Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Matsukaze Tenma sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his trembling hands.

They were smaller than they should be. Too small. Missing the paper-thin scars earned from mastering his Keshin and wind based hissatsu, and the hardened nubs on the edge of his left thumb – an unfortunate consequence of being a captain, way over his head, who had spent most of the tenure tearing through his nails from stress.

He had led a team through the literal fabric of space and time to satisfy the whims of a dying man, and they were heading home –

They were finally going home. 

And while he would never regret the bonds forged within the Ultimate Eleven, his heart had always truly belonged to Raimon. They were his first team. The team that won Holy Road. That might have made him a bad captain, but with half of the Chrono Storm team being Raimon players, his Keshin always seemed to resonate more deeply with them. He had fought alongside strangers from across history to save soccer, to save everyone’s soccer, and thoroughly enjoyed it where possible. 

Nevertheless, the relief he felt as the battle ended was always because – he and the original Raimon – they were finally going home together.

Back to the rest of their team.

And yet – why? Why was he here? 

He was supposed to return to the Kogarashi Manor, yes, but not like this. These four walls had housed three years of his life thus far – countless sleepovers with fellow first-years then who eventually became his best friends and closest confidants; friends who never looked at him and only saw captain – and he woke up in the manor, now. 

But he knew, instinctively, even from under the blankets, that something was horribly wrong.

This wasn’t a situation where he’d collapsed from exhaustion in the team caravan only to be hauled to bed by his teammates. Had Coach Endou or his teammates carried him in, they certainly wouldn’t have bothered to undress him. Out of either misplaced consideration or their typical asshole-ness – like seriously, guys? – they would have just dumped him as-is. He’d woken up in his dirt-soaked soccer threads often enough, being late to morning practice for he’d much rather weather Shindou-san’s disappointment than Aki-nee’s scolding for ruining his bedsheets.

Instead, he was clean. He was well-rested. He was alone.

The silence was a suffocating shroud of déjà vu.

“Fei…” Sixteen-year-old Captain Matsukaze Tenma breathed the name like a prayer for help, for an answer, for anything, then finding the courage to look at his reflection in the vanity mirror.

A thirteen-year-old ghost stared back at him.

With no green-haired rabbit jumping out of thin air, laughing at some joke at his expense. There was no portal opening, no misplaced, flying caravan to freak out Aki-nee or the rest of the manor. 

Tenma hated the silence. Because, then – 

What the hell happened?

We were almost there, Tenma thought, his eyes stinging. We were almost home.

… But wasn’t this also home? 

If he truly was thirteen again – and a quick, trembling glance at his phone confirmed the date – then today was his first day at Raimon Junior High. He swallowed hard against the bile threatening to rise. Oh, he dreaded it. He dreaded the Fifth Sector’s oppressive shadow, the “managed soccer,” the false narrative of kindness and fairness, and the grueling, uphill struggle to convince his seniors to believe and to love soccer again. 

​He didn’t want to be a revolutionary again. 

He didn’t want to fight alone again. 

But beneath the dread was a desperate, burning hunger. 

If he was back at the start, it meant his team – the original Raimon – was here, too.

He stood up, and the room seemed to ripple, something stirring from deep inside his chest. Alongside his heartbeat was the restless, golden hum of Demon God Pegasus.

​Oh.

Thank goodness. 

​Tenma felt the tension bleed out of his shoulders, his breath hitching in relief. I’m not alone.

​His Keshin pulsed back at the thought, a coiled spring of power compressed within his small frame, waiting for the signal to fly once more.

Tenma didn’t wait for Aki-nee to finish plating his breakfast, didn’t even stop to pat Sasuke, whose confused whine sounded behind him as he bolted out of Kogarashi Manor. The neighborhood was a blur of nostalgia he didn’t have the bandwidth to process – not the elderly neighbor’s wave, nor the familiar, sweet scent of the bakery. None of it mattered.

When he reached the gates of Raimon Junior High, he didn’t slow down. 

In the original timeline, he had spent this morning lost and wide-eyed, spent in a polite, bumbling conversation with Ms. Otonashi. Not today. He ducked behind a row of cherry blossoms, took a shortcut behind the gymnasium, and only skidded to a halt when he heard the rhythmic, violent thud of a ball.

Only for his breath to hitch before the second team’s practice pitch.

It was exactly like Before. 

The second team – seniors whose names he had honestly forgotten because they’d quit so shortly after this, save for Aoyama and Ichino – lay scattered across the grass like fallen pins, and in the center of the carnage stood Tsurugi Kyousuke with Coach Kudou.

“You’ve destroyed the soccer club?” The man asked.

Tsurugi’s face was partially hidden by his gravity defying drills that he called hair and the popped collar of his stupid cape jacket, but Tenma could see all too clearly his cruel smile. “Yeah. Soccer’s useless, don’t you think? It’s a waste of time.”

At thirteen, Tsurugi was an amazing actor. 

Capable of fooling even his older brother, why would strangers, much less his victims, think any different?

Because look. 

Wasn’t he terrifying? Wasn’t he so cruel, so powerful? Wasn’t he just the perfect villain? 

Look. Look at him and listen to him. 

“Starting from today, the soccer club is disbanded.”

Tsurugi was the perfect Seed.

But to Tenma, he was a miserable sight. He saw a lonely boy drowning in the guilt of his brother’s injury, trying too hard to kill his own heart on the orders of Fifth Sector.

Perhaps Tenma should have looked for Shinsuke first. Shinsuke was his safety net, his defender then goalkeeper, his very first best friend, his first revolutionary ally. A selfish part of him craved that stability – wanted to skip this whole confrontation, go to the entrance ceremony, and just be two happy recruits to a once-legendary-now-skeleton Raimon soccer team. But whereas Shinsuke was safe, blissfully ignorant of their upcoming battles, Tenma couldn’t – 

He was never good at walking away. 

And Kyousuke needed him. Now.

“Soccer is worthless,” Tsurugi’s voice was cold and sharp as a blade, grinding his cleat into the ball. His eyes fixed on the clubhouse – that weathered building that held the soul of Raimon’s team past and present (and future and future-past). “In this world, everything is decided for you. Your wins, your losses... even your dreams.”

He pulled his leg back, and the air around him began to crackle with an eerie, indigo light. 

“That’s a pretty dramatic monologue for someone who secretly practices his dribbling at the riverbank at 2 AM,” Tenma teased before his brain could filter his mouth.

…

…

… Ah, oops.

Tsurugi froze, the indigo light flickering. 

Coach Kudou blinked. 

Even the moans of the injured seniors ceased as every head turned toward the intruder. Some looked incredulous at his words; Tsurugi looked murderous.

​His eyes narrowed into a glare that could have withered a normal first-year. “Who the hell are you?” he spat.

​Your best friend and captain.

Who really needs to watch his mouth moving forward, Tenma thought, cringing internally. Like seriously, Tenma? Don’t banter with an angsty emo-Kyousuke before his redemption arc. 

