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They dwindle only for a second.
Loss strengthens their resolve, further ignites their passion. They weren’t enough, he wasn’t enough, again; but they’ve worked too hard, pushed too far to quit and the atmosphere blends as thick as it ever was — they will earn the position of national team. They will not be left behind. Not again.
Inazuma Japan storm Liocott, challenge the world, but they will not be left behind.
Saginuma’s muscles throb in a dull ache, his norm. Rigid he lies to the humming of the bedside lamp, the snores of his roommates, the light drumming of rain, and stares, glares, at fluttering leaves outside coated in a watery sheen.
Another hotel stay as Hitomiko tours them around the country, taking advantage of every means available to strengthen them. Osaka. That… the old Aliea facility. The one Raimon used, she tells them. Saginuma knows. A look at Segata tells the same.
It is not the time for guilt or fear, Aliea has been destroyed. Desarm has been destroyed, Zel has been destroyed.
Sometimes he finds himself yearning for the meteorite’s power again and immediately seeks to throw up.
Withdrawal, it should have been expected. How long had the meteorite strangled them in its grip, how long were they its subjects, dependent on it? Blood fizzing to stardust in their veins? Withdrawal to something that overwhelming: expected. Tumultuous still.
He doesn’t speak of it, wouldn’t, but shared glances with Segata tell all.
Regardless. He exhales. His eyes blink towards and squint against the glowing alarm clock – 4:31AM. Training starts every morning at six. He will be up soon. In the meantime, he screws his eyes shut and breathes. Slow and steady, building to a meditation, minutes sift into time.
Sure enough, someone stirs. Makiya: used to getting up to feed his chickens, this Saginuma knows as he’s grown to know all concerning his new team. All that drives them, all that forms their scaffolding. Makiya rises as the sun breaks through the mountains, Saginuma ensures he follows.
Rolling over, pushing himself up on his elbows, Saginuma locates Makiya’s shifting silhouette through the thin darkness and nods; Makiya moves quiet and slow for his size, careful not to disturb their teammates as one would edge around sleeping livestock. He returns Saginuma’s nod as he folds his futon, offering to help with his, but Saginuma waves him along.
Makiya has a thing about looking after their younger members – Saginuma is not one of them. A third year and among the oldest at that, he’d place the two on more equal footing.
Though he means no harm by it, even their first years appear to resent it, Narukami watching with a creased brow and Yuukoku no short of threatening him. Kirigakure, only a day away from having been a first year, often caught too – irritated huffs heard across a room.
It’s all clashing systems. Aliea had them dredged in hierarchy – insidious as mercury poisoning the way it seeped into their bloodstreams. Makiya merely accustomed to looking carefully after what is smaller than himself; Teikoku, Saginuma is well aware, possesses a system of hierarchy not as intense as what they were subject to in Aliea yet still prominent; Yuukoku and Kirigakure had been captains despite youth and size. But they’re all equal here.
They help each other, as equals, as they chase the same goal. To make each other as strong as they can possibly become.
Saginuma tucks away his futon and unfolds his uniform, brushing a thumb over his captain’s band. Not a symbol of authority, as it once proved, but of understanding.
Parting ways with Makiya as he heads directly to the canteen, Saginuma trails to the bathroom.
A fond amusement buries within him at the amount of unpacked products, able instantly to tell what belongs to who – copious skincare products making up convoluted regimes courtesy of Arata and Hera, Jimon’s meticulously sourced shampoo and conditioner collection, Segata’s two-in-one. He grabs his own (picked precisely to keep his hair healthy and strong).
Freshly showered, hair freshly washed, brushed, dried, brushed again – Saginuma heads for the canteen, greeting a half-awake Atsuishi stumbling to the toilet on the way. Makiya and Hitomiko await, gracing him with varying degrees of a smile.
“I’ve drafted a training regimen for today,” Hitomiko says as he serves himself some onigiri and miso soup. She slides a printout across the table, crinkling at the corners. “While your technique of training each other through teaching your hissatsu to further strengthen and evolve them has been effective in a number of ways, it was not enough to defeat Inazuma Japan who are developing at an even faster rate.”
Saginuma shuffles the regimen between him and Makiya. “Yes ma’am.”
“I suggest we use the techniques involved with these evolved and perfected hissatsu to create something entirely new. Makiya-kun?”
Voice even lower and more rumbling than usual, accent thickened by sleep, Makiya responds, “Yes ma’am?”
“Your Infinite Wall, perfected as it is, still has that one weakness Endou-kun and the others exploited. How would you go about creating something new out of that?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “...Their Inazuma Break knocks you completely off balance. I think the first step in combating it would be involving the actual keeper more and building more core strength, as it’s a hissatsu that places minimal strain on the goalkeeper, with most of the strength coming from the two supporting defenders as pillars. But…”
“I see,” she says. “True… the reason the technique appealed at all was because Genda-kun could perform it without aggravating his injuries.”
