7 Days AgoItaly Wing — Monitor Room
The room was dim, lit only by the pale blue glow of the massive monitors lining the front wall. The air felt still, almost suspended — as if everyone inside had collectively stopped breathing.
"Wh–What?"
Sendou's voice cracked through that fragile silence.
Dozens of heads turned in unison.
Every gaze locked forward — toward the man standing beneath the towering screens.
Snuffy.
He stood with his shoulders relaxed, arms crossed. The faint halo of cold light outlining his silhouette.
Behind him, the monitors flickered with motion — a living battlefield of moments centered around a single player.
Isagi Yoichi.
The footage rotated in slow loops:
Isagi slicing between defenders.
Isagi executing a back-spin trap.
Isagi snapping a pass at an impossible angle.
Isagi twisting his entire torso mid-air as if physics were optional.
Isagi accelerating with that unnatural, almost jarring burst of speed.
Lines of data threaded across the screens like a digital web — heat maps swirling with color, grids calculating micro-movements, tags highlighting angles and acceleration. Each piece of footage overlaid with analytics so precise it made the room feel more like a laboratory than a training facility.
"You heard me,"
Snuffy said at last, his voice quiet — soft enough to be mistaken for calm.
"The way you all are right now…"
Snuffy's smirk sharpened, barely but unmistakably.
"…you can't beat that kid."
The sentence landed like a strike.
A thud felt in their chests.
The reaction was instant.
A wave of murmurs rippled through the room — voices too hushed to decipher, but thick with disbelief.
They had dominated Barcha.
They had torn through that team with flawless coordination, their structure operating like a machine.
Their last match had been a masterpiece — the kind of performance that convinces players they're invincible.
Untouchable.
But Snuffy—the man who built their fortress, the strategist who sculpted Ubers into a monolith of discipline—was telling them otherwise.
The disbelief was palpable.
Bodies stiffened.
Some shifted in their seats, uncomfortable under the new gravity pressing onto their shoulders.
However, at the front of the room, four players didn't react like the others.
Barou.
Aryu.
Niko.
Aiku.
While the rest of Ubers shifted in unease, exchanging glances, searching for disbelief to cling to, these four remained eerily still.
Not a hint of surprise.
Barou's gaze stayed fixed on the screen.
Aryu's posture was immaculate as always — but beneath that elegance lay a memory of being broken by something ugly and absolute.
Niko's eyes narrowed behind his bangs.
Aiku leaned back just slightly, arms folded, mouth drawn in a thin, thoughtful line.
Each one of them, in their own way, had crossed paths with Isagi before — had tasted the humiliation of being devoured by his logic, his skills and his unrelenting hunger.
They didn't need Snuffy to tell them about this threat.
Snuffy caught that stiffness in their shoulders — the resentment simmering beneath still water — and with a small movement of his finger, he tapped the remote.
The footage froze.
The chaotic motion, the swirling grids, the blurs of speed — all halted into still frames.
And there he was.
Isagi Yoichi.
Captured in multiple snapshots.
The frozen images didn't look like match footage anymore.
They looked like Paintings.
The room absorbed the stillness.
And Snuffy, standing before this gallery of impossible frames, let silence deepen the impact.
Letting the message be delivered.
This is what you're up against.
Snuffy's voice was soft when he spoke.
"His stats are… overwhelming."
He simply stated a truth the room was fully aware off, but weren't ready to admit.
With another tap on the remote, the data sheets expanded across the screens, illuminating the dark room in cold blue light.
Speed: S — 90
Offense: S — 100
Defense: S — 90
Shooting: S — 100
Passing: S — 100
Dribbling: S — 92
Overall: S — 99
"It's like he was blessed by the gods."
Snuffy murmured.
No one scoffed.
Even the cocky ones, the ones who normally shrugged off danger with bravado…
stayed completely still.
Snuffy rewound the footage with a flick of his thumb.
The screens shifted back through frames of Isagi accelerating—
bursting forward with a force that seemed to tear the field beneath him.
"A perfect athletic body…"
His voice dropped to a thoughtful murmur.
"Abnormal strength for his age… insane acceleration… and control over his own body at a very high level."
Snuffy explained each sequence with clarity.
"Maybe the best."
A horrifyingly objective observation.
Snuffy's pacing was slow and deliberate as he moved across the front of the room.
"Masters only play for five minutes,"
he said, hands clasped behind his back as he slightly turned towards the team.
"But Barcha and Manshine City? They played against a Master the whole match."
A few players inhaled sharply at that.
But Snuffy wasn't comparing Isagi to a Master.
He was saying Isagi was one.
"Because he was on our level."