But the challenge was issued, even if unknowingly on Tsurugi’s part, so he stepped onto the pitch, ignoring the alarmed looks and half-aborted protests of the fallen players and managers. 

He stopped a polite distance away from Tsurugi – far enough from a physical strike as emo-Kyousuke was quite easily triggered, the stupid wannabe delinquent, but close enough to snatch the ball with a hissatsu should Tsurugi continue to torment the second team. With his hands shoved in his pockets, Tenma offered a smile. “I’m the guy who’s gonna make you play real soccer.”

Tsurugi sneered, opening his mouth to snap a retort, when suddenly –

The air thickened with a jagged aura, triggered without Tsurugi’s consent.

It was familiar. 

Oppressive yet protective, lethal yet never harmful, vowed to never harm him ever again, from a future-past that Tsurugi shouldn’t know about and yet – 

Oh. Lancelot…?

Tenma’s aura spread out in response – helplessly hopeful, as always, for what else could he ever be? He would’ve broken long ago, otherwise – warm, golden, and radiant like a sunset over a riverbank.

It was a pressure Tsurugi hadn’t felt in this lifetime, yet it felt so familiar and terrifyingly safe. 

Who is this? He unconsciously took a step back. He’s not a Seed. Gaping at the small, unassuming, brown haired boy before him, a novice, weak, a mere pebble on the pitch, yet somehow Tsurugi couldn’t even bear the thought of trampling him aside.

Tenma stepped forward, closing the distance, and then – the resonance surged.

Within Tsurugi’s soul, Sword Saint Lancelot roared.

Within Tenma’s heart, Demon God Pegasus unfurled his wings.

The two Keshins didn’t manifest physically, but their spirits slammed into one another in the ethereal plane. The s p a r k was a wild, kaleidoscopic rush of a future that didn’t exist yet. 

It was the smell of the grass at the Holy Road finals. It was the immense joy of his older brother standing on his own two feet. It was the wondrous yet freezing, desolate vacuum of space. It was the warmth of Tenma’s hand within his as they combined their strengths to unleash Fire Tornado DD. It was the bellow of a stadium in the Jurassic era. It was the heavy, royal gold of the King’s crown and the silver flash of a knight’s armor in a war-torn France. It was the phantom pressure of the Miximax – the strange, exhilarating sensation of his power merging with the soul of the great Okita Souji. It was the blinding white light of the Chrono Stone era ending and the terrifying expanse of the Grand Celesta Galaxy. 

It was the silence. 

It was the final whistle of their greatest battle. It was the cheers and the cries of victory and relief, and they were going home –

(Following the voice that always seemed to shadow their journey, repeatedly praying for them to “come home, please just come home –”)

And they were – they finally were – 

​Tsurugi gasped, his body shuddering as the Ultimate Eleven timeline slammed into his brain. The energy for his shoot hissatsu, already disturbed by Tenma’s teasing, fizzled into nothing such that he was left standing over a mundane soccer ball.

We were going home, Tsurugi’s mind screamed. We were finally going home, then what – why am I – ?

He looked down at his trembling hands, small, too small, unscarred, then looked at the groaning Raimon players surrounding him and horror washed over him. He… he was holding a weapon again. He was the villain. He was the monster who broke the sport he loved. Again.

Knees buckling, “Ah, I…” his cruel persona splintered instantly. Just what did he return to? His voice cracked and lost every bit of its rehearsed bite. “I – I’m sor –”

“Kyousuke.”

The name, spoken so soft and dearly, landed like a tether. 

Tenma was suddenly right there, his hand gripping Tsurugi’s shoulder. And what was Tsurugi to do? He instantly leaned into it, the grip of his best friend and captain who had steered a ship through a black hole and promised they’d come out the other side, and despite every doubt and logic, they always prevailed. 

Tenma’s eyes subtly darted around, alert and calculative. The second team had gathered outside of the pitch, their eyes pained but attentive, while nearby, Coach Kudou stood with his face as unreadable as always. Only the slight arch of a brow indicated his surprise at their interaction. He knew Ms. Otonashi would be arriving soon, likely trailed by the fat, sycophantic Principal and his assistant. 

Though Tenma couldn’t recall this morning in complete detail, wasn’t there also a man from Fifth Sector present…? 

Ah. There. 

A suit stood at the sidelines, nondescript and casual, pretending he wasn’t capturing everything in vivid detail of Raimon’s humiliation for his higherups, and Tenma had a passing thought of sending a shoot his way. 

Because Tenma knew. 

Knew his primary function was to determine Tsurugi’s performance. 

Tenma shifted his position subtly, just enough to shield his grip on Tsurugi’s shoulder from the overseer’s line of sight.

He couldn’t reveal their closeness. Not yet –

This wasn’t just a random assault on Raimon; it was Tsurugi’s final exam. Fresh out of the hell of God Eden, Tsurugi was being watched to ensure he acted like a proper Seed. One instance of his real, virtuous self, one overflowing with love for soccer and his teammates, and he’d be shipped straight back to that island.

– still, Tenma allowed one reassuring squeeze on Tsurugi’s shoulder. It was a grounding pressure, an anchor meant to keep the striker from spiraling into a public breakdown. Save it for later, he tried to convey silently. I will catch you when we’re alone.

Their eyes locked.

“Tenma, what’s going –”

“Don’t change anything.” Tenma interrupted, his commanding voice cutting through Tsurugi’s ragged muttering.

Tsurugi recoiled, his eyes wide and aghast, but Tenma stepped into his space. To an outsider, it looked like a confrontation – a brave first-year standing up to a bully – while Tenma hurriedly whispered directly into the striker’s ear.

“I know it hurts. I know you want to scream, but not yet. Not yet, Kyousuke. Please. If the timeline shifts too much, we could lose the chance to save everyone. We could lose you in Raimon.” 

Tenma would sooner level the school with his Keshin than let that happen.

If the school didn’t exist, what hold did Fifth Sector have on them? Besides, the soccer team lived for months camping outdoors or in stadiums. 

(No incident had ever escalated to the soccer club purposefully destroying the school, but they sure as hell toed the line oftentimes. Raimon was no stranger to the spotlight, but the post-Fifth Sector media frenzy was a total circus. Every sensationalist reporter was desperate for an interview with someone who had personally survived that abuse-in-the-name-of-training program. 

And who better than Tsurugi? The first former Seed that rebelled against them publicly.

And the school security? Oh, they just allowed a bunch of reporters to stalk Tsurugi in the gym, on the pitch, and even the hallways. 

Then, the one time a grown-ass adult tried to follow him into the bathroom – well. What bathroom? There was no bathroom left. No west-side walls, either. Just a God Wind that effectively separated a minor from a creepy adult. Followed by some Sidewinder-induced screams to further evict the creep from school grounds. 

Meanwhile, Tsurugi had been left standing in a third-floor bathroom that now featured panoramic ventilation. His hair billowed in the breeze as he watched the rest of the team pop out like disturbed hornets to amplify their loud fury. He just stood there for a long moment – unmolested, grateful, yet utterly exasperated by his teammates’ overprotectiveness – then buried his face in his hands.

