me. Off. The. Hook. 😭
Anyway, moving on from my tragic upload schedule—
After spending an entire week trapped in that beautiful hell called training, our boy Isagi has developed a new coping mechanism: sarcastic humor.
Guess who he picked it up from?
You already know. Ego freakin' Jinpachi.
And yup, with this chapter, the first stage of the Second Selection is officially wrapped.
Next up? Team formations. Real matches. Chaos. Drama.
Things are about to get fun.
Apologies again for the delay—and thank you for sticking with me!
As always, feedback, comments, and powerstones are massively appreciated.
Signing off,
SG
Editor's note:-
Sorry about the delay, this chapter officially marks the start of the second selection.
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter.
-NB