The Inter High, officially the All Japan High School Soccer Tournament, was not just another school championship.
For Japanese students—especially those who played soccer—it represented the pinnacle of the competitive scene before adulthood. A tournament capable of defining futures, opening doors, and, in some cases, completely changing a player's destiny.
Unlike long leagues or simple regional championships, the Inter High operated in clearly defined stages, following a rigid, traditional format that had remained almost unchanged over the years.
Everything began with the regional qualifiers.
Each prefecture in Japan organized its own qualifying tournament. Public and private schools faced each other in single-elimination matches—pure knockout rounds, with no home-and-away legs, no margin for error. One bad game, one defensive mistake, one inspired day from the opponent… and it all ended there.
Saitama was no exception.
As one of the prefectures with the highest population density and a strong sporting tradition, its qualifiers were known for being especially grueling. Only one representative—at most two, depending on adjustments in a given year—advanced to the national stage. That meant dozens of schools competing for a ridiculously small number of spots.
Because of that, every match could be the last.
Ichinan's crushing victory that day was not just a good start; after defeating Higashi Tokorozawa 8–0, it became the talk of the moment. Opposing coaches began watching their matches with heightened attention. Stronger schools started treating a future confrontation with them as an absolute priority.
And, inevitably, the name Isagi Yoichi began to circulate.
Moreover, the Inter High had always been followed by attentive scouts and a loyal audience, but in that edition, the flow of information gained a different speed. Short videos began appearing on social media on the very night of the first match. Clips recorded on cell phones from the stands, cuts from local broadcasts—imperfect angles, but enough to capture the essence.
Ichinan's number 11.
The impossible dribbles, the violent shots. The composure after each goal, almost indifferent to the chaos he caused around him.
At first, the comments were simple.
"Is this guy really in high school?"
"The goalkeeper doesn't even react."
"This isn't normal."
Within a few days, the videos had been reposted dozens of times, compiled into montages with exaggerated soundtracks, flashy titles, and inevitable comparisons.
"Has another genius been born in Japan?"
"The new Itoshi Sae?"
Sae's name appeared repeatedly in the comments.
Not without reason.
Itoshi Sae was the unattainable standard—the prodigy who had left the country too early, who played in Europe, who symbolized everything Japanese soccer wanted to produce again. Comparing any high school student to him was, under normal circumstances, absurd.
But the numbers did not lie.
And neither did the videos.
Ichinan continued advancing through the Saitama qualifiers like a runaway train.
The second match was against Omiya Higashi High School, a traditional school known for its strong physical base and aggressive marking—the kind of team that tried to pressure talent until it broke.
It did not work.
Isagi scored four goals in that match.
One came after a sequence of quick short passes, finished with a first-time shot into the top corner. Another followed a sharp dribble past two defenders inside the box. The third was an improbable volley after a poorly cleared cross. The fourth… a solitary counterattack that ended with the goalkeeper on the ground before the shot was even taken.
Final score: 4–0.
In the next match, against Kawaguchi Technical High School, the story repeated itself. An organized, disciplined team that tried to close down the midfield and force long balls.
Isagi scored three goals before halftime. In the second half, he dropped deeper, distributing play, drawing markers, and opening space for his teammates. Even so, he still added another to his tally, closing the scoreline.
5–0.
The last match of the week was against Seibu Gakuen Bunri, a respected private school coming off strong recent campaigns. It was, theoretically, the strongest opponent so far.
It lasted twenty minutes.
Isagi scored a quick, almost cruel hat trick. The first goal came from outside the box. The second after a short one-two. The third after intercepting a pass and going one-on-one with the goalkeeper. When he was substituted late in the second half—because he asked the coach to take him off out of boredom—the scoreboard already read 6–0.
Ichinan won 6–2.
At the end of that sequence, there were no more doubts.
Ichinan had a high chance of winning the championship thanks to its unstoppable striker.
Media attention arrived inevitably.
After the third consecutive rout, a NHK crew covering the regional Inter High requested brief interviews with a few players.
.
.
.
.
.
The coach discreetly nudged Isagi forward.
"Go on…" he said simply.
The camera turned on.
The microphone was adjusted.
"Isagi-kun…" the reporter began, smiling professionally. "Four matches, goals in all of them, dominant performances. How do you explain this form?"
Isagi thought for a moment before answering.
"I'm just playing the way I know how…" he said, without exaggeration. "I'm simply doing my job as a striker and scoring goals…"
"Many people are comparing you to Itoshi Sae…" the reporter continued. "What do you think about that?"
There was a brief silence.
"He's a talented midfielder, indeed. A member of the New Generation of the world's eleven best…" Isagi replied honestly. "But comparisons don't matter right now. My focus is on winning the Inter High, so I don't have much to say about people's comments."
The response circulated almost as much as the goals.
That same week, messages began to arrive. He received several invitations from different sports-focused schools offering him scholarships.
