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Chapter Text

Kaiser was in a dark hotel room, wearing only boxers and surrounded by crushed soda cans. The television screen showed the match between Nigeria and Japan, the commentators announcing every play as if passing judgment on his pride. From the floor, Kaiser propped himself up with one arm, his breathing slow but heavy with tension.

His eyes didn’t blink: he watched Yoichi Isagi with a mixture of restrained fury and fascination. When Isagi finally scored the decisive goal, Kaiser felt something snap inside him—not just because of the defeat, but at how relentlessly his rival was evolving.

With a rough voice, he murmured to himself:

“That was so shitty I can’t even stomach my cola.”

It wasn’t just frustration: it was a blow directly to his ego. Kaiser squeezed an empty can until it crumpled, as if trying to crush his own rage, his disappointment. He thought of Isagi: of his ability to anticipate, to break the rules of the game, to build his victory from something that wasn’t purely calculated.

He slowly pushed himself up, leaning against the wall as his gaze remained fixed on the screen. Every Japanese celebration pierced his chest, but for him, it wasn’t just someone else’s triumph: it was a call for revenge.

Kaiser took a deep breath, letting the darkness of the room envelop him. He knew what he had to do: training physically or tactically wouldn’t be enough. He needed a plan—one that would challenge not only Isagi’s mind but his own ego. And he would do it from his silent trench, with the determination of someone who knew that next time he couldn’t allow another “easy game.”

He pressed his forehead against the wall for a few seconds, feeling his pulse quicken, but his inner voice whispered clearly:

“It’s not just about winning. It’s about understanding you… and proving that I can reinvent myself too.”

Then, with resolute steps, he turned and walked toward the door, leaving behind the empty cans and the echo of his rage. He stepped out, embracing not only defeat but the rawest ambition: to challenge Isagi on a battlefield few dared to enter.

Chapter Text

Sae Itoshi reclined with all his controlled elegance on the sofa of his spacious Tokyo apartment. The television in front of him was showing the replay of the Japanese national team’s most recent match: the final moment when Yoichi Isagi scored the fourth goal, sealing a 4‑0 victory. The images kept flowing—Isagi celebrating, his teammates lifting him, the stadium in delirium—but for Sae, each sequence carried a different weight.

He rested gently against the backrest, crossed one leg over the other, and draped an arm over the armrest, projecting an air of calm. It wasn’t a reaction of joy. Sae let out a low yawn, his voice quiet and sharp:

“Should’ve scored 8‑0. You make me puke, Japan.”

That criticism didn’t come from mere frustration but from meticulous demand. For him, a wide victory wasn’t enough: he wanted perfection, total dominance. That sentence was more than disdain; it was his standard, his ideal of what football should mean.

Sae continued watching the screen, analyzing every movement, every celebration, every reaction. What caught his attention most wasn’t simply the goal, but how Isagi executed it. In one of the replays, it was clear when he made a bold shot, a play that didn’t seem the product of rigid planning, but of something more flexible and spontaneous. That move conveyed something profound: Isagi was experimenting with himself, evolving beyond mere tactics.

For Sae, it was both unsettling and fascinating. The Yoichi he knew was methodical, cerebral, someone who calculated every pass, every option. But the Yoichi on screen now displayed a blend of calculation and instinct: it was as if his ego, his ambition, were pushing into new frontiers. That evolution was the harsh proof that being “good” was no longer enough—Isagi was aiming for greatness.

Sae lowered his gaze for a moment, his expression growing more serious. He clenched his fists slightly, feeling a web of emotions: pride, challenge, curiosity. He wondered if he himself could rise to meet this new version of Isagi, if his own ambition as a strategic midfielder could complement the creativity the forward was beginning to show.

He rose from the sofa slowly, his movements deliberate. He approached the window and gently drew back the curtains. Outside, the city of Tokyo glittered with night lights, but the most important view for him was inside: the mental image of a future where he and this evolved Isagi could be on the same team.

Sae inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of his own expectations. He whispered to himself:

“If Japan deserves that… if he deserves that… then I’ll play. Not just to win. To build something with him.”

With that resolve, he returned to the sofa, sat down again, and turned the television back on. This time, he focused not only on the replays, but on the gestures, the expression on Isagi’s face, every flicker of his new ego: because for Sae, that match wasn’t just a victory for Japan, it was the beginning of a new era he wanted to shape alongside Yoichi.

Chapter Text

Bunny Iglesias was sitting alone on the sofa in his apartment, the dim light of the room reflecting off his cross-shaped scar. He had just finished showering in time to watch the match on TV: the Japanese national team was facing another opponent, and he couldn’t look away. His scars—a cross on his face and another on his neck—reminded him of his past, his struggles, his pain, and now also of that strange, dark admiration he felt for Isagi.

On the screen, Yoichi Isagi celebrated a decisive goal. Bunny watched him with a slightly furrowed brow, because the boy he had met in Barcelona—the same one he had asked what he was eating, the same one he had communicated with through translation headphones—was now not just known, but imposing. That realization hit him harder than he had expected. By his profile, Isagi hadn’t come to Europe just as a tourist: he was someone with talent, someone who might deserve his attention.

Bunny inhaled quietly. There was something in the way Isagi had said that he was traveling to Europe to “learn more about football” that had moved him with both passion and sincere humility—but also irritated him. He remembered clearly his own words, said thoughtlessly, with painful coldness: “When I see people like you, happy and full of dreams… it makes me want to die.”

