The air inside Blue Lock was colder in the morning.
Not just in temperature—but in pressure. The kind of pressure that settled in your chest the moment your eyes opened.
Itsuki Amano didn't wake up groggy.
He woke up sharp.
Twenty minutes before the alarm, still lying in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. As the others stirred—Isagi scratching his head, Raichi cursing under his breath, Gagamaru doing upside-down sit-ups from the bedframe—Itsuki quietly changed, slid on his gear, and mentally walked through the last day.
Kira's elimination.
Ego Jinpachi's speech.
Being ranked #271
He didn't forget a single detail.
---
Cafeteria – 6:45 AM
People were still cautious around each other, even if names had been exchanged the night before. Everyone sat in little clusters, talking in fragments.
Kuon and Iemon stuck together, trying to act like leaders. Bachira and Isagi chatted easily, like they'd known each other for years. Gagamaru and Raichi were already arguing over who could eat more protein.
Itsuki sat with Chigiri and Naruhaya. Quiet, but not silent. His calm smile made him seem approachable enough, though something in his eyes—sharp, calculating—kept people from fully relaxing around him.
"How's your leg feel?" he asked Chigiri, casual.
Chigiri tensed. "Fine."
Itsuki didn't push. He just nodded and went back to eating.
Information gathered.
Training Room – 7:30 AM
Their first real session as Team Z wasn't led by Ego. No coaches. No instructions.
Just a massive indoor field and an ominous digital scoreboard watching from above.
"Guess we train ourselves?" Isagi asked.
Kuon clapped his hands. "Let's split into two teams. Half-field match. Warm up, get a feel for each other."
They agreed without much resistance.
Itsuki ended up on the same side as Chigiri, Gagamaru, Imamura, Naruhaya, and Iemon.
Opposite were Isagi, Bachira, Raichi, Kuon, Kunigami, and Wanima.
The moment the makeshift match began, it was chaos.
No kickoff, no strategy—just instinct.
Raichi charged like a bull the second the ball moved, shouting "Mine!" as if volume alone could win him the possession. He collided with Imamura at midfield, jostling for control. The ball popped loose—Naruhaya reacted first, darting in and tapping it to Itsuki.
Itsuki didn't flinch. The ball glued to his foot.
One touch to stop it. One to shift away from Raichi, who came lunging in recklessly. A third to drag it into space.
Perfect touches.
He didn't sprint. He glided—eyes constantly scanning. Not for the ball. For the gaps.
He noticed how Chigiri was holding back, but the moment the space opened, he gave a subtle nod. Itsuki responded with a sharp outside-foot pass, slicing diagonally through the line.
Chigiri dashed in a blur, collecting the ball near the wing, startling even himself with the explosive movement.
But he stopped. Pulled back.
He wasn't ready yet.
The ball went back to the middle. Gagamaru tried to bicycle-kick it off a rebound from thirty yards. Missed by a mile. Someone laughed. Raichi cursed.
No organization. No rhythm. No synergy.
But Itsuki watched.
Observed.
Logged everything.
---
Five Minutes In
The other team tried pressing—Bachira dribbling past two with weird, elastic movements, then passing to Isagi. Isagi paused, always pausing—like he was waiting for something to make sense.
It annoyed Itsuki.
Hesitation was weakness.
He broke through on a counter—slipping past Kuon with a feint, faking left and driving right. His hips dropped low as he burst forward, slicing a pass into the path of Naruhaya.
"Shoot!" Itsuki barked, his voice sharp.
Naruhaya panicked. The shot went high.
"Sorry!"
Itsuki didn't reply. He just jogged back to his side.
---
Ten Minutes In
Raichi was running too much. Gagamaru was chaotic. Isagi was thoughtful but indecisive. Chigiri was holding back. Kuon acted like he knew everything but offered little value.
Only Bachira seemed at home.
He smiled as he played—spinning, flicking, laughing.
At one point, Bachira launched a nutmeg on Lemon, then tapped the ball to Isagi, who immediately sent a low shot into the net.
"Goal!" Bachira cheered.
Their team roared.
But the moment didn't faze Itsuki.
---
Final Stretch
Itsuki began stepping up.
No longer just observing—he dictated.
He moved deeper into the midfield, demanding the ball. Controlled the tempo. Delivered crisp passes that curved perfectly into space. One touch, two touch, spin, fake.
He timed his run once, receiving a lob from Niko, chesting it down between two defenders. He didn't shoot—he faked, dragged it behind, then slotted it to Gagamaru, who flew in with a diving header.
The ball hit the post and bounced wide.
Gasps all around.
"Damn," Raichi muttered. "That should've gone in."
Itsuki just breathed in deep.
Calm on the surface. But beneath—
Frustration.
Not enough.
The match ended with both sides scoring twice. No winner.
But when they walked off, sweat-drenched and aching, one thing was obvious:
Itsuki had shown something.
Not a weapon. Not a position.
A presence.
Isagi glanced over at him, brow furrowed.
He didn't understand him yet. But he noticed.
They all did.
