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Kunigami Rensuke’s return to Blue Lock was like a bolt from the blue.
No one had expected it, no one had foreseen it, and when he stepped onto the center of the field—his posture rigid, his silence impenetrable—no one knew what to say.
Hyoma Chigiri was among the few who hadn’t dared to approach him right away.
Because that wasn’t the Kunigami he remembered.
There was no trace of the boy with the open smile, who spoke about justice as if it were his personal mission. That Kunigami had been replaced by a man who looked carved from stone: a glacial gaze, a bulkier body, movements measured and controlled, like a machine ready to spring into action.
And Hyoma didn’t know how to feel about it.
“Chigiri.” Reo called him the next day, catching up to him in the locker room. “You knew him well, right? Kunigami? What do you think?”
What did he really think? He didn’t know. It was a question that haunted him.
“I don’t recognize him anymore.” He replied, gripping a band between his hands. “But maybe I never really knew him.” His voice dropped, as if he were talking to himself.
The truth was that every time he crossed paths with Kunigami during training, his gaze got caught on those now-hardened features, the tension in his muscles, the almost unsettling aura surrounding him. Part of him wanted to approach him, to ask what had happened in the Wild Card. But another part held him back, afraid of what he might discover.
———
Chigiri had started to feel watched.
At first, he hadn’t paid much attention to it. Then, during a practice match against Bastard München, he felt that gaze on him. He turned—and met the pale eyes of Michael Kaiser.
It wasn’t unusual for Kaiser to stare down his opponents; it was one of his tactics to destabilize them. But with Chigiri, it felt different. The attention he gave him didn’t seem like a simple mind game.
“Hyoma Chigiri.” He approached him after the match. His voice was a mix of condescension and genuine curiosity. “You know that when you run, you look like a work of art in motion?” He smiled.
Hyoma rolled his eyes, trying to ignore him. But Kaiser wasn’t discouraged.
“I’m not joking.” He continued. “If only you had a partner worthy of you—someone capable of exploiting your potential… you’d be unbeatable. Have you ever thought about transferring to Bastard München?”
“I’m not interested.”
“Really?” Kaiser tilted his head, studying him with an enigmatic smile. “That’s a shame. I would’ve liked to see what you could do at my side.”
———
As Chigiri navigated Kaiser’s unwanted attention and the daily chaos of Blue Lock, Kunigami seemed to be everywhere—and yet always distant. He barely spoke to anyone, carefully maintaining his detachment, and yet there was something magnetic about his presence.
One evening, during extra training, Hyoma found him alone in the gym. The room was shrouded in semi-darkness, the sound of the barbell rising and falling the only noise in the air.
“Trying to lift the weight of the whole world?” He joked, leaning against the door with one shoulder.
Kunigami didn’t answer right away. He set the barbell down with controlled precision, then turned toward him.
“Chigiri.” He said, his tone low, almost muffled. “What do you want?”
Hyoma was disarmed by the bluntness of the question. He’d come by chance, but now that Kunigami was looking at him so intensely, he felt compelled to say something.
“Are you okay?” He asked simply.
Kunigami dropped onto the bench, wiping sweat from his forehead with the towel around his neck. “What does it matter?”
“It matters to me.” Hyoma shot back immediately.
Kunigami lifted his gaze. For the first time, Chigiri saw a reaction cross his face—surprise. But it lasted only a second, replaced by a neutral expression. “Don’t worry about me.” He cut him off, returning to his training.
Hyoma wanted to insist, but the words stuck in his throat. This wasn’t a Kunigami you could easily argue with. When he left that night, he felt overwhelmed by a sense of incompleteness. He wished he could have talked more, said more.
———
Days passed, and the tension on the field kept growing. Kaiser kept finding excuses to talk to Hyoma, to train beside him, to pull him into his orbit.
Kunigami watched it all in silence. He said nothing, but his gaze darkened every time he saw Kaiser and Chigiri together.
It was during a practice match that everything exploded.