As for the shitty, bribable, child endangering school security? What security? After this incident, everyone understood that soccer balls were very effective encouragements for resignations en masse.)

… Okay, dial it down, Tenma. 

He needed to keep a calm mind, and not think of a future-past incident that would justify a violent outburst now. As the captain who toned down other’s aggressive natures, he should not be emulating them the instant they’re not by his side. Better they don’t attract unnecessary attention at this moment. 

Tenma watched Tsurugi swallow hard, the agonizing conflict playing out behind his eyes for one final second before the mask slid back into place. Like a soldier returning to a losing front, Tsurugi forced his spine to straighten. His expression curdled into something arrogant and cruel, a transformation so immaculate that the members of the second team audibly flinched. But Tenma saw the way his gaze wavered as it landed on the clubhouse, the building Tsurugi was supposed to destroy.

Tsurugi was too shaken to even suggest their original one-on-one competition. 

Or perhaps, more likely, he didn’t dare create an opportunity where he might accidentally hurt Tenma. The clubhouse was an obvious substitute for Tenma if he needed to make a point. Even if it screwed with the order of the events.

Slightly irked that his order to not change anything was already being defied but grateful nonetheless, Tenma sighed. 

Oh, well. 

Tsurugi had always been more of a friend than a follower during his captaincy. 

So Tenma promised when Tsurugi’s hesitation lasted a bit too long, “we’ll rebuild it.” 

Just like Before.

Tsurugi didn’t nod, but the words were the push he needed. 

There was a heavy thud that vibrated through the grass and into the soles of Tenma’s shoes as the ball became a white blur – a projectile of pure, kinetic force.

Screams of outrage and horror came from the second team. 

It struck the side of the clubhouse with the ferocious crack of a gunshot, a large section of the exterior wall buckling inward before tearing free and collapsing into the dirt in a cloud of splinters and dust. The rest of the building groaned, leaning precariously as the structural damage settled, but the frame held. It remained standing, scarred and open to the elements, but still there.

Tenma’s breath shuddered.

The second team could only see the assault and destruction – not the resilience, not how the old clubhouse still stood like a single flag waving high above the wreckage, a banner of their revolution. As the ball bounced back towards the center circle, the witnesses went numb from the raw, chilling display of strength. No middle schooler should be able to do that much damage with a normal kick.

Thankfully, the collective focus was on the clubhouse, such that no one noticed the deathly pallor of Tsurugi’s skin or the tremor in his hands.

Well, Tenma glanced toward Coach Kudou. Unlike the panicked students, the coach was staring directly at the two of them. Hopefully no one else noticed. 

“You guys!” came a stern voice from the embankment above. Both Tenma and Tsurugi turned toward it like flowers to rain after a long drought – how could they not? – because that voice – “What do you think you’re doing on the soccer club’s sacred grounds?!”

Before Tenma.

Before anyone else who held that heavy armband. 

– that was their Captain.

“Shindou-kun!” Ms. Otonashi exclaimed and Tenma didn’t even notice her arrival, next to Coach Kudou.

“I’m Raimon Jr. High’s captain, Shindou Takuto. And these are…” Figures began to materialize behind him, the morning sun casting long, impressive shadows that gave them a legendary aura. “The Raimon Eleven!” Shindou finished, his voice ringing out loud and dramatically.

Tenma stared at him. Intensely amused, though he tried to show proper admiration as a typical first-year soccer freak would for Raimon’s captain – no, bad mouth, don’t twitch up, ohgoddon’tlaughdon’tlaugh – cause wow. As expected of one of the club’s drama queens. 

Beside him, Tsurugi simply dropped his face into his hands with a groan.

Leading Raimon’s first team down onto the pitch was Shindou, his face a picture of cold, aristocratic fury, but beneath it, Tenma could see the agitation of a boy whose world was built on a fragile foundation of stability and order.

A world that was currently being tested, first by Coach Kudou’s nonchalant observation of Tsurugi. “He’s likely someone sent in from Fifth Sector.”

Then from the invaders themselves, “I’ve been ordered to reform the Raimon’s soccer club. The whole lot of you are getting pitched with the rest of the trash.” As Tsurugi spoke, the Black Knights emerged from the shadows of the school buildings. “Let me introduce you – this is the new Raimon Eleven. They’re your replacements.”

With the pressure only mounting further as Chairman Kinzan stepped forward, flaunting Fifth Sector’s stamped order like a trophy rather than the scrap of garbage it truly was.

And finally, with Tsurugi’s ultimatum: “A match,” he ordered.

Though his voice lacked the arrogance of the original timeline, replaced by a grim, focused intensity, it still made Shindou scowl. “If the elite Raimon can stay on their feet for thirty minutes, I’ll reconsider tearing this club down.”

A pivot from a time traveler forcibly locked in a villain’s role. Wherein only his mouth was capable of delivering a hidden mercy. 

Just thirty minutes. Not an entire match.

It meant less time for the Seeds to inflict physical damage and less time for the score to become an insurmountable humiliation.

With a much kinder and easier win condition for the soccer club to survive. 

Tenma didn’t exactly like it, this deviation from the original timeline, but understood this was something Tsurugi needed. Nevertheless, both Tsurugi and Tenma knew the challenge would likely still be too high a mountain for the current Raimon team. 

Tenma was counting on it. 

Tenma stood on the sidelines of the gymnasium, his heart heavy as he observed the play-by-play. This was no match. Only a public execution. The gap in power was staggering – expected, yes, but still cruel to witness. Especially for a second time. Fifth Sector was looking for a scapegoat to display its dominance, and the legendary Raimon was the perfect target. While the Chairman maneuvered to dismiss Coach Kudou, the students in the stands were blissfully unaware of the politics of this practice match, cheering as if this were nothing more than a spectacular family feud.

The Black Knights played with the ruthless indoctrination of Fifth Sector – powerful, efficient, and incredibly dirty. They bulldozed through the field, using shoulders and elbows as much as their feet.

Save for Tsurugi, of course. 

He still played well, no question about that; he couldn’t afford to be halfhearted with Fifth Sector’s overseer, turned coach, watching from the bench. Even taking a couple of shots that turned into goals. No Death Sword from him, though. Just like with Tenma, Tsurugi refused to accidentally harm Sangoku; because of that restraint, the goalkeeper actually managed to stop a few of his shots. Unlike the original timeline, it was the other Seeds who hurled the taunts, allowing Tsurugi to return to his position after every goal, silent and blank-faced – a good soldier merely awaiting the final whistle. 

To anyone other than Tenma, however, the concentration on his face didn’t even hint of his changed alliances; after all, he was a reluctant but still active participant in replacing their beloved club.

The scoreboard read –

0 - 5

– not in favor of Raimon. 

When Amagi moved to block Tsurugi’s solo charge, the striker simply pivoted. He used his superior speed to bypass the defender without even a brush of contact.

No brush of contact meant no injuries.

