Chapter Text
Isagi remembered his journey to become the world's best striker right from the begining.
Right from the moment he got that letter from Blue lock to where he is now. He couldn't help but chuckle at how soft he was back then.
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"You know me right?"
To say he was surprised was an understandment. Ryosuke Kira talking to him? Knowing who he even was?
"I totally remember you! You've got an awesome soccer sense!"
What that meant Isagi didn't even think Kira knew, but he was flattered to say the least.
Ryosuke Kira just praised me?!
"... Well let's go! I have no idea why they want us to gather here though. I tried calling but they wouldn't tell me."
"Is that so?" Isagi answered nervously, already feeling jittery from just the interaction.
"You don't need to talk so formally, we're the same age right? Let's get along Isagi!"
What a nice guy... I guess really talented people are nice too.
"Sure.." Isagi muttered, a rosy tint crawling up his neck to his cheeks.
If he's praising me... I must be pretty amazing, huh?
It had always been Isagi's dream to play soccer, ever since his parents had taken him to see a soccer match.
He had always been a shy, introverted kid who his behind his mother's back when others got too close.
It wasn't really helpful either that he was hyper sensitive to every sound or movement around him, sensing rain before it even came, or hearing the buzz of a mosquito in the air.
His mother used to always tell her freinds about how she could never get him to stop crying.
Sometimes he felt really embarresed hearing those words, but he was a kid back then, so what?
As he and Kira made their way inside, they were met with a swarm of people.
"Woah... It's so crowded..." Isagi exclaimed nervously, his eyes darting around to many of the unusual faces (though some were quite unusually attractive), scanning for a familiar face, though it seemed Kira had better luck than him.
"I've seen some of these guys before..." Kira murmured, seemingly just as overwhelmed as Isagi.
Kira listed off names Isagi didn't feel the need to remember, though his eyes did get attracted to a seemingly cute brunette in the corner standing with his arms behind his back, eyes lazy and sleepy.
He also noticed a tall spiky haired ginger standing next to the shorter gold eyed one, though he felt a shiver run down his spine as he turned around to see a lot of faces glaring at him.
He turned his attention to a guy who looked about his height, a guy with red hair cascading down his back.
Although he looked pretty, he did seem way too intimidating to talk to, so Isagi shifted his attention ot the front.
A tall, lanky man with a ferociously hideous bowl cut was standing there, adjusting his microphone.
"Congratulations, you unpolished lupms of talent." The man spoke, voice calm and raspy.
A shudder went through the whole facility as the voice of the man filled the large room.
Unpolished lumps of talent? What are we, some kind of tool for this guy?
"According to my personal judgement, the three hundred of you are the best strikers under eighteen." the man continued, before helpfully introducing himself.
"My name is Jinpachi Ego. I was hired to give Japan a world cup victory."
World cup victory?!
The word seemed to buzz around in nervousness around them, and Kira slowly turned to Isagi, lowering his voice.
"Who is that guy... Do you know him?"
"Nope... not at all..." Isagi answered plainly, feeling slightly less dumb now that he knew he wasn't the only one confused.
"I'll say this plainly. Only one thing is necessary for Japanese soccer to become the best in the world: The birth of a revolutionary striker, with the three hundred of you here... I will conduct a experiment to create the world's best striker."
Isagi couldn't help but stare, dumbfounded, completely entranced and filtering out everyone else but this Ego person.
"Look. This is the facility created for that purpose." He pointed at the screen behind him.
"Blue lock." He introduced it, his hand waving aimlessly at the picture behind him.
Weird name...
"Starting today, you'll all be living here together while undergoing the special training I devised."
Isagi blinked, not being able to get his eyes off the man speaking to them.
"You can't return to your homes, and this marks the end of your previous soccer careers."
So that's it? I come here and leave my whole soccer career behind not gaurenteeing that I will win?
"But I promise you this, whoever survives Blue lock... and outlasts the other two hundred ninety nine.... The last remaining person... Will become the world's best striker."
Glancing around, Isagi couldn't help but notice everyone else feeling as nervous as he was.
"That concludes my explanation. Thank you."
What?! What are we supposed to do now, just listen to him, just like that? Isagi panicked, his eyes wide. What's with this guy... What's he talking about...?
"Uhm! Excuse me! I can't consent to your explanation!" A wary voice said from beside him.
Kira had raised his hand to get Ego's attention, therefore also turning everyone else to look at them, making Isagi feel anxious and slightly nervous.
"Each of us have our own precious teams. And some of us are preparing for nationals. Running off to some place that makes no sense, I can't.... abandon my team to participate in that."
The finality in Kira's voice was absolute, his brows furrowing.
Many protests came around them, alot of people bent on the idea of Blue lock.
Yeah... Gathering us somewhere like this out of the blue... Talking about a world cup victory... Or "The Best in the World", I really don't get this crap at all...
"I see, you're all really sick, huh...."
"If you want to leave, I won't stop you. Go," Ego said darkly.
Everyone around Isagi—the chosen strikers included—shook.
