Brazil.
Just the name sounds like a drum beat.
Bra-zil. Bra-zil.
The dressing room was unusually quiet. The monsters of Blue Lock 5 were recovering.
Vincent had an ice pack the size of a pizza box strapped to his shoulder. Kai was massaging his own calves with expensive oil. Silas was replacing a shattered lens in his glasses.
Soccer sat on the floor. His titanium ankle was making a low humming noise.
Hmmmmmm.
"Is it supposed to do that?" Dylan (reserve squad) asked, terrified.
"It's just cooling down," Soccer said. "Friction heat. It happens when you run at 30km/h."
Coach Titan walked in. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
"Brazil is different," Titan said. "France was perfect. Spain was hypnotic. Brazil... Brazil is Improvisation."
He pulled up a video clip.
Carlos Silva, the Brazilian Number 10. He received a pass on his chest. Instead of trapping it, he let it roll down his back, flicked it over his head with his heel, and volleyed it while doing a cartwheel.
Goal.
"That's illegal," Silas stated. "Laws of Physics Section 4..."
"They don't care about physics," Titan slammed the table. "They call it Ginga. The sway. The soul. They move to a rhythm only they can hear."
Titan looked at the team.
"If you try to predict them, you lose. If you try to calculate them, you lose. If you try to match their skill, you lose."
"So how do we win?" Zero asked, hanging from the lockers (again).
"We stop the music," Titan said.
Semi-Final Match Night.
The stadium was vibrating. The Brazilian fans brought actual drums. Thousands of them. A constant, thunderous samba beat that shook the fillings in your teeth.
Boom-boom-CHAK. Boom-boom-CHAK.
"My ears," Vincent grunted, plugging his ears on the pitch.
Soccer looked at the Brazilian team.
They were dancing. Literally dancing during the warm-up. Juggling in a circle, laughing, doing capoeira moves.
Carlos Silva saw Soccer. He danced over, ball balanced on his neck.
"Hey Yankee!" Silva shouted over the drums. "Can you hear it?"
"The drums? Yeah. Loud."
"No," Silva grinned. "The heartbeat. This is football's heart. We are going to make it beat so fast yours explodes."
He flicked the ball up, caught it on his nose, and moonwalked away.
"Show-off," Kai muttered.
Kickoff.
Brazil started fast.
Usually, teams test the waters. Brazil dove in headfirst.
Silva received the ball. He flicked it to his winger. The winger back-heeled it to a striker. The striker did a step-over and passed it blindly.
It was chaotic. It was messy. And it was brilliant.
USA couldn't track the ball. It moved unpredictably.
Minute 10.
Silva had the ball at the top of the box.
Vincent charged. "I'll crush you!"
Silva didn't dodge. He stood on the ball with both feet—like a circus performer.
"Up!" Silva yelled.
He hopped with the ball gripped between his feet, leaping over Vincent's tackle.
Vincent slid underneath.
Silva landed, rolled the ball forward, and chipped Zero.
GOAL.
Brazil: 1 - USA: 0
Time: 12:00
Silva celebrated by doing a backflip, then a salsa dance. The crowd went ballistic.
"He jumped... with the ball?" Silas computed error messages. "That requires grip strength in the ankles that exceeds..."
"Shut up, calculator!" Vincent roared, getting up. "He made me look like a fool!"
Minute 30.
1-0 Brazil. USA was chasing ghosts.
Every time they got close, a Brazilian player did a nutmeg, a rainbow flick, or a no-look pass.
"They're mocking us," Kai seethed. "They aren't even playing seriously."
Soccer watched Silva.
Silva was smiling. Always smiling.
Rhythm, Soccer thought. Boom-boom-CHAK.
The Brazilian team moved on the beat of the drums.
Soccer closed his eyes. He listened.
Boom-boom-CHAK.
Pass-pass-run.
Pass-pass-dribble.
"They aren't improvising," Soccer opened his eyes. "They're following the drums."
Soccer grabbed Vincent's arm.
"Dragon! Listen!"
"To what? That annoying noise?"
"Yes! They move on the CHAK. The accent beat."
Vincent frowned. He listened.
Boom-boom-CHAK.
(Silva passes).
Boom-boom-CHAK.
(Winger sprints).
"Holy crap," Vincent whispered. "It's a metronome."
Soccer grinned.
"So... we move on the Boom."
The Syncopation Strategy.
Minute 40.
Silva had the ball. The drums beat.
Boom-boom...
Silva prepared to pass on the CHAK.
But Soccer moved on the second Boom.
He lunged early.
Silva wasn't ready. His body was waiting for the beat drop.
Soccer stole the ball.
"Gotcha!" Soccer yelled.
He passed to Vincent.
Vincent usually charged blindly. But now he was counting.
Boom. Vincent stepped. Boom. Vincent charged.
The Brazilian defender waited for the CHAK to tackle.
Vincent hit him early.
CRASH.
The defender went flying. "He's off beat!"
Vincent plowed through. He was one-on-one with the keeper.
"For the anti-rhythm!" Vincent bellowed.
He smashed it.
GOAL.
USA: 1 - Brazil: 1
"It works!" Vincent laughed maniacally. "Dance to this, salsa-boy!"
Halftime.
The locker room was manic.
"We figured it out," Silas said, looking amazed. "They subconsciously synchronize to the acoustic environment. We must act syncopated. Jazz versus Samba."