0 - 6 

The other Seeds weren’t so careful. Despite the size differences of some of them – no, because there was a size difference – they moved to exploit different areas. Amagi as the tallest and bulkiest defender took a barrage of elbows to the ribs, while Kirino and Kurumada were thrown to the ground with shoulder checks, becoming open season to be trampled on by the other Seeds running alongside the one bringing the ball up. 

0 - 7

Tenma gritted his teeth. Not enough.

0 - 8

This wasn’t the show they needed, and the clock was a looming threat. Tsurugi’s kind ultimatum was backfiring on them. Tenma remembered that Shindou hadn’t manifested his Keshin until near the final minutes of the second half and only after Tenma himself had become a human punching bag for the downed first team.

“Kyousuke, damn it.” Tenma muttered. What do I do?

If Shindou failed to manifest his Keshin, what then? Would the Raimon soccer club truly be replaced? Would Tsurugi be reassigned to terrorize another school? 

No. No, that can’t happen.

“This is a disaster!” the announcer cried. “Raimon is getting hit one-sidely with goals!”

0 - 9

Tenma turned towards Coach Kudou, intending to demand his way onto the field like before – if Shindou won’t show his Keshin, he will! He has a perfectly functional Keshin he could call on-demand! Interruption points and butterfly effects be damned – but faltered when he found the man already staring at him. “Coach Kudou?”

“Raimon will lose at this rate.” He said, monotone, sounding more like a bored outsider than the club’s longtime protector. As if he didn’t care that Fifth Sector would swallow the team whole, stripping mere junior high kids down to their marrows until Raimon lost everything that made them Raimon. 

It was an obvious conclusion. Tenma had known it before the first whistle of this practice match yet flinched despite himself. 

“No,” he growled. An instinctive reaction. 

This was his team – future, past, and present – and as long as he still stood, Raimon would not lose. 

Never to Fifth Sector. 

Never to anyone that sought to destroy soccer. 

And certainly never when his friend was out there destroying himself again. 

“I won’t let that happen. Please, put me in.”

“No.”

Tenma jerked back, stunned. No? When Before, Coach Kudou had practically thrown a beginner in? “What? W – why?”

Instead of answering, Coach Kudou narrowed his eyes. “Your name?”

“Matsukaze Tenma.”

“And how do you know Tsurugi?” 

“That’s,” Tenma opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He couldn’t exactly say oh, this is our second time re-living this event, and no worries, we’re not freaked out a bit at all ‘cause we’re experienced time travelers; actually, most of Raimon will be. “He’s my friend.” Tenma said instead, “We’ve played together, and I know he’d never willingly do this.” There. That should be vague enough. 

“And how do you know that? From what I saw, he wasn’t gentle with the second team.”

“He can’t be – not without consequences.” Tenma said firmly. 

Tenma was growing frustrated with the unsubtle interrogation. Coach Kudou was trying to sniff out if Tenma was another Seed – an understanding suspicion considering how he had interacted with Tsurugi thus far – but still frustrating. This was no time to justify Tsurugi’s actions nor could he reveal that Tsurugi was being blackmailed with his older brother’s operation; that was his secret to reveal. 

(It had taken until nearly graduation before Tsurugi trusted Raimon enough to tell them about the blackmail during a reunion match at the riverbank. Even then, the dense bastard was surprised by the protective anger from his friends and seniors, as if they hadn’t already forgiven him for his actions as a Seed long before the confession. It was a great team bonding exercise stopping the delinquent members of the club from torching the remnants of Fifth Sector, all of whom were in jail, when really, they should’ve been more concerned about the parental squad who promised worse than murder.) 

But for all that to happen, his friend needed to be at Raimon first. And that meant Tenma playing in this farce of a match!

“Aaand that’s another GOAL! The Black Knights are unstoppable! This is the fourth goal by their captain!” 

0 - 10

Tenma turned at the whistle to find the ball nestled inside the net, Sangoku and the defenders collapsed on their hands and knees with their breaths ragged. Exhausted. It wasn’t difficult to picture their faces painted in despair. Only Shindou remained upright, though he too was on his knees, his face bearing a hopelessness Tenma remembered all too well from Before. Before the team rallied together, their hearts branded by revolution and their love for soccer. 

Tsurugi turned silently back toward the halfway line, his hands trembling so violently he had to shove them into his pockets. On the verge of a panic attack for he too must’ve realized his ultimatum was backfiring. With less than five minutes until the thirty-minute mark, not a single member of Raimon had any fight left. 

None of them were on their feet. 

Tenma could no longer wait. 

Turning back to the bench, he pleaded. “Coach Kudou, please! Put me in! Raimon,” and Tsurugi “cannot fall here!!”

And his Keshin’s aura burst forth in response, an intense pressure that made Coach Kudou stiffen and even had Ms. Otonashi gaping. The presence resonated through the building, a war cry of putmeinputmeinPUTMEIN! amplifying as he and Demon God Pegasus chanted together.

“O – Oh? Something seems to be happening on Raimon’s sidelines.” The announcer said nervously. 

What was happening? 

A wave of confusion swept through the building, from the audience – who had long since stopped cheering for what had turned from a family feud into a massacre – to the smirking Seeds and the broken Raimon players. All eyes were on the brown-haired first-year staring down Coach Kudou. The pressure filled the air, thick enough to make every breath feel heavy and labored. It was an instinctual sensation that left the room unsettled. Who wouldn’t be? When the source disrupting one’s essential function like breathing was a power foreign to almost everyone present – save for Tsurugi, who whispered, “Tenma,” like a prayer.

That was his captain. The captain of the strongest eleven in history. 

And Coach Kudou, like countless others, folded before Tenma. “Fine. Matsukaze Tenma, put on one of the spare uniforms.”

“Coach Kudou? What are you thinking?” Ms. Otonashi was the first to break from the trance. “He hasn’t even taken the steps to join the club yet!”

However, Coach Kudou had made his choice. He was a man who had gambled on Endou Mamoru and Raimon before, drawn in by their passion and their capacity for forgiveness. He could only hope this new Raimon would forgive him if this decision backfired, but as he watched Tenma’s face light up with relief and a strange, familiar trust – as if he knew him – the doubt diminished. And diminished further when Tenma dressed quickly into Raimon’s uniform, his posture relaxed and confident, as if this was always supposed to be. 

So it’s with a clear voice that he made the official call, “Switch players! In place of Minamisawa Atsushi is Matsukaze Tenma!”

“Oh? Who is that wearing the Raimon uniform? It looks like a new member candidate!” The announcer questioned for everyone. 

“Tenma?” Aoi exclaimed from the audience. 

Coach Kudou watched as the boy stepped onto the pitch, his eyes never leaving Tsurugi. Something was happening. Whatever history existed between Tsurugi and Matsukaze that he wasn’t privy to, it was powerful enough to send a visible chill down his arms. Like a physical spark igniting, that he could only catch the edges of, leaving him with a faint smile. 

It felt familiar. Safe. 

Like Endou, somehow. 

And that could only mean good tidings for Raimon.