Kaiser tried to run alongside Chigiri, attempting to steal the ball. Kunigami intervened with a flawless tackle, ripping the ball from the German’s feet and kicking it away.
Kaiser stood up calmly, adjusting his jersey. “What’s wrong, Kunigami? You suddenly wake up? Got something against me?”
Kunigami stepped closer, his imposing figure looming like a shadow. “Stay away from him.”
Hyoma, who had witnessed everything, stormed over. “Both of you, stop it—this isn’t the time!” His gaze flicked between them, lingering longer on Kunigami. Somehow, his eyes spoke for him, and Chigiri felt his heart tighten. In that look was everything Kunigami couldn’t say.
———
Hyoma Chigiri couldn’t stop thinking about that look.
There had been a moment after the match when Kunigami had stared at him as if he wanted to say something urgent—something he couldn’t put into words. But how was he supposed to interpret it?
Lately, everything felt more complicated. Kaiser was becoming more intrusive, more… intriguing, yet irritating. There was something magnetic about him that was hard to ignore, but it was just as hard to trust someone who treated every relationship like a chess piece.
Kunigami, on the other hand, was an even bigger enigma. Hyoma didn’t know whether that icy silence was a wall to protect himself or a way to keep him out. And the most frustrating part was that, somehow, he felt like something was missing.
The truth was that he couldn’t get the old Rensuke out of his head—the one with the open, genuine smile, the calm confidence, the kind heart, the boy who had made him feel safe. Looking at him now, it was like facing a stranger. A stranger who, somehow, still made him tremble. Was it possible to change that much? Chigiri had his doubts.
———
“Hyoma, have you ever thought that you could do better?”
Kaiser’s words caught him off guard as they were leaving the field together after yet another training session.
“Better at what?” Chigiri replied, raising an eyebrow. His technique had already improved significantly lately—Kaiser himself hadn’t failed to point that out.
“In the way you choose the people you trust.” Kaiser answered, with that mocking tone that made him as irritating as he was captivating. “I’ve seen the way you look at Kunigami. It’s like you’re searching for someone who no longer exists.”
Hyoma stopped, his breath hitching for a moment. He’d been caught completely off guard. “You don’t know anything about me.” He snapped, clenching his fists. “…Or about him.”
“Oh, but I know everything about people like him.” Kaiser shot back with a smirk. “They’re so focused on proving their worth that they forget why they’re doing it in the first place. In the end, they lose themselves, turn their backs on who they are and on those they care about. They sabotage themselves—and end up alone.”
Chigiri’s fists tightened. “You’re wrong. Kunigami isn’t like that.”
“Really?” Kaiser stepped closer, his eyes sharp as blades. “Are you sure that what you see now isn’t his true self?”
Then he smiled. “I, on the other hand, see you for who you really are. You’re not just a runner. You’re a weapon. And with me, you could be invincible.”
The words were like poisoned honey—sweet, yet suffocating. A compliment and an insult all at once. Chigiri shook his head and walked away. “I’m not interested in being anyone’s weapon—least of all yours.”
Even as he left, he could feel the weight of Kaiser’s gaze on his back, a silent reminder that he wouldn’t give up so easily.
———
That night, while the rest of the players slept, Chigiri went out to the field to train. Running at night was a habit he’d never abandoned. He loved being alone when the world was quieter, when his thoughts could fall into a calmer rhythm.
But this time, he realized he wasn’t alone.
Kunigami was there, sitting on a bench at the edge of the field, his gaze fixed on the grass illuminated by the floodlights. His figure looked even more imposing in the darkness, yet there was something surprisingly vulnerable in the way his hands were clasped together.
“Can’t sleep either?” Hyoma asked, approaching carefully.
Kunigami looked up, and for a brief moment there was something gentle in his eyes—something that reminded him of the Kunigami he used to know. But it vanished almost immediately, replaced by his usual impassive expression.
“I needed to clear my head without too much noise around. This place seemed perfect.” He replied.