His hand trembled slightly on the armrest. That sentence wasn’t mere dramatics: it was his way of expressing the anguish, the loneliness he carried inside, his insecurities. He had spent years cultivating a calm smile, a gentle voice, but his scars weren’t just physical—they were mental too.

As he watched Isagi’s celebration, Bunny recalled their first encounter: in a restaurant in Barcelona, quietly eating under his bunny cap, listening to Isagi with those translation headphones. He hadn’t known he was a player; to him, Isagi had seemed like just an enthusiastic fan, a passionate traveler. But now, seeing him on TV stirred something inside.

Bunny lowered his gaze. He didn’t want to admit it, but there was something tender in that Japanese boy: his joy, his wonder, his purity. It was the opposite of his own inner torment, and that’s why it hurt to see him, to admire him.

He feared that his dark self might reflect onto him, that his melancholy could taint him. But he also wanted him to see him, to know him, to understand that behind his soft smile lay deep wounds.

He whispered to himself, almost in a broken voice:

“Yoichi Isagi… you weren’t what I expected. But you matter more than I thought.”

He leaned back a little, closed his eyes, and let the silence fill the room. In his mind, he imagined a future: he and Isagi, not just as rivals, but as souls weighed down with ambition and pain, meeting on the field, exchanging glances and passes, sharing that vulnerable part few could ever see.

When he opened his eyes again, his decision was clear: he wouldn’t walk away. He would tell him how he felt, even with sharp words, even if his voice trembled. Because Isagi deserved to know who Bunny Iglesias really was.

Chapter Text

Loki was on the training field in France, working on his speed. Every burst, every sprint, was charged with tension: he wasn’t just training his body, but also his mind. Because since his last defeat against Isagi, something had been burning inside him: the words Isagi had said had left a mark.

As he ran, they echoed in his mind: “You were born with nothing but fast legs.” That phrase had hurt because, for Loki, his speed wasn’t something that came without effort or value. It was his weapon, yes, but also his burden.

When he stopped to take a sip of water, Hugo, the mysterious adapter of France’s New Generation World XI, approached him. Hugo watched Loki with curiosity in his eyes.

“Is that Isagi guy really that interesting to you?” Hugo asked quietly.

Loki, with a calculating look, turned it back on Hugo.

“And what do you think of him, Hugo?” he replied.

Hugo studied him intensely, analyzing not just the words but Loki’s posture, the way he held the bottle.

“His adaptation is inconsistent,” Hugo said coldly. “But that doesn’t mean weakness. To me, it makes him even more dangerous.”
Then, he whispered with determination: “My target is Yoichi Isagi.”

The words resonated in Loki’s mind like a powerful echo. He wasn’t surprised that Hugo saw him that way; he also viewed Isagi as a rival, but in a different manner—not just physically, but mentally.

Loki set the bottle down and stretched, his breathing deep and muscles tense. After a second of silence, he raised his gaze to the sky, as if challenging the universe.

“All right,” he said firmly. “Next time we face each other, I don’t just want to run with you, Isagi. I want to see if you still think I was born with nothing but speed. And I want you to see something more: that I don’t just compete physically, but intellectually.”

Hugo nodded, with a calculating smile. He knew their strategy wasn’t just about running—it was about dominating mentally.

“Then let the war begin,” Hugo concluded. “Between you, me, and him.”

Loki stayed silent for a moment longer, letting that promise sink in. Then he ran again, every step driven not just by his legs, but by a deeper desire: to prove that his speed was only part of his power, and that neither he nor Hugo feared Isagi’s ego.

Chapter Text

Lorenzo leaned comfortably against the railing of his balcony, the city lights stretching out below him and a portable TV in front of him. The screen showed the live match between Nigeria and Japan. Lorenzo, wearing a calm expression and a slight smile—his kind of smile that seemed relaxed but brimming with ambition—held a handful of popcorn, his eyes never leaving the game.

When Yoichi Isagi came onto the field, executing a key play, Lorenzo leaned forward slightly. His purple eyes sparkled with interest. It wasn’t just respect for Isagi’s talent; he saw something valuable in him, someone with the potential to grow even more. In his mind, not everything could be bought with money; some things, like a player’s true worth, are shown on the field.

Lorenzo took a sip of his drink and murmured to himself, in that casual yet sincere tone:

“Wow, Isagi’s putting on a show… I like watching him. He doesn’t just run, he thinks.”

To him, this Isagi wasn’t just a potential rival, but someone with whom he could “do football business” in a different sense—not money, but gameplay. If Lorenzo ever played alongside—or against—Isagi in the future, he could see an opportunity to show that his defense doesn’t just stop players, it understands the most cerebral forwards.

He leaned back a little, his posture relaxed, and added:

“If I have to mark someone like this in a decisive match… I won’t complain. In fact, I’d love to see how far you can go.”

Inside, Lorenzo was also feeling another kind of emotion: not just that of a player wanting to impose himself, but of a teammate recognizing someone else’s greatness. That ambivalence—marking him while admiring him—sparked a unique fire.

When Japan pulled off an especially brilliant play thanks to Isagi, Lorenzo clapped softly, as if congratulating an old ally. And he whispered with a smile:

“Come on, Yoichi… show me you deserve more than just this glance.”

In that moment, Lorenzo wasn’t just watching a match: he was seeing a future. A future where he and Isagi could meet many times—duels, victories, silent connections. And he, with his calm and ambition, was already ready for whatever came next.