"Jazz is messy," Kai wrinkled his nose. "I prefer classical."
"Shut up and play messy," Soccer said, drinking water. "Silva is confused. He thinks we're clumsy. Keep being clumsy."
Titan walked in.
"Germany just lost," Titan announced.
The room froze.
"France won. 5-0. Noel Noa scored four times."
Soccer squeezed the water bottle.
"So he's waiting."
"He is," Titan nodded. "And he's rested. He sat out the last 20 minutes."
Titan looked at Soccer's ankle. It was glowing red again.
"If we win this... can you even walk on Sunday?"
Soccer looked at his titanium leg.
"If we win this," Soccer said softly. "I won't need to walk. I'll need to fly."
Second Half.
Minute 60.
Brazil adjusted.
"Turn off the drums!" Silva screamed at the fans. (They couldn't hear him).
Brazil stopped relying on the beat. They went pure chaos. Individual brilliance.
Silva took the ball. He dribbled past Kai. He dribbled past Silas.
He faced Soccer.
The Duel.
"No drums," Silva panted. "Just us."
Soccer bounced. Boing.
"Just us."
Silva attacked. Scissors. Step over. Elastico.
Soccer matched him. Not with grace, but with raw speed. Every time Silva cut, Soccer cut.
Cut-Boing. Cut-Boing.
Silva was frustrated. "Why won't you fall?!"
Silva tried the Rainbow Flick again. He pinched the ball.
Soccer saw it.
He didn't wait for the ball to go over his head.
He jumped before the flick.
He met the ball at the apex of the arc with his chest.
The Sky Block.
He slammed the ball down to his feet.
He was past Silva.
"Counter!"
Soccer ran.
Brazil was exposed. They had committed too many dancers forward.
Soccer reached the box.
The keeper came out.
Soccer saw Kai making a run. But a defender blocked the pass.
He saw Vincent. Blocked.
He had to shoot.
But his angle was terrible. He was almost at the corner flag.
Zero angle shot?
Noel Noa would pass back. Logic dictates pass back.
Soccer remembered Eagle's Peak. The time he threw a rock to scare a rabbit into running off the cliff.
Use the environment.
Soccer aimed at... the defender's shin.
The defender—running back to the goal line—didn't see the shot coming at him.
THWACK.
Soccer blasted the ball off the defender's leg.
The ball ricocheted violently. It slammed into the goalpost, bounced back into the keeper's face, and fell into the net.
GOAL.
USA: 2 - Brazil: 1.
"Pinball Wizard!" Silas screamed. "Angle of incidence equal to angle of hilarious accident!"
Minute 85.
Brazil threw everything.
"Attack!" Silva cried, tears in his eyes. "For the soul!"
They bombarded the box. Zero made save after save. The Void was full.
Corner kick Brazil.
Even the keeper came up.
The cross came in.
Vincent headed it clear.
The ball landed at Soccer's feet.
He was alone at midfield. No defenders. No keeper. Just fifty yards of grass.
But he was tired. And his titanium ankle was burning hot—a warning sign.
He limped.
"Run!" Kai yelled from behind.
Soccer hobbled forward.
Silva was chasing him. The Brazilian Magician was fast. He was gaining.
40 yards.
30 yards.
Soccer felt the heat. Silva's breath on his neck.
He's going to tackle me. Tactical foul.
Soccer reached the 25-yard line.
He couldn't outrun Silva to the tap-in.
He stopped.
He wound up.
He shot from 25 yards at the empty net.
Silva slid—too late.
The ball rolled.
It bounced over a divot. It wobbled.
The stadium held its breath.
It hit the post. Clang.
It rolled across the line.
And... stopped.
It stopped on the line.
It didn't go in.
"NO!" Soccer fell to his knees.
Silva scrambled up. He grabbed the ball.
He sprinted back.
"Counter! They are celebrating early!"
Brazil ran the other way. The USA team was confused, celebrating a goal that wasn't.
Silva ran.
He passed to the winger.
The winger crossed.
Zero was out of position (he had started celebrating).
Open goal for Brazil.
Silva arrived at the back post. He just had to tap it in.
He swung his leg.
But something slid across the grass.
A body.
Kai Rivers.
The King of Ego. The boy who never got his jersey dirty.
Kai slid through the mud. He threw his body across the goal line.
The ball hit his chest.
THUD.
Kai cleared it with a bicycle kick clearance while lying on his back.
The whistle blew.
FINAL SCORE.
USA: 2 - BRAZIL: 1.
The Aftermath.
Soccer stared at Kai.
Kai's jersey was covered in mud. His hair was ruined. There was blood on his cheek.
"You..." Soccer gasped. "You slid."
Kai stood up. He wiped the mud off his face.
He didn't look arrogant. He looked... royal.
"The King protects his kingdom," Kai said simply.
Soccer stood up.
He walked over and hugged the muddy, bloody King.
"Nice slide, Goldilocks."
Kai stiffened, then sighed. He patted Soccer's back awkwardly.
"Nice shot, Savage. Even if you missed."
They turned to the Jumbotron.
THE FINAL.
FRANCE vs USA.
SUNDAY.
The camera cut to the VIP box.
Noel Noa stood up.
He looked down at the muddy, celebrating American team.
He adjusted his cuffs.
And for the first time... he frowned.