Her expression slips into thoughtful tinged with troubled, eyes clouding over. She leans back, arms crossed.
Chipping away at his soup, Saginuma scans the regimen. Centred around the old Aliea training facility as expected, he pours over the table concerning what power level each of them should be working at. Ten, the maximum, is where he lies for every area. Genda at ten for keeping, Izuno at ten for shooting and Kirigakure at ten for dribbling being the sole others occupying the category.
He polishes off his tuna-mayo onigiri and excuses himself.
Rain descends in a light drizzle, beading along the footpath, as Saginuma toes on his running shoes and leaves the hotel. Humidity swallows the air, sweat already pooling at his nape, and he drops his water bottle at the top of the steps, commencing his stretches.
It should be coming up for five, an hour until training officially begins. He’ll get in some warm-ups of his own beforehand.
“Already at it, like yeah?”
He swivels back around. Tsutomu.
“Getting some warm-ups in,” Saginuma says, flexing his shoulders as if to prove a point. “Care to join me?”
“Hah, like, I practically invented extra training.” Tsutomu adjusts his glasses and grins smugly. “How fast can ya go now – I’m gonna get so fast and rub it in that Kirigakure’s face.”
Running up and down the hundreds of steps, Saginuma’s pleased to note his ever-improving speed. He’d had to focus on it to perfect Demete’s Dash Storm, even now the wind and rain swirl around him, assist him. Speed built from his own hard work, no meteorite to speak of, engenders immense pride and relief.
He’s as on top of his game as he can be.
“Saginuma-kun,” Hitomiko takes him aside as they approach the training facilities, “you read on the regimen that I’d like you to oversee training for today rather than participate, right?”
“I did,” he confirms. “I assume it’s because I’ve mastered the most hissatsu?”
She smiles, looking ahead. “Sharp as ever. You should be able to gain lots from observing everyone else.”
Saginuma nods and turns his gaze on his team. Naniwa Land’s vividness aches his eyes, burrowing straight to his head, but it’s barren bar them. Hitomiko pulled strings to get them in before opening hours to use the facilities, after all.
“Too bad none of the rides’re working this early,” says Narukami, pointing. “Man, look at that rollercoaster!”
“Stay focused, we’re here to train,” Jimon scolds and cuffs him lightly. “We can come back to go on the rides another time.”
“You’re no fun, Jimon-san.”
Yuukoku chuckles ominously. “I saw they have a haunted house…”
“As if you’re not spookier than anything they could offer,” Kirigakure snipes with a smirk.
An eerie grin creeps. “I’ll show them how to really run a haunted house…”
A collective shiver passes across them and Kirigakure snickers. “No employee gets paid enough to deal with you.”
“Jimon-kun is right,” Hitomiko says, shutting the conversation down. “You’re here to train, or you can go home.”
Silence submerges them and Hitomiko unlocks the facility’s entrance with the smooth swipe of a card.
As the heavy doors creak open, Izuno adds, “The bumper cars look intense. We’ve never been to one of these places before.”
He probably intended the tone as casual, but his eyes reflect buzzing excitement. Ishidaira eagerly nodding beside him further betrays any attempt at it.
Hitomiko flicks her eyes to them for a second, small smile curling. “We’ll see.”
Deep in the facility, Hitomiko has them line up and hands them a personalised training regimen each. Saginuma swallows and stares at his own, fighting off the chill trapped within the space and its chillier memories. A table of his teammates standings in various categories, instructions to observe, notes on his existing hissatsu.
Meticulous, organised, curt. Hitomiko’s effort rolls off the paper.
He’s stationed first to oversee Genda and Atsuishi’s keeper practice, Makiya and Gouin in tow.
New to it, Atsuishi’s stiff, unused to positioning as the team’s sentry. Comparatively, Genda reigns as the King of Keepers. Experienced keeper himself, Saginuma recognises the soft undertones with which Genda addresses him, hands stanced forever in front of him.
Innate to Neo Japan, their relationship, their bond, is a mutual understanding that lodges deep in their cores. Whether from bitter inadequacy that chases them like a pyroclastic flow, or ignited determination. Hitomiko brought it all to the forefront, had them bare their souls like breathing to each other.
In teaching Genda how to master and evolve his Drill Smasher technique, their souls became entwined and Saginuma became privy to all his struggles and dreams. Genda, as him, was injected with Aliea’s venom. Overexertion and self-destruction inevitably followed. Barely months later, pushing himself to his utmost limits once more, now with a carefully structured physiotherapy routine.