A heavy, inevitable truth settling over them like a slow, cold tide.
Snuffy finally exhaled—
His smile returned that balanced admiration and annoyance.
"To reach that height at his age…"
A small shake of his head.
"…God sure does play favorites."
The words had barely settled when—
Tch.
A sharp click of the tongue cut through the silence.
Heads snapped toward the sound.
Barou was pushing himself up from the floor, muscles tensing beneath his shirt, jaw clenched tight. His expression wasn't just anger — it simmered with something hotter.
Frustration.
Pride.
And a deep, stubborn refusal to bow.
His crimson eyes locked on Snuffy with a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
"Is that all you were doing in that room,"
Barou growled,
"for the past three days?"
Snuffy didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
If anything, the corners of his smile deepened — barely noticeable, but unmistakably there.
Barou's gaze burned, flickering with a mix of determination and simmering disappointment.
He turned toward the exit, steps heavy with purpose.
Aiku's voice came from the side.
"Oi. Where are you going?"
Barou stopped.
Only for a moment — but it was enough for the atmosphere to thicken, enough for every player to feel the spike in pressure radiating from him.
The aura around him rippled — not anger, but something far more dangerous.
Resolve.
Snuffy watched his back with quiet interest, that faint smile still perched on his lips like he was waiting for the inevitable answer.
Barou didn't turn fully.
He stared at the door, shoulders rigid, aura leaking like heat waves.
"Only reason I'm putting up with this stupid 'work' thing…"
His tone dipped into something darker.
"…is because of our deal."
Snuffy's smirk widened by a fraction — he liked where this was going.
"If I'm supposed to accept defeat just 'cause some bastard got blessed by gods—"
Barou tilted his head, just enough to let one crimson eye meet Snuffy's gaze.
"—then there's no way I'll become the 'king of the world.'"
The words slammed into the room with the weight of an oath.
Snuffy's smile didn't falter when Barou threw his declaration at him.
If anything, it sharpened—quietly, confidently—like a man amused by a lion cub trying to bite steel.
He stepped forward, eyes meeting Barou's blazing stare without the slightest break in composure.
"Ha… ha…"
A soft laugh, almost airy.
"Did you forget already?"
Barou's jaw tightened.
"What?"
Snuffy tilted his head, the blue glow of the monitors carving shadows along his cheekbones as he spoke.
"Before you're a football player…"
His tone dropped into something calm, dangerously direct.
"…you're just a human."
Barou clicked his tongue, irritation flaring in his posture, but Snuffy continued as if he hadn't noticed.
"Even with all that talent of yours, you're still an amateur."
He raised a finger, tapping lightly against his palm.
"And the reason is simple—your choices. The limits you draw. The paths you refuse to see."
Barou fired back immediately, voice rough.
"I get that alrea—"
But Snuffy cut through him, voice sharper than a blade laid over silk.
"And Isagi Yoichi—"
He lifted his chin toward the frozen frames of Isagi in perfect form.
"—is also just a human."
The room paused.
Barou's eyes flickered.
The other players leaned in.
Snuffy's tone softened, but the weight behind it grew heavier.
"And like any human…"
His gaze narrowed, dissecting the image of Isagi twisting mid-air.
"…Isagi Yoichi has a pattern."
A slow smile.
"A pattern we can exploit."
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was loaded—with the birth of a strategy.
.
.
.
Those same words—echoed through the minds of the Ubers players like a command etched into their bones.
The present snapped back sharply—
the sound of cleats slicing turf,
Isagi's pass threading the air—
Intercepted.
Aryu's long limbs unfolded like wings, his body slicing into the passing lane with immaculate timing. The ball spun out of its intended path, deflected by the elegance of his reach.
Its arc softened—
and dropped cleanly to Niko's feet.
The moment he touched it,
Snuffy's voice echoed in his mind again:
'With my design…
Use the hyper-coordination to display your skills.
And bring that monster down.'
Niko inhaled once—
eyes sharpening behind his bangs.
He turned on the ball.
And around him, Ubers moved as one.
Aryu recovered his balance instantly.
Abdi and Peron surged up the wings.
Lorenzo burst forward like a shadow.
Barou accelerated with a snarl, carving open the lane for the counter.
It was a mechanism—
A machine Snuffy had designed,
Now activated by the perfect trigger.
Niko took his next touch.
Thehyper-coordination system ignited.
And the hunt for Isagi Yoichi and Bastard Munchen began.
"Get back!"
Raichi's voice cut through the pitch as he retreated, boots skidding a bit on the turf at the sight of Ubers surging forward.
Their counterattack was quick and sharply coordinated — a wave of dark crashing toward the midfield.