“The new player, Matsukaze Tenma, has entered the pitch! Just what does Coach Kudou have planned?”

Raimon’s first team immediately crowded him, their jerseys soaked in dirt and sweat, and every exposed skin was bruised from the Black Knights’ rough play. Despair had finally been replaced by something else on their faces. Unluckily for Tenma, though, it was anger – a volatile mix of exhaustion and deep-seated frustration from Fifth Sector’s passive oppression turned into active destruction. They were feeling helpless. And Tenma was an easy target.

“What are you doing here, kid?” Kurumada demanded, stepping into Tenma’s path. “Go back to the bench right this instant!”

“We don’t have time to look out for a first-year.” Amagi added. 

“Coach must be out of his fucking mind.” Kurama hissed and looked Tenma up and down, his expression downright venomous. “Replacing Minamisawa-san? That’s an insult to the entire team. And you! How dare you use this sorry excuse of a match to show off?!” 

The accusation was understandable – after all, what sane soccer player would insert themselves into a match with such a hopeless score? Other than for personal gain or a cruel joke, both at the team’s expense? – and Tenma forced himself to ignore the flash of pain it caused. He had expected this. They hadn’t accepted him yet, no matter how much he already viewed them as his team, his home, so he remained silent and endured their vitriol. He knew that for many of his seniors, this hostility was merely a mask for concern; they were good people lashing out because they couldn’t bear to see a first-year targeted by the Seeds. Better to chase him off the field themselves – better to hurt him first – than to let the Black Knights do something far worse.

Endure it, Tenma. They need this. 

First, they’ll lash out towards him. Then he and Shinsuke. Then he, Shinsuke, Shindou, and Sangoku. 

Only then, would their anger be properly channeled towards the real villains of this story. 

Shindou finally put the insults to rest with a sharp, “Stop it. It’s the coach’s decision.” 

Kirino nodded in support, and both boys moved to form a physical barrier between Tenma and the rest of the team despite their own disapproval of the substitution. 

But as they drew near, they flinched.

Tenma could feel his Keshin reaching out on purpose at each of the Raimon players, hoping to trigger another resonance, and he blinked at their reactions. 

And the others’ non reactions. 

Why was it only Shindou and Kirino? In the original timeline, everyone except Kurumada had eventually awakened a Keshin (though not mastered) prior to their graduation from Raimon, but if the resonance was limited to these two and Tsurugi… 

The Chrono Storm team. And Fei. 

They were Tenma’s most recent memories. Also amongst the fragments Tsurugi had recalled during their resonance. The Ultimate Eleven was a catalyst, somehow. In that case, were Shinsuke and Nishiki the only others in Raimon capable of resonance and gaining memories of that timeline? What about the Chrono Storm players from other teams? There were too many questions and not the time to hypothesize.

Still, Kirino responding to the Keshin was a definitive change in the timeline – and a potentially major one. Tenma would bet his monthly allowance that Shindou – and only Shindou – awakening his Keshin during this practice match was supposed to be an interruption point, but if there was more? 

… Well, so what? 

If there were more ripples forming, so be it.

The current Raimon would only benefit from more Keshin users this early. 

Besides, Fei had once mentioned offhandedly that changes at interruption points acted as glaring red flags in the time stream; these ripples should actually make it easier for him to track down wayward time travelers.

“It’ll work out. It’ll work out somehow,” Tenma murmured, a comfort for himself as much as for his team.

Tenma took his position at the halfway line, facing Tsurugi. Kurama held the ball and, despite his reluctance, would be forced to pass to Tenma when the whistle blew. Tsurugi had spent the entire match as a blank-faced soldier of Fifth Sector, playing on a cold sort of autopilot, but with Tenma standing across from him, his focus finally returned.

“Fight me with everything you have,” Tenma commanded. I will respond in kind.

Keshin vs. Keshin. 

Let’s make this a spectacle to save you. To save Raimon. 

While Tsurugi’s expression shifted into one of determined understanding, the rest of the team blanched, their voices rising in a chaotic overlap of protests – “Hey, shut up, first-year!” and “Don’t antagonize the scary Seed!” and “It’s all oveeerrr! NOOO!” – that Tenma ignored. 

They would understand soon enough.

For a long moment, Tsurugi just stared at him. Then, his mouth quirked into a smile – crooked, but genuine. “Big words for an amateur. You better not fall after the first exchange.” It was as much a taunt – a familiar banter of two teammates who had braved space and time together – as it was a desperate plea.

Win this. Keep standing. Raimon cannot lose. Don’t let Fifth Sector take me.

Tenma smiled back, baring his teeth. “Never.”

…

…

… Well, fuck.

Tenma had, perhaps, just a teensy bit overestimated himself. It was an embarrassing realization he’d never admit to any of his future-past, teasing assholes called teammates.

“And Matsukaze Tenma begins his debut with… Oh my! He kicks a glorious home run!” the announcer exclaimed, his voice a mix of amusement and horror. “Is this really the miracle Raimon was hoping for?”

“Fucking hell!” Kurama hissed from behind, his face contorting in disgust. “Are you even a soccer player?!”

Tenma gritted his teeth, his face burning. He scrambled to chase after the runaway ball, feeling utterly… off. Running to school in the morning was one thing; it was quite another to coordinate with a ball and twenty-one other players when his brain was still expecting the larger strides and lung capacity of a sixteen-year-old. Even his specialty in dribbling was amiss. He had tried a simple feint, but his limbs felt like lead weights, causing him to trip over his own cleats and sending the ball flying into the Black Knights.

How did Tsurugi handle this? 

Surely he was experiencing the same neurological disconnect. 

Turning toward his friend, Tenma watched as Tsurugi took possession of the ball and began a slow charge into Raimon’s territory. Not attempting any complex maneuvers. Actually, he hadn’t used a single hissatsu thus far. Tenma had initially pegged it as an act of kindness toward Sangoku, but was it actually… that Tsurugi couldn’t do them?

Even the way Tsurugi was dribbling… 

Oh, his immense speed was there. But now that Tenma looked closely, Tsurugi was essentially playing a game of kick-and-run, booting the ball into open space and just… sprinting after it before anyone else could react.

It was an inopportune moment, but Tenma couldn’t help it. A laugh bubbled up in his chest and escaped before he could stop it. 

Look at him! 

Tsurugi Kyousuke – the supposedly cool, terrifying model Seed of Fifth Sector, turned ace of Raimon and one of the strongest in history – was currently zigzagging through the field like a panicked deer!

On cue, Tsurugi accidentally booted a pass directly to a Seed. The Seed proceeded to bulldozer over a whimpering Hayami before being intercepted by Kurumada. It was a total mess. Tsurugi definitely hadn’t intended to pass, and the look of sheer frustration on his face, which others must’ve interpreted as him frustrated at Kurumada’s defense, caused more laughter to slip out of Tenma.

All of Raimon near him looked at him like he was crazy. 

Tsurugi’s passing glower towards him, however, confirmed that his friend knew exactly what he was laughing at. And would be serving sweet, petty revenge for it.