The amount of times Saginuma watched Genda’s hands tremble with a churning stomach, watched how he pushed and pushed despite it, watched prideful leonine eyes glaze over as Hitomiko instructed him to train with Makiya and focus on the Infinite Wall to soften the strain.
Those trembling hands would clasp Saginuma’s shoulder in their defeat to Inazuma Japan.
Additional care presides in how he talks to Atsuishi. Atsuishi of the fallen Prominence, Chaos – Atsuishi with the scarred cheek and ouroboros eyes. Distance remains between them as it does with Izuno and Ishidaira, try as they might to sew the rift shut. As shared souls now, it’s miles easier, but persistent distance wedges.
Saginuma bites down the urge to ask about Burn– Nagumo. A steely gaze wards him off.
He’s fast, immaculate ball control. The perfect midfielder, a unique goalkeeper. Saginuma watches how he copies Genda’s motions. With his reflexes, he could easily slip into the role.
Genda nods him over. “Oi, Saginuma, need your thoughts over here.”
Complying, Saginuma tucks his regimen in his pocket and joins them.
“We were talking hissatsu, Atsuishi was wondering about yours. ‘Course, I know Drill Smasher, but I don’t think it suits the sort of keeper he’ll be, too heavyweight. Thoughts?”
“Certainly,” Saginuma says. “It’s more advanced and requires more upper body strength. As far as mine go, Wormhole would be more suitable, but coach has instructed us to start thinking of entirely new techniques…”
Atsuishi scoffs, crosses his arms. “You already stopped me mastering Beast Fang, now Saginuma’s Drill Smasher’s off limits?”
“Beast Fang…?” Saginuma prods and Genda visibly winces, clenching a fist. “Regardless, if you’re going to commit to being a goalkeeper you should focus on your strengths. Speed and reflexes.” He places a hand to his chin and raises his eyebrows when a concept hits. “Genda, your Power Shields perhaps? If you learn the movements of a technique like that, practice them until they’re a part of you, something new could be intuitive.”
“...Coach’s regimen for me says something just like that,” mumbles Atsuishi, frowning. “Do you two have a connected brain or something?”
The Zeus Project, as Saginuma understands, was similar enough to Aliea Academy.
He knows this because upon meeting Hera and Demete, Hera had cast him a look no short of judgemental, sweeping up and down. Where others whom Aliea had terrorised regarded them with expected suspicion initially, Hera had completed his judgement and extended an olive branch instantly. Demete, albeit hesitant, had followed.
Gods and aliens. Saginuma has watched the recording of the match between Zeus and Raimon more than he could admit, persistently blown away by Endou and the others’ strength. What repeatedly catches him is the persona – the flaming confidence of Zeus’ players and how it extinguished, how it swirled into genuine resolve, how Endou nurtured that.
Fallen gods and grounded aliens – in pursuit of organic, earned strength, demolishing the corrupt power that had exploited them.
The seeking of a new relationship with strength rings clear as a procession, watching Hera fire shot after shot, intensity soaring. Bountiful as a harvest springs the fruits of Demete’s labour as he competes against Kirigakure on the speed machine, every step precise, calculated.
Alongside him runs Arata, Jimon, Narukami. Saginuma slides his gaze to Hitomiko, also observing, who adopts a thoughtful manner.
Their team, as it stands, is balanced. They fell only to Inazuma Japan’s superior offence and Endou’s unwavering growth. But their offence is nothing weak, their midfield is observant and quick, their defence tight, impenetrable at its best.
All they need is to keep moving.
“Man, that’s rough,” Narukami whines between raw huffs when the runners take a break. “Raimon used this facility? No wonder they’re a bunch of freaks. No offence to Kidou-san.”
Demete rolls his water bottle in his palms. “I feel like I’m getting faster already, my legs hurt. It’s nice.”
“It’s nice that your legs hurt?”
Demete doesn’t respond, just continues rolling the water bottle. Saginuma knows what he means.
“It’s… fun,” says Arata. He unfolds his regimen out his pocket and smooths it out. “Coach, she didn’t give me many specific orders. She said I should be able to decide for myself what to focus on.”
“Fun,” Saginuma repeats, smiling.
“Yeah.” Arata meets his eyes, smile of his own gathering at his lips. “Soccer is fun, training with you all is fun.”
Soccer is fun, simultaneously soccer is a realm of bitter competition. The feelings it fuels, the relationships it births, the adrenaline it pumps – pure life shooting through the veins.
Soccer is passion. More than anyone else, each of them have absorbed that.
He smiles to himself as he thinks of Inazuma Japan in Liocott, as he surveys his team.
They’ll catch up.