Hyoma sat down beside him, saying nothing for a while. The silence was thick, but not uncomfortable. It felt as if they were both waiting for the other to make the first move.
“Why did you change so much?” Chigiri finally asked, taking a risk and breaking the tension.
Kunigami stiffened, then answered, “I didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice.” Chigiri replied impulsively, then lowered his head, staring at a random patch of artificial grass.
Kunigami turned toward him, and this time his gaze was full of emotion—something that looked a lot like pain.
“You don’t understand… the Wild Card wasn’t an opportunity. It was a last chance. You either survived, or you disappeared. And I—”
He stopped, clenching his fists. “I had to become someone else to avoid losing everything. And now I don’t even know if it was worth it.”
Hyoma was speechless. It was the first time Kunigami had shown a crack in that armor he’d built around himself, the first time he looked like the gentle boy Hyoma remembered.
“It was worth it to me.” He murmured, uncertain, as if afraid to admit it out loud.
Kunigami stared at him, stunned—but before he could respond, Hyoma stood up, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions.
“I’m going back to running. See you tomorrow.”
And he left, abandoning Kunigami alone with those words and a mind full of restless thoughts.
——
The following day, during another practice match, the tension between the three finally reached its breaking point.
Kaiser passed the ball to Chigiri, and Hyoma sprinted forward like lightning, leaving everyone behind—except Kunigami.
Kunigami intercepted him with a flawless move, but instead of passing the ball, he held onto it, facing Kaiser with a hard stare.
“Don’t try to manipulate him again.” Kunigami said calmly—a calm far more frightening than anger.
Kaiser laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Manipulate him? I’m just showing him his worth. Maybe you should try doing the same, instead of playing bodyguard.”
Kunigami clenched his jaw, but before he could reply, Chigiri intervened, snatching the ball and dashing away.
“While you two are busy posturing, I’ll focus on scoring!”
The goal that followed was flawless. When Chigiri turned back toward them, his gaze was sharp.
“When you’re done fighting, I’m here to win. Not to be a trophy.”
But as he walked away, his heart felt heavy—because deep down, he knew it wasn’t that simple.
———
Hyoma Chigiri had always found refuge in running.
The wind against his face, the steady sound of cleats on the turf, the pounding of his heart—those sensations brought him back to a simpler, more authentic version of himself.
But lately, running wasn’t enough anymore.
There was a tension that followed him everywhere, like a taut string ready to snap. Kaiser and Kunigami were the two opposite poles of that tension, two forces pulling him in different directions. And Hyoma couldn’t understand what he truly wanted.
That evening, after the match, he decided to train again, hoping that running would help him sort through his thoughts. But he hadn’t even reached the middle of the field when he heard a voice behind him.
“You really can’t stay still for even a second, huh?”
Kunigami.
What was he doing there? Chigiri slowed down and turned toward him. There was something in his tone—not the usual harshness, but a nuance that made him stop completely.
“You should try it too.” Hyoma replied, crossing his arms. “Might help you get rid of that constant scowl.”
Kunigami took a step forward, hands in his pockets. “I’m not here to run.”
Hyoma raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you here?”
Kunigami stayed silent for a long moment, as if searching for the right words. Then he lifted his gaze, and there was a determination in his eyes that made Hyoma hold his breath.
“I want to understand what you’re looking for.”
———
On the other side of the complex, Michael Kaiser was watching the field.
He had always found it entertaining to watch others move like pieces on an invisible chessboard—but with Chigiri, it was different.
Hyoma wasn’t a pawn.
He was a player who shone with his own light, someone who refused to be defined by others’ schemes. Kaiser couldn’t deny how fascinated he was by that freedom, by that wild beauty that made him unique.
And yet, he knew winning him over wouldn’t be easy. Hyoma wasn’t the type to fall for flattery, and Kunigami’s return had complicated everything.
“So cliché.” Kaiser murmured to himself with a soft laugh. “The tortured hero versus the charming genius. Sounds like a fairy tale.”