How scary! Tenma thought, still grinning. But hey, we can be amateurs together this time.

Alright. New plan. 

“Give me the ball, please!” Tenma shouted.

The ball had just landed on Hamano’s feet. Caught off guard by the jarringly loud yet polite request, Hamano kicked the ball towards Tenma without a second thought.

“Thank you!” Tenma chirped, not even looking back at his stunned senpai.

“Hey, Hamano, what are you doing?!” the rest of the Raimon team chorused, some scolding even further despite Hamano’s squawked “Don’t yell at me!” Waving his arms defensively, “He asked for it! It felt like I had to!”

This time, Tenma didn’t bother with fancy footwork or strategic positioning. He simply pivoted and charged straight at Tsurugi, completely ignoring the fact that the Black Knights’ captain wasn’t even in the direct path to the goal.

“Let’s go, Kyousuke!” 

Tsurugi nodded, planting his feet firmly, and released a guttural roar, “Come forth!” Pulling from the deepest dredges of his soul – from a well of overwhelming power, determination, and loyalty – dark, purple energy erupted from his shadow. It swirled into a vortex before coalescing into a towering, armored titan. ​“This is my Keshin, Sword Saint Lancelot!” Tsurugi announced, standing tall as his Keshin’s cape billowed in the wind of his own making.

The gymnasium fell into a terrified silence.

“Appearing on the field is the big talk among soccer players – the Keshin?!”

“There really are Keshin users…!” 

“It wasn’t just an urban legend?” 

​“A Keshin…! It’s real,” Shindou whispered, then seeing Tenma still sprinting forward, he screamed, “No! Get away from him, Matsukaze!”

​“No way!” Tenma shouted back. “It’ll be alright, Captain! Trust me!”

He didn’t flinch at the sight of the knight, nor did he slow his pace, his eyes fixed on Tsurugi with a burning fierce, ancient intensity. Like that of the sun. “I will protect soccer – and I will protect Raimon!”

​The air in the gymnasium fractured with his words. A blinding, golden light exploded from Tenma’s chest, so bright it forced all spectators to shield their eyes, as Demon God Pegasus manifested. His Keshin’s wings unfurling sent a shockwave through the stands. 

The Black Knights gaped. 

Their arrogance, the smug certainty that their captain was about to crush the final spark of Raimon’s spirit, vanished instantly. None of them had awakened Keshins yet despite their brutal Seed training, and seeing one manifest from a clumsy amateur stunned them into stillness. Even the Black Knights’ coach lurched to his feet, his jaw dropping as he squinted through the golden glare.

From Raimon’s bench, Ms. Otonashi covered her mouth while Coach Kudou smiled. 

The two Keshins collided, their physical weight causing the entire building to groan and rattle. Dust shook from the rafters, and the scoreboard flickered violently. 

“AaaaaaAAAH! What’s happening?!?! An earthquake? A tornado?! Everyone, hang onto the seat in front of youuuu!”

It was a staged spectacle – for if anyone had been able to look past the loud, blinding clashes of shadow and light, they would have noticed that Tsurugi wasn’t even reaching for the ball. He stood his ground, voluntarily becoming a wall for Tenma to hammer upon. 

Because look.

Look at this boy’s power. Look at who you all laughed at and underestimated. 

Tsurugi was a graduate of God Eden, so his Keshin must be almighty, but look here. Look at what’s happening at this moment. Look! Fucking LOOK! This boy was capable of matching him.

Look at what was coming for you, Fifth Sector.

The display was so overwhelming that no one – not the Seeds, not the audience, not even Coach Kudou – noticed the two players on the field collapse.

Shindou and Kirino hit the floor simultaneously, their hands clutching their heads as if their skulls were splitting open. As once more, the s p a r k occurred. 

Violent, jagged flashes of a future-past began to seize the two. It was their soccer club being erased from existence. It was seeing their teammates but they were no longer their teammates, only victims of a future technology they could not comprehend. It was their beloved soccer being weaponized. Again. It was the blue caravan soaring through the clouds. It was Shindou leading the charge with the fierce spirit of Oda Nobunaga at his back. It was Kirino standing tall on a battlefield in France, his hands locked tight with Jeanne d’Arc as they raised their flags high. It was the physical weight of Keshin Armed, their spirits manifesting as suits of armor to repel the soldiers of Protocol Omega. It was Tenma wearing the captain’s band. It was Tsurugi tearing through every defense and goal as their ultimate ace. 

It was the impossible realization that they had already fought a war across centuries. 

And won. 

It was the final whistle and relief as they embraced each other, their juniors and hodgepodge members of the Ultimate Eleven because they were finally going home – 

(Following that voice, so haunting and familiar, that they’ve clung to like a lighthouse during their darkest hours. “Don’t get hurt. Don’t forget us – don’t you dare forget us!” That voice’s desperation always bled through the temporal static, “I know you’ll win and beat up all those bastards that stole our memories, that’s what we always do, right? But couldn’t you… couldn’t you do it faster? I… we all…”)

(“Tenma, Shinsuke, Kyousuke… Shindou-san, Kirino-san, Nishiki-senpai…”)

(“Please come home…”)

Yes, yes, yes! They were coming. They were flying through time and space as fast as they could, so please – whoever that voice belonged to – stop calling out to them like that, like you’re crying and have given up on them ever returning.

“Tenma,” Shindou gasped as Kirino echoed the call, his breath hitching as he looked at the other boy. “Tsurugi…”

What the hell was going on? Why were two of their first-years duking it out on the pitch? More importantly – where were they?

As they scanned their surroundings, they flinched each time from faces that felt more like ghosts. Like Coach Kudou on the bench. Like Minamisawa beside him. Like Mizumori. Tenma wasn’t wearing his usual number, and Tsurugi… Tsurugi wasn’t even wearing Raimon’s colors.

“What the fuck,” Kirino muttered. It was telling to how rattled Shindou was that he didn’t even think to reprimand his friend for cursing.

Shindou slowly straightened his back, closing his eyes and forcing his lungs to find a steady rhythm. He allowed himself exactly one second to freak out before he raised his head. He didn’t understand the how or the why of all this, but two of his first-years were locked in battle, everyone turned spectators, and that was unacceptable. Soccer was a team sport. And Raimon would never allow one of their own to fight alone.

As such, he moved forward. Relying on his friend to remain and defend their goal. 

This was still a match, and he was Raimon’s playmaker. What kind of playmaker stood still? 

“Tenma!” Shindou’s voice cracked across the pitch, breaking the stunlock.

Tenma’s head snapped toward him, blinking, his eyes going wide. His face instantly beamed in joyreliefthankgoodness as Tsurugi’s shoulders slumped slightly; Shindou caught it all, years of playing together allowed this – and understood enough. Tenma and Tsurugi were in on this together. Whatever this was. 

And what a farce it was. 

Tenma specialized in dribbling, and Tsurugi was better at ball juggling. If Tenma really wanted to pass, he would’ve used his speed, not stay locked into an opponent, and Tsurugi would’ve taken the ball by now. 