Aomori Yamada High School, famous for its intense and disciplined soccer program, offered a full scholarship, housing, and professional support. Teikyo High School, a long-established sports powerhouse, reached out with similar terms. Funabashi Municipal High School, in Chiba, known for producing J-League players, also showed interest. Even Kashima Gakuen, linked to one of the strongest clubs in the country, inquired about the possibility.
He read each proposal in silence but had not replied to any of them yet. . . . . .
Isagi slipped his phone into the pocket of his jacket as he walked toward the gym. Notifications kept coming in, vibrating from time to time, but he had already stopped reading them.
It had been a week since the start of the Inter High. During that period, everything he had done—besides playing the matches—was train and maintain his usual routine. He had missed school throughout that week to focus entirely on his career and, because of that, had not seen the girls in person yet. He limited himself to exchanging messages with his girlfriend and with the other girls he was interested in, even if they were just a few words of good luck and superficial conversations.
As a result, he had still not been able to confirm whether his romantic problems had truly come to an end. Although Kaguya had not shown much jealousy when he mentioned another girl or talked about how he had spent the weekend, she seemed to be starting to accept the fact that she would have to share him with others. The main problem, however, was her family—one of the wealthiest in Japan. As an heiress, it would be difficult for them to see him as someone suitable to become her husband, let alone knowing that she would be only one of his women. Still, that was a problem for the future. One way or another, he would handle it.
He did not have time to think about that right now.
There were still games to win.
And the next one came sooner than many expected.
The opponent this time was Urawa Minami High School, a Saitama school known for its well-trained collective play and compact defense, difficult to break down. It was not a media darling, nor full of stars, but it had reached that stage precisely by eliminating more celebrated teams through organization and patience.
In the stands, however, the atmosphere was completely different from previous matches.
The stadium was full.
Far more than usual for a regional stage.
Students from other schools, curious onlookers, local journalists, a few discreet scouts along the sidelines. Cameras positioned at better angles. It was no longer just an ordinary school match—it was a long-awaited spectacle.
And everyone wanted to see Ichinan's number 11.
From the opening whistle, Urawa Minami tried to do exactly what it had planned. Deep lines, compact marking, tactical fouls when necessary. The objective was clear: reduce Isagi's space, force him to play with his back to goal, wear him down.
But Isagi always seemed one step ahead.
The first goal came early in the match. A through pass that seemed too strong, but Isagi anticipated the trajectory, shrugged off the defender with his body, and finished into the corner, leaving no chance.
The second goal was simpler.
A quick exchange of passes at the edge of the box, the defense dropping too deep, and Isagi placed the shot with surgical precision. He did not celebrate. He simply turned and walked back to midfield, as if it were something trivial.
The third came still in the first half.
A loose ball after a blocked shot, bouncing unpredictably. Isagi did not hesitate. A clean, diagonal strike. A hat trick before halftime.
Urawa Minami tried to react in the second half, pushing their lines a bit higher, pressing the buildup. It was an understandable—and fatal—mistake.
Isagi's fourth goal came from a quick counterattack. He received the ball wide on the left, cut inside, left two markers behind with a simple movement, and struck hard. The net bulged, and the stadium erupted.
4–0.
Even so, the most talked-about moment of the match was still to come.
In the final minutes of the second half, with the game virtually decided, Ichinan won a corner on the right side. Some players began positioning themselves inside the box, expecting a routine cross.
Isagi walked over to the corner flag.
The murmur in the stands grew louder.
He quickly surveyed the box, analyzed the goalkeeper's positioning, the light wind blowing that afternoon, and decided to attempt his famous formless shot….
The whistle sounded.
Isagi ran up to the ball and struck it with power and curl.
The inswinging cross traveled too fast.
The goalkeeper hesitated for a fraction of a second—long enough for the ball to trace the perfect curve and go straight into the goal, brushing the side netting before rippling the back of the net.
An Olympic goal.
For an instant, there was silence.
Then the stadium erupted.
Teammates rushed toward him, some shouting, others laughing in disbelief. One jumped onto his back, another grabbed his arm, and Isagi was swallowed by a mass of black-and-white jerseys.
5–0.
In the stands, the crowd was on its feet. Phones raised, applause, shouts. Many did not fully understand what they had just witnessed—only that it was something rare.
The final whistle sounded shortly afterward.
Victory confirmed.
Qualification secured.
Ichinan was officially through to the round of sixteen of the Saitama qualifiers.
While the players were still celebrating on the field, Isagi stepped away a few paces. He lifted his jersey to his face, wiping the sweat running down his forehead, and let out a long, almost imperceptible sigh.
It was not exhaustion.
It was something closer to… professional satisfaction.
He calmly walked toward the tunnel leading to the locker rooms, ignoring the shouts around him, the cameras trying to follow, the impressed looks.
Another game won.