Blue Lock – Training Room, Late Morning
The whistle blew. Sweat dripped. Every player on Team Z stood hunched over, panting, shoulders rising and falling after the intense series of 6v6 matches.
Just as some started toward the exit, the lights in the training room flickered. The large monitor on the far wall came to life, casting a stark glow across the room.
Ego Jinpachi's face appeared on the screen, just as unnerving as ever.
"Yo, pathetic strikers. You done playing pretend soccer?" he sneered. "Good. Then listen up."
The monitor behind him displayed bold red letters:
TEAM Z vs TEAM X — 2 DAYS FROM NOW.
Gasps and murmurs spread like wildfire. Bachira blinked. Raichi swore under his breath. Itsuki felt a twitch in his jaw, his muscles still buzzing from the training. Two days?
"In 48 hours, your first real match begins," Ego continued, voice sharp. "This isn't a drill. This isn't training. This is a game where someone from your precious little squad will be eliminated."
Chigiri's brows furrowed. Gagamaru straightened up slightly. Itsuki clenched a fist behind his back. No rest. No time.
Ego's smirk widened.
"From here on, every move you make is under the microscope. This match won't just determine your team's fate—but your place in Blue Lock. If you lose, you'll fall behind. If you suck, you'll crash out. It's that simple."
He leaned forward toward the screen, his eyes glinting like he could see them through the lens.
"Become a striker who devours everyone. Or be the one devoured."
The screen went black.
No one said anything for a few seconds.
Then Kuon exhaled. "Guess we're not getting a break."
Isagi muttered, "Two days isn't enough…"
Itsuki looked around at the others, a thought gnawing at his mind:
We're not ready.
But he didn't say it. He couldn't.
Because if the road to perfection demanded pressure, then this was exactly where he needed to be.
Blue Lock Cafeteria – Post Lunch
"Team X, huh…" Kunigami leaned on one elbow at the table, his eyes flicking between the notes Itsuki was scribbling and the whiteboard Ego had revealed earlier in the morning briefing.
"They've got Barou," Isagi said. "That guy... he looked like a freak."
"Yeah, and he knows it," Kuon muttered.
"I like him," Raichi said with a twisted grin. "Cocky bastard. I wanna wipe that smug face off his face."
"Good luck with that," Chigiri chimed in coolly from the next table over, his hair tied up. "You might get benched if you rush him head-on."
Itsuki listened, but said nothing. He'd already seen Barou's highlight reel—collected with his eyes, etched in memory. A brutal striker. Efficient. No wasted movement. That kind of player was dangerous.
Bachira leaned across the table, eyes twinkling. "Hey, Amano. You got a plan, don't you?"
"I don't plan until I've seen him play," Itsuki said, calmly finishing his rice. "But I've already started thinking about what he isn't."
Raichi raised an eyebrow. "The hell does that mean?"
"He's a monster. But monsters bleed, too."
Training Ground – Late Afternoon
They ran practice matches. 6 vs 6.
Bachira danced past defenders with chaotic grace. Isagi tried to read plays before they happened. Chigiri didn't sprint yet—still holding back. Gagamaru kept diving even during defense, turning into a pseudo-keeper with ridiculous saves. Kuon barked instructions like a drill sergeant.
Itsuki? He stayed center-forward for most of it. Testing his spacing. Letting others crowd him. Then bursting forward when they forgot he was dangerous.
He'd developed a habit—holding his follow-through an extra second after a flashy strike. Not to show off, but to memorize the angle. To feel perfection with his body.
"Man, you shoot like you're painting or something," Bachira joked after one of his curved volleys clanged off the crossbar.
Itsuki didn't respond. But the ghost of a smile pulled at his lips.
Evening – Dormitory Lounge
After dinner—where Bachira somehow turned mashed potatoes into a "monster's brain" and tried to feed it to Gagamaru—they drifted to the lounge.
A few guys played cards. Some watched a grainy old soccer match on the TV in the corner. The atmosphere was… calm. For now.
"Hey, Amano," Isagi said, sitting down beside him. "You're not bad with people. Just... quiet."
Itsuki shrugged. "I say what I need to."
"You remind me of someone I used to play with," Isagi continued. "Always thinking a few moves ahead. Never said a word unless it was important."
"Did they make it far?"
Isagi paused. "No. I think they burned out."
Itsuki looked down at his hands. For a moment, he saw his reflection in the blank TV screen. Empty eyes. Calloused fingers.
"I'll go further."
Night – Dorm Room
Bunks creaked as players climbed in. Raichi was already snoring. Gagamaru curled in a weird yoga pose on his mattress. Bachira lay upside down, humming to himself and sketching monsters on a notepad.
Isagi lay awake, watching the ceiling. "You ever get scared?" he asked quietly.
"Only when I stop moving," Itsuki replied from the bed across from him.
A pause.
"This upcoming game could be the end of the road for one of us."
Itsuki didn't answer. Instead, he reached for his journal and wrote one word:
"Win."
Then he closed the book, turned on his side, and stared into the dark.