So Shindou wasn’t surprised when the ball was sent his way.

“Captain!” Tenma shouted.

Alright, he could work with this. 

Though, he spared a silent, weighty stare at the two first-years; they were gonna have a long conversation later, because it was always, always the first-years somehow at the center of the more supernatural type of chaos Raimon experienced. 

But as Shindou took his first step with the ball, he was immediately hit by a jarring wall. He wasn’t moving as fast. Nor could his stride cover the distance he expected. And his coordination completely faltered. The ball slipped from his radius, rolling right toward a defender Seed who was already closing in to intercept. Gritting his teeth, Shindou ran the mental calculations to adjust for his shorter legs and weaker bursts of speed, recalibrated his center of gravity, and it showed. 

His next step was infinitely smoother. 

Snatching the ball before the Seed reached it, Shindou spun past them in one fluid motion.

Tenma: “...” 

Tsurugi: “...”

Prodigy bullshit strikes again, they both thought. 

As they were still focused on not tripping over their own feet. Now, feets. Since the two first-years were practically attached to each other to maintain the fierce rivalry act.

“I am Raimon’s Captain,” Shindou said, words from a past timeline repeated, but no less meaningful; his conviction fueled him until he roared. “I will protect everyone!”

It was the same conviction he held when Tenma first threw himself into this match in the past, beaten black and blue, but refusing to stay down. His Keshin sang in response, a soaring melody of silver and gold. Being the captain was a burden. An honor. Either way, it was a weight he would gladly die carrying.

“This is my Keshin! Instrumental Maestro!” 

The air behind Shindou fractured as a towering, four-armed figure materialized, draped in a conductor’s coat. Maestro swiped his glowing baton with the absolute authority of a conductor readying himself for a grand opening as a flurry of golden musical notes swirled around his form. 

The gymnasium erupted. 

“Even Raimon’s Captain Shindou has unleashed his Keshin!”

The Raimon players were caught between confusion and wondrous awe, but on the sidelines, the Fifth Sector’s coach spread his arms wide, his face twisted in ecstasy. “Lancelot has awakened Shindou-kun’s hidden nature deep in his heart!” To the Fifth Sector, this was a successful experiment. They had been monitoring Shindou for years, and this was simply the awakening they had anticipated – an expected, though with a slight variation, result. 

They completely disregarded Tenma as an anomaly. 

Shindou sprinted toward the goal. With his Keshin’s power surging through him, the remaining Seeds were trivial. He reached the goal, uncontested, and channeled every once of his strength into his leg, “Let this be the opening note of our revolution! Fifth Sector – you will never silence us again! Harmonics!”

The ball became a blur of musical energy, tearing through the air and slamming into the back of the net. No one was expecting a Keshin shoot, especially from someone supposedly newly awakened, much less the goalkeeper, who didn’t even have time to put up a hissatsu. 

1 - 10

“GOOOAL!” the announcer cried, his voice cracking as if he were on the verge of tears. “Raimon has finally struck back! A miracle has occurred in the face of absolute despair!” 

Tenma could only laugh, helpless before the surge of cheers and joy from all of Raimon. He couldn’t even be mad at Shindou’s extended prodigy bullshit showing. Like WTF? A full-blown Keshin shoot right out of the gate when he and Tsurugi couldn’t even dribble properly?!

Like seriously? Core Timeline, get fucked! 

Tsurugi sighed and lowered his head, hiding his own smile. 

Both decided to ignore their captain’s cringey epic monologuing. 

Even the Fifth Sector’s coach had to practically pick his own jaw up off the floor. For a few tense seconds, the man just stared at the smoking net in stunned, wide-eyed silence. Then swallowing his shock, he smoothed his suit jacket and his expression resetted back to a cold, professional detachment. “That’s enough,” he said. “The match is over. We’re withdrawing.”

“The Black Knights are leaving the match incomplete!” The announcer stammered, confused at the turn of events; as were the audience and Raimon players, but the latter’s confusion was quickly replaced by sheer, bone-deep relief. 

The Black Knights retreated without protest, though unlike the original timeline, many wore visible grimaces of frustration and dread. This match had ended with a goal scored against a team of Seeds; an unthinkable failure in the eyes of Fifth Sector, and Tsurugi could already imagine the punishment awaiting them. 

… Would he also be punished? 

But that would mean… Tsurugi felt his stomach churn. That would mean following them, away from Raimon… 

Afterwards, would they even allow him back? 

The coach paused at the threshold, casting a long, deliberate stare back at him.

He should respond. He should bow his head, accepting of the silent command, he should – he should leave – and yet, his legs, trembling as they were, remained rooted to the spot, remained rooted to Raimon’s field. 

What should he do? What could he do? 

His spiraling thoughts suddenly halted when a hand clamped onto Tsurugi’s wrist. The grip was tight and bruising. Desperate. Tsurugi spun around, “Wha – ?” 

“Stay,” came Tenma’s command.

Tsurugi felt locked in place by Tenma’s narrowed eyes – stay, don’t go, don’t, don’t you dare fold to them. You already defied my order to not change anything, so you better listen to me now – and Tsurugi knew with certainty that if Fifth Sector’s coach even so much as grunted to force him off the pitch, to follow him, Tenma would launch a ball right at the man’s face.

Just like that, all of Tsurugi’s hesitation vanished. 

But for only a fraction of a second before Tenma’s knees buckled beneath him. 

“Tenma!” Tsurugi dove forward to catch him but wasn’t fast enough to stay upright; the sheer, dead weight of his friend sent them both crashing onto the ground. 

Nearby, a heavy thud echoed, followed by concerned shoutings of “Shindou!” and “Captain!” from Raimon. 

Once he’d checked that Tenma was only sleeping, exhausted from summoning his Keshin – cause, right, memories gained otherwise, Tenma and Shindou at this moment did not have the Seed durability of his body; of course they’d collapse – Tsurugi exhaled and shifted slightly so Tenma’s head was tucked more comfortably against his shoulder. 

A shadow fell over them. 

Tsurugi looked up, finding Coach Kudou with Shindou in his arms. At his side was Ms. Otonashi and Kirino. While the club’s advisor looked worried, eyes flicking towards him as if he was some rapid animal, viable to attack at any moment, Kirino was calm, offering Tsurugi a small, tired smile. 

Kirino-san, Tsurugi mouthed. 

And was awarded with that smile widening. 

Thank goodness. They were – they were still – they still saw him as one of theirs; regardless of when and where they returned to, wherein he was once more firmly in Fifth Sector’s grasp. 

“Can you carry Matsukaze to the infirmary?” Coach Kudou asked.

Tsurugi blinked, taken aback at the request.

“Wait, Coach Kudou? Why would you…” Ms. Otonashi cut herself off, likely not wanting to question the man trusting this Seed before said Seed. 

But Tsurugi didn’t mind. 