But Kaiser didn’t believe in fairy tales.
He believed only in victory.
And if achieving it meant crushing Kunigami as well, he would do so without hesitation.
———
Kunigami and Chigiri stood still at the center of the field.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Chigiri said, his tone more defensive than he intended.
Kunigami stepped closer, shaking his head. “I’m telling you that you can’t trust Kaiser. He’s not here for you, Chigiri. He’s here only for himself.”
“And you?” Hyoma shot back. “Is there any reason why I should trust you?”
The question caught Kunigami off guard. Hyoma looked him straight in the eyes, and for a moment there was only silence between them.
“I don’t know.” Kunigami finally admitted, his tone softer. “I don’t know if you can trust me. But I do know that I want to protect you from someone like him.”
“Protect me?” Hyoma took a step back, shaking his head with a light laugh. “I’m not a kid. I don’t need someone to protect me—not even from someone like Kaiser.”
Kunigami clenched his fists, frustration evident in his eyes. “That’s not the point. I—” He stopped, the words stuck in his throat. There were too many things he wanted to say, too many emotions he couldn’t express. He’d buried them for too long.
Hyoma studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. “If you can’t even say what you want, how do you think you can help me? How do you expect to know what I’m looking for?” And he walked away, leaving Kunigami there once again, crushed beneath the weight of his unresolved emotions.
———
In the days that followed, Chigiri threw himself into training with more intensity than ever. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched—by both Kaiser and Kunigami.
One of them was always nearby, always ready to offer him something: a challenge, advice, a sarcastic remark.
But while Kaiser was bold and direct, Kunigami remained silent, as if waiting for Hyoma to make the first move.
The truth was that Hyoma felt torn.
With Kaiser, there was a strange, almost irresistible attraction—but he couldn’t help feeling like a piece in his game. With Kunigami, there was a deeper, more complicated connection, a bond that scared him because of its intensity.
And in the middle of all of it, there was soccer. The reason they were all there. The thing he loved more than anything else.
But for the first time in his life, Chigiri felt unable to run forward without looking back.
———
The match was over, yet the atmosphere was still electric. Training matches at Blue Lock were never just games—they were clashes that dug deep, exposing strengths and weaknesses alike. Every match left the players completely drained.
Chigiri lingered at the edge of the field, breathing heavily as he watched Kunigami and Kaiser talk in low voices. Even without hearing their words, he could feel the tension between them. It was like watching two predators sizing each other up, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Hyoma knew that sooner or later he would have to make a choice. But as the days passed, that choice felt more and more impossible.
Kaiser fascinated him—there was no denying it. His talent, his confidence, that arrogant smile that made Hyoma feel challenged, the compliments he gave him.
But with Kunigami…
With him, it was different.
There was something more intimate, something that made Hyoma feel vulnerable. And maybe it was that vulnerability that scared him the most.
“Still here?” Kaiser’s voice broke into his thoughts.
Chigiri turned to find him just a few steps away, wearing that relaxed air that always seemed to hide ulterior motives.
“I thought you’d keep running until you burned the grass.” Kaiser said with a grin.
“I was just—” Hyoma stopped, unsure how to finish the sentence.
“Thinking about me?” Kaiser tilted his head, his smile widening.
Hyoma studied him for a moment, considering his response. Kaiser was always so sure of himself, so sure he knew what others felt.
“No.” Hyoma said at last, calm but firm. “I wasn’t thinking about you.”
For a brief second, Chigiri thought he saw something flicker across Kaiser’s face—surprise, maybe disappointment—but it vanished so quickly that he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it.
“Interesting,” Kaiser replied, before walking away.
———
Later that evening, Hyoma found himself back on the field once again. This time, when he arrived, he realized he wasn’t alone.
Kunigami was there, sitting on the ground with his hands resting on his knees. He wasn’t wearing his usual hardened expression, but something more distant—almost melancholic.