Niko barely needed a second touch. He threaded a clean pass to Sendou, who was already being shadowed tightly by Ness. Sendou didn't try to hold it; instead, he redirected the ball in a smooth one-touch pass toward Lorenzo, who drifted into the play.
"It's finally my sexy-time!"
Raichi barked, planting his feet firmly as he cut into Lorenzo's path, a wide sharklike grin stretching across his face. His posture dropped, weight centered, ready to meet the monster head-on.
"Let's duel, World-11."
Lorenzo stopped just in front of him, resting the ball under his sole. His upper body swayed loosely, wobbling from side to side in a strange, boneless motion that made it almost impossible to read his balance.
He leaned forward slightly, his face tilting toward Raichi's with that eerie, unpredictable movement.
"You're… 0 yen, right?"
His voice was low, curious in a way that felt mocking despite the flatness of the tone.
"Then you're worthless."
A vein pulsed sharply on Raichi's forehead, rage flickering across his expression.
"Huh!?"
Lorenzo didn't react. He simply let his body sway again — upper half drifting one way, legs shifting another — a mismatch of signals that made his next move unreadable.
His feet began tapping the ball between them in quick, slippery exchanges, the rhythm light and nimble despite the awkward posture. Every touch seemed to contradict the direction of his torso, a chaos of misdirection wrapped inside practiced finesse.
Then, with a sudden flick, Lorenzo crossed his legs and slipped the ball through Raichi's stance in a clean nutmeg.
Raichi snapped his head down in shock, but Lorenzo was already lunging forward with that uncanny, hunched 'zombie step' accelerating past him in a burst of fluid, unnerving speed.
He left Raichi behind with almost casual ease, the ball glued to his foot as he burst into open space.
Lorenzo slipped and burst into open space, his movements still uneven, like every step was a mistake that somehow worked in his favor.
His path opened cleanly ahead—until another voice cut across the field.
"The path's blocked… you chatty gold tooth."
Kunigami stepped in from the side, intercepting the lane with a controlled stride. His presence was sharp and steady, a stark contrast to Lorenzo's wobbling unpredictability. He stood tall, eyes narrowed, muscles braced.
But Lorenzo didn't slow down.
He didn't even acknowledge Kunigami's attempt to stop him.
"So long… 40 mil."
Instead, he tilted forward, his entire upper body swaying in one direction while his feet shifted in the opposite. His gait broke into those strange, uneven zombie steps that offered no readable rhythm.
It was like he could go left, right, or backward at any moment — all possibilities at once.
Kunigami's eyes flicked to Lorenzo's shoulders, then his hips, then his feet — but nothing aligned.
Nothing matched. Every cue contradicted the next.
His brain tensed, searching for the direction of the breakthrough.
All while Lorenzo slid past him in a blink.
A loose, twisting movement that defied Kunigami's sense of timing.
One moment he was in front of Kunigami, the next he was slipping behind him with the ball pulled along as if it were weightless.
Kunigami spun sharply, eyebrows tightening.
"Gah!"
But Lorenzo was already sprinting off, body bending oddly with each step, the ball tapping along as though tied to him.
Behind him, both Raichi and Kunigami reacted at once.
Despite their shock — despite having just been fooled by movements that barely resembled football technique — they launched into pursuit, their cleats digging into the turf as they chased after the gold-toothed zombie weaving his way upfield.
Kunigami and Raichi closed in from behind, boots pounding against the turf, but Lorenzo didn't look rattled in the slightest.
His body wobbled, spine bending in that strange loose rhythm, and just before either could reach him, he nudged the ball outward with a quick, deceptively gentle tap.
Sendou was already there on his right, matching Lorenzo's movement.
A clean one-two followed—
Sendou returned it immediately, threading the ball around Birkenstock's attempt to close the lane.
Lorenzo slipped past the defender with the timing of someone who had rehearsed the sequence hundreds of times. The ball rolled back to him in stride.
Ubers had broken through the midfield.
In the span of seconds—only moments after Aryu's interception—
the counterattack had carried them dangerously close, just a few yards away from the penalty box.
Lorenzo inhaled, shoulders squaring as he approached the ideal shooting zone.
"Time to shoot."
He muttered, shifting his weight and angling his body.
Birkenstock was closing in from behind.
And from the front—
"Not gonna happen!"
Mensah burst into the path, legs coiled, eyes locked on the ball.
Raichi, still chasing from the back, shortened the gap, teeth clenched as he pushed his legs harder.
Yukimiya, who had tracked back from the front in a sprint, cut inward from the right, his focus sharpened to a single point.