The building was empty of the Black Knights and Fifth Sector’s coach; they just left him behind. Not that it was an issue, considering Fifth Sector usually delivered their orders via text rather than face-to-face, and Tsurugi could only hope that that meant Raimon’s infiltration was next in his query. Like Before. And like Before, everything would work out somehow. Either way, there was no more need to keep up the charade. He hadn’t been a Seed for years, and it was tiring and painful to don that mask on once more. And though durable, he still felt the exhaustion of summoning Lancelot and even just thinking about all the time traveling complications to come… yeah. Screw all that. 

Mechanically following orders at this moment sounded far more appealing. 

“Yes, Coach,” Tsurugi said quietly.

Ms. Otonashi’s eyes widened in shock, and Coach Kudou’s brow raised. 

Tsururgi had to pause at that. What? Why were they looking at him like…? 

Ah, damn it. His personality shift must’ve been too abrupt. 

Hiding a wince, Tsurugi ignored the awkwardness and moved to hoist Tenma onto his back. It took longer than it should have because the idiot would not let go. Even unconscious, Tenma’s grip was like a vice, his fingers sure to leave a hell of a bruise, but given the way Tenma had looked at him before collapsing… well, if their roles were reversed, if any of Raimon were about to leave… Tsurugi would’ve done worse than a bruise. 

As they began to move, Kirino subtly placed himself between Tsurugi and the adults. Reaching out and giving Tsurugi a firm, grounding pat on the arm, Tsurugi felt a warm caress from Brynhildr through the touch. 

“Don’t worry,” Kirino whispered, his voice low enough for only Tsurugi to hear. “I’ll stay with you. We’ve got a lot to catch up on once they wake up.”

Tsurugi just nodded, allowing himself to lean into his senpai, reliable and steady as always, before tightening his hold on Tenma and heading for the infirmatory.

Extra: The Hunter 

He woke up screaming. 

A raw, ragged shriek ripped from his throat before his eyes could even adjust to the darkness. It was a violent, catastrophic uprooting from his rest – memories from a lost timeline slamming into his brain.

It was the team caravan flying away. It was him being left behind – nonono not again please don’t leave me not here not where it’s not safe – then there was that bitch – ! That bitch with the stupid fucking name smiling as she stole from him once more. Too weak. Too damn weak. Why else could he have fallen under that bitch’s mind control? Again? How could he have forgotten his family? AGAIN?!

The humiliation and desperation of it all burned through his veins, mutating his panic into a frenzied, clawing rage. 

He screamed and choked and sobbed. 

Without thought, his hands flew up and he began hitting himself – sharp, frantic blows to his own temples, his chest, tearing at his arms as if he could physically beat this accursed weakness right out of himself.

Suddenly, strong, unyielding arms encompassed him from behind.

His wrists were gathered and held flush together against his chest, completely restricting his movement to stop him from harming himself any further. He thrashed against the lock, throwing his weight around, but he was weakweakWEAK! He couldn’t even defeat the kids of his own age; what hope did he have against a fully grown adult?

So he screamed.

He screamed himself hoarse, trying to drown out whatever nonsense the man was whispering over his head, tearing his throat apart until his voice finally cracked. Until it left gaps for the man’s steady words to pass through.

“It’s alright, Masaki. It’s just a nightmare. It’s alright, I’m here. I’m here,” came the soothing murmur against his ear, entirely unshaken by his freak out.

Masaki’s breathing hitched.

Breathed in the warm, safesafesafe scent of expensive cologne and crisp paper. Though his fingers still trembled against his own chest, the frantic, self-destructive energy left him all at once.

Because that scent, that voice, belonged to –

“Hiroto-san…” he shakily whispered. This was his mentor – no, it was more than that. Masaki had memories where it was so much more. Where this man was, “D – Dad…”

The grip around him tightened for an instance, a breath that did not belong to Masaki hitching, before the hold softened into a protective embrace, still tight, but no longer restricting. “Yes, I’m here. Don’t be scared,” his father promised.

And what was he to do?

The jagged pieces of Masaki’s defenses faltered, then shattered completely. Collapsing backward into his father’s arms, he sobbed uncontrollably. He didn’t know exactly why he was sobbing; he just knew that he needed this. He needed many things. He needed his team. He needed to be strong. He needed – 

His eyes focused through the blur of tears, and he blinked. 

Then he blinked again, hard.

Because his room was entirely too sparse.

A faint, sluggish recollection reminded him that among the orphans at Sun Garden, he was one of the very few lucky ones to get a room entirely to himself. He had been older, notoriously difficult to manage, distrustful, cynical, so playful that bordered on outright bullying, and yet, he was favored. Look at exactly who his new father was, who was holding him right now. What other orphan could make the Kira Hiroto come running in the dead of night just to comfort them? Who else would Hiroto personally teach how to hack? And Nagumo Haruya would take out to the pitch for one-on-one soccer lessons, and Midorikawa Ryuuji would teach communication and social skills to?

For this single room, he remembered deeply appreciating the privacy back then. He had proudly decorated and defended this space, willfully ignoring the criticisms and bitter comments that the other kids purposely whispered loud enough for him to overhear.

But now... looking around the vast, quiet space, he absolutely hated it.

His eyes narrowed through the dim light, tracking over to a corner filled with his personal artifacts. They were packed away in plain, battered cardboard boxes – a lesson beaten into him long before he ever came to Sun Garden. He had learned from the mother who abandoned him, taking every single thing of value with her, and the useless father who had later stolen Masaki’s own piggy bank – the meager coins he’d scraped together doing odd jobs around the neighborhood. Swindlers, debt collectors, and thieves had picked clean whatever was left; as such, he understood. No one would look through cheap, ugly packages for his treasures. Inside those boxes was a hoard he’d randomly collected over the years – some items with actual value, some stolen to his shame, some literal trash kept out of stupid sentimentality, and some shiny rocks that had simply caught his eye.

(It was nonsensical, but Kariya remembered touching a weird, color-changing rock – a rock he’d come across randomly beneath a tree after yet another day where his team, his family – where Tenma, Shinsuke, Tsurugi, Shindou-san, Kirino-san, and Nishiki-senpai – was out there fighting another battle Raimon had no business leading. … and had that rock been floating?)

(And then he had woken up here – which how, why – ?)

There was a small rock by his pillow.

But, more importantly, there should be a bed in that corner.

This single room should feel crowded, borderline cramped. 

There should be scattered soccer balls, popped and deflated from hissatsu practices. There should be children’s books to be used as teaching material. And on the bed’s headboard, there should be an ugly, wingless white dragon plush, a deformed lizard thing with button eyes colored red with Sharpie. Masaki had won it at an arcade and gifted it for shits and giggles, only for it to be fiercely loved and displayed proudly.

On that second bed. The one that should be in this room, but wasn’t.

In an instant, the dizzying confusion of where he was and why he was back at Sun Garden when he should be at Raimon, why his hands felt smaller, vanished entirely from his mind. 

​And the only thing left was a terrifying, panic-inducing question:

​Where the fuck was his brother?

(His brother, who also boarded that accursed flying caravan –)

From deep within his chest, the dark shadows stirred, a hunter awakening, ravenous and ready to hunt once more.