Hyoma hesitated, then jogged lightly toward him. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
Kunigami looked up, and for a brief moment he almost seemed to smile, as if he were genuinely glad to see him. “Sometimes this is the only place where I can really think.”
Hyoma sat down beside him. The silence between them was no longer heavy, but comfortable. It felt almost like going back in time—to when Kunigami had been the gentle boy who had encouraged him after his first injury.
“Do you remember when you told me that running felt like flying to you?” Kunigami asked, breaking the silence.
Hyoma turned to him, surprised. “Yeah… and it still does.”
Kunigami nodded slowly, his gaze drifting into the distance. “For me, playing soccer was always like fighting for something just. But now… I don’t know what I’m fighting for anymore.”
Hyoma didn’t know how to answer. He wanted to tell him that it wasn’t true, that he still had something worth fighting for—but he knew Kunigami wasn’t the kind of person who accepted empty reassurance, nor did he deserve careless words.
“Maybe you just need to remember why you started.” Hyoma said at last.
Kunigami looked at him, and there was something deep in his eyes—something that made Hyoma’s heart beat faster.
“I know you’re the reason I didn’t quit.” Rensuke admitted quietly.
The words were so sincere that Hyoma felt almost overwhelmed. But before he could respond, Kunigami stood up, shaking his head as if he’d gone too far, as if he’d said more than he meant to.
“I should head back inside,” he muttered, leaving quickly and leaving Hyoma stunned, his heart pounding in his chest.
———
The next day, Hyoma made a decision.
He couldn’t keep running away from his feelings, nor could he allow Kaiser and Kunigami to fight over him as if he were a prize.
After training, he approached Kaiser, who greeted him with a satisfied smile, as though he’d already won.
“You’re here to tell me I was right, aren’t you?” Kaiser asked, his mocking tone ever-present.
Hyoma shook his head. “No. I’m here to tell you that you’re not what I want.”
For the first time, Kaiser’s smile vanished completely. “Really?”
“Really,” Hyoma confirmed, his voice steady. “I admire you as a player, Kaiser. You’re incredible. But that’s all.”
Kaiser studied him for a long moment, then turned away with a bitter laugh. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
———
That evening, Hyoma found Kunigami in the same spot on the field where they had spoken the night before. This time, it was Hyoma who sat down beside him without saying anything for a long while.
“I talked to Kaiser.” He said finally.
Kunigami raised an eyebrow at the mention of the name, but stayed silent.
“I told him he’s not the one I want.” Hyoma continued, staring straight ahead.
Kunigami stiffened, though his voice remained calm. “And do you know what you want, then?” He asked.
Hyoma turned toward him—this time without hesitation. “You.”
The word hung in the air, and for a moment Hyoma feared he’d made a mistake. But then he saw Kunigami’s eyes soften, relief washing over his features like a wave.
“I’m not sure I deserve it.” Kunigami murmured.
Hyoma shook his head, a gentle smile on his lips. “You don’t have to be perfect, Rensuke. You just have to be yourself.”
And in that moment, with the floodlights illuminating their faces, Hyoma felt that for the first time in a long while, he was running toward something—not away from it.
———
Hyoma and Rensuke remained seated side by side. Kunigami stayed still, his gaze lowered, while Chigiri’s confession seemed to echo between them.
“I don’t know if I can be what you need…” Kunigami said, his voice softer than usual.
Hyoma looked at him, his smile calm and reassuring. “I never asked you to be. You don’t have to prove anything to me, Rensuke. I just want you to be here.”
Those words slipped gently between them, dissolving every doubt, every insecurity. For the first time in a long time, Kunigami felt truly seen—not as a player, not as a hero, not as the product of the Wild Card, but simply as who he had always been.
———
In the days that followed, the bond between Hyoma and Kunigami deepened in ways neither of them had expected. There were no grand gestures, no dramatic declarations. It was a quiet process, made of small shared moments: a morning run before training, exchanged glances during a match, a stolen break in the middle of Blue Lock’s chaos.