The window for Lorenzo to shoot was collapsing from every direction.
Mensah lunged first.
A low, sweeping slide—
But Lorenzo hopped.
A jump, almost lazy-looking, as the ball lifted with him. He floated past Mensah's sliding frame, the defender's outstretched leg barely brushing the grass beneath him.
Still mid-air, Lorenzo twisted slightly.
Birkenstock and Raichi surged in, trying to cut him down before he landed.
Yukimiya angled himself to seal the shooting lane entirely.
All eyes were locked onto Lorenzo.
Every defender converged toward him, forming a collapsing cage.
Which is why none of them noticed...
The real threat.
Just as he was in air, instead of striking the ball, Lorenzo angled his foot sideways and knocked it to his left—sending it rolling away from the tight pocket of bodies.
For a brief moment, everyone froze.
Birkenstock.
Raichi.
Yukimiya.
Mensah, still recovering on the ground.
They all turned, stunned, following the path of the ball as it skidded into the space just outside the penalty box.
And charging into that space—
exactly where the ball was heading—
was the one man everyone should have been watching for.
Shoei Barou.
His run was sharp, posture straight, eyes glowing with predatory hunger.
"Nice charge, Lorenzo."
Barou spoke, voice low but clear as he checked the ball's incoming line.
Lorenzo, still wobbling from his landing, grinned as he straightened.
"Did you order your meat red?"
His grin widened, gold tooth catching the light.
And Barou's eyes narrowed.
The king had been served.
Gagamaru's entire frame tightened.
His stance lowered instinctively, arms ready, knees coiled.
The rest of Bastard München tensed at once.
Their formation didn't just shift — it contracted, pulled in by sheer anticipation.
Barou was in clear.
And was about to pull the trigger.
Even the stadium felt like it froze for a heartbeat.
The audience rose in a wave, they all could feel it.
The first goal of the match was about to explode out of Barou's foot.
The ball rolled toward him, perfect pace, perfect angle—
.
Then something cut across the field like a streak of crimson.
A blur.
A slash of red.
Before Barou's foot could meet the ball, another body entered the space and jumped, intercepting the pass with surgical timing.
Barou's eyes widened, his stride faltering as he tried to halt his momentum—
The intruder twisted his hips and dragged the ball at a 90-degree angle, redirecting it cleanly out of Barou's shooting lane.
Kurona Ranze.
His braids swung forward, brushing his cheek as he killed the ball's momentum with precision.
"Kill. Kill."
The words left him in a soft mutter, more habit than emotion, as his feet tapped the ball rhythmically, already prepping his next motion.
Ubers froze.
Seven seconds ago they were certain they had the breakthrough.
One pass ago, Barou had the entire world lined in his sights.
And in a single intervention, Kurona erased the play.
Barou's face contorted, veins rising under his skin — neck, temples, around his eyes.
The whites of his eyes flushed with red streaks, pupils burning with fury so palpable it felt like heat radiated off him.
Kurona didn't look at him.
Didn't even flick an eye his way.
"Rapid counter."
He said simply, voice flat as he pushed the ball forward and accelerated with sudden sharp intensity.
Before Ubers could adjust, the flow of the match flipped.
Their lethal counterattack had been sliced apart — and Bastard München's counter was already taking shape, born in the exact same second they were left stunned.
Up ahead, Hiori had been watching the entire sequence unfold.
His eyes tracked the ball the moment Kurona redirected it, and his muscles reacted before the rest of his thoughts fully formed.
He pushed off his back foot and sprinted forward.
The wind rushed past his ears, the pitch narrowing in his vision as everything filtered into clean, readable lines.
His breaths steadied, matching his steps, matching the pace of Kurona's sudden burst.
'You're not the only ones with strategies… Ubers.'
The thought crossed his mind with certainty.
He had seen how Snuffy's team moved — the hyper-coordination, the way they collapsed on a single opportunity.
And he knew exactly what Bastard München's answer was.
Hiori leaned forward, increasing his speed, his calm gaze locked ahead as he ran to join the counter.
The stadium which had buzzing from Barou's near-shot a moment ago, now the tension began to twist in the opposite direction.
The goal everyone was expecting —
the one that felt seconds away from belonging to Ubers —
…was no longer theirs to take.
It was about to be Bastard München's.
.
.
.
.
.
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[A/N}:
Hey everyone, I hope you're enjoying the story so far!
Just a quick reminder that we're currently on Chapter 106 on Pa7r3on. If you'd like early access to future chapters, feel free to check it out.
I'll also be starting work on more stories soon, and I'll update you all about that very shortly.
Thank you for sticking with this story up to now — it truly means a lot to me.