Hyoma discovered that beneath Kunigami’s serious exterior there was a gentle, almost protective side that emerged in the most unexpected ways—waiting for him after every practice to make sure he wasn’t pushing his knee too hard, silently passing him his favorite dessert during team dinners, spotting him at the gym to make sure he trained properly.
Kunigami, in turn, found in Hyoma a lightness he’d missed for far too long. Hyoma made him laugh with his sharp wit, challenged him with his determination, and above all reminded him why he’d started playing soccer in the first place.
They didn’t need to talk much about the past or the hardships they’d faced. It was as if they’d both chosen to look forward, building something new—together.
———
Meanwhile, Kaiser watched from a distance.
He wasn’t someone who gave up easily, but he knew how to recognize a lost battle.
Hyoma had faced him with a sincerity he hadn’t expected, and that same sincerity had left him disarmed. He’d never considered himself sentimental, but something inside him cracked when he saw the way Hyoma looked at Kunigami.
There was no competition. There couldn’t be.
“How boring,” he said to Ness, who watched him with mild curiosity. “Chigiri was interesting while it lasted. But in the end, he wasn’t made for me.”
It was a lie, of course.
But Kaiser wasn’t the type to admit defeat—at least not out loud.
———
One evening, after an especially intense training session, Chigiri and Kunigami found themselves alone in a corner of the field. It was one of those rare, quiet moments they were learning to treasure—away from everyone else, moments that belonged only to the two of them.
Hyoma leaned against the wall, his breathing still unsteady. Kunigami approached and handed him a bottle of water without a word.
“Thanks,” Hyoma murmured, taking it.
They stood in silence for a moment, the distant noise of their teammates fading as night fell.
“Hyoma…” Kunigami began, breaking the silence.
Hyoma looked up, curious. Kunigami seemed almost nervous—a rare vulnerability that made him unexpectedly human.
“I never thanked you. For believing in me. Even when I wasn’t sure I believed in myself.”
Hyoma smiled, a smile that lit up his face in a way that made Kunigami’s chest tighten.
“There was no need to thank me, Rensuke. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”
Kunigami looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to engrave that instant into his memory. Then, slowly and deliberately, he placed a hand on Hyoma’s shoulder.
“I’ll try to be worthy of it,” he said at last, his voice deep and sincere.
Hyoma didn’t move, letting the words settle between them. Then, with his characteristic lightness, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Kunigami’s.
“You don’t have to be anything but yourself.” He whispered.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, close, their breaths mingling in the air. Then, almost without realizing it, Hyoma lifted his gaze to Kunigami’s—and everything seemed to stop.
Kunigami hesitated. Not from lack of desire, but from fear. Fear of ruining the moment, of touching something too precious. His hands remained still, as if even the slightest movement could shatter the balance that had formed between them.
Then Chigiri leaned in ever so slightly, just enough to close the distance between them.
It was a gentle contact, almost uncertain. Their lips brushed lightly, as if asking permission from one another. There was no urgency, no rush—only the awareness of the gesture and its weight.
Kunigami closed his eyes for a moment, as if holding his breath after a long run. When he finally let himself go, the kiss grew a little firmer, more real, yet it remained tender. It was a kiss that did not take, but offered. A kiss that demanded nothing, except to be returned.
Hyoma felt his chest lighten. As if something he had carried inside for far too long had finally found a safe place to rest. He moved closer, without fear, letting the contact speak for him.
It wasn’t a kiss that overwhelmed, nor one that promised the world.
It was a kiss that said I’m here.
That said you don’t have to run anymore.
That said it’s okay as it is.
When they pulled apart, they remained close, their foreheads almost touching. Hyoma smiled softly, a warm, sincere smile.
“See? You’re already doing enough.” He whispered, his face still near Rensuke’s.
Kunigami didn’t answer. There was no need. The smile that lit up his face—the open, genuine one that Chigiri hadn’t seen in so long—spoke for him. And for the first time in a long time, Kunigami felt he didn’t have to be anything other than himself.