"Your dreams are precious? Instead of be You’d rather be the best in a high school in our country? A soccer backwater? Huh? I look at people like you carrying the future of Japanese soccer, and it makes me sick. Everyone! You can say this is a gift."
"Listen. Japanese soccer's career will be the best in the world. You can say this is the gift of our country’s propensity for considering others," Ego said.
"But besides that, everything else is second-rate," Ego finished.
Ego seemed to stare deep into their souls.
"Let me ask you a question," he started.
"Just what is soccer? A sport in which eleven people combine their power? To endure for my friends' sake? Wrong."
Ego’s voice was like ice, cutting through the murmurs of the room. He leaned forward, the glow of the monitors reflecting in his glasses as he stared down the assembled players.
"And that’s why the 'countries game' has always been weak," Ego muttered, his voice dripping with a characteristic, clinical boredom.
He tapped a finger against the screen, pulling up a series of cold, hard statistics that flickered over their faces.
"Listen closely, you half-wits. Soccer is a sport in which you are meant to score more points than your opponent. That’s it. Whoever scores the most points is the best. It is a mathematical certainty, an absolute reality that doesn't care about your feelings or your teamwork."
He paused, his eyes narrowing as they landed on a few players who were standing a bit too close together, their shoulders brushing in a show of silent solidarity. A thin, mocking smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
"If you want to play at 'getting along' and forming little bonds of friendship," Ego continued, his tone turning sharp enough to draw blood, "then you are easily sorted into the trash heap. This isn't a social club. If you’re looking for a hug, go home. In Blue Lock, the only thing that exists is the goal and the ego required to claim it. If you can’t understand that, you’re already dead on the field."
The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of his words settling over the strikers like a physical pressure.
Isagi felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning in the room. He stared at the lanky, shadow-eyed man on the screen, his mind racing.
What’s his deal? Isagi thought, his grip tightening on the hem of his jersey. This guy is actually insane. He’s talking about football like it’s a war zone, not a sport.
He wasn't the only one feeling the pressure. Beside him, the air was thick with the scent of nervous sweat and shallow breathing.
He glanced sideways, seeing the way the others were reacting. Some players had their jaws set in defiance, but most were exchanging frantic, wide-eyed looks.
Isagi’s gaze drifted sideways toward the corner of the room, landing on the boy with the striking golden eyes he noticed earlier.
He was standing close to a taller, ginger-haired muscle monster who seemed just as tense as the rest of them.
The golden-eyed boy, however, didn't look afraid; he looked curious, his head tilted at an angle that made him seem like he was listening to a frequency no one else could hear.
He was slightly swaying on the balls of his feet, a restless, rhythmic movement that felt strangely out of place in the suffocating atmosphere Ego had created.
While everyone else was frozen in fear or confusion, this boy seemed to be vibrating with an internal energy, his pupils tracking Ego’s movements on the stage with a predatory focus.
Mr. ginger-haired muscle monster noticed Isagi’s stare and cast a sharp, warning glance back, his brow furrowed in a deep scowl.
But the boy with the golden eyes simply hummed a low, tuneless note under his breath. He seemed to be looking right through the crowd, his gaze eventually snapping over to Isagi.
For a split second, their eyes locked, and Isagi felt a jolt of recognition—not because he knew him, but because he saw the same spark of hunger reflected in those yellow depths.
"I disagree! Please, take that back!"
The shout shattered the tension, ringing out with a sharp, defiant edge.
Isagi jumped, his head whipping around to the source of the noise.
Standing just to his left was Kira, his usual calm and composed expression completely gone.
He looked absolutely furious, his eyes burning with a righteous anger that seemed to heat the air around them.
"Players like Honda and Kagawa... they’re the reason we play!" Kira continued, his voice rising as he stepped forward, challenging the screen.
"Those are the people we grew up watching. The Japanese national team, squads that cooperate and move as one—they are my heroes! You’re wrong to spit on that. Soccer is about eleven people battling together on that field, trusting each other to the end."
Kira’s chest heaved as he finished his outburst, his hands trembling with the force of his conviction. He turned to the players around him, looking for the same spark of loyalty in their eyes.
Ego reached up and scratched his head, his fingers tangling in his dark hair as he looked at Kira with a gaze that was more confused than insulted.
A moment of eerie stillness passed before he suddenly burst into a dry, mocking laugh that echoed harshly through the speakers.
"Honda? Kagawa?" Ego leaned closer to the crowd, his grin widening into something jagged and predatory.
"None of them have won the World Cup, right? Then they’re exactly the kind of trash I’m talking about. I’m interested in being the best in the world. Being 'good' is for people who are satisfied with losing politely."
He let the word trash hang in the air, a heavy insult that made Kira’s face turn an even deeper shade of red.
The other players stood paralyzed, their eyes wide as they watched the hero of their generation get systematically dismantled by a man who didn't even seem to care about his reputation.
"Get it through your heads," Ego continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss.
"While everyone else eyes the 'power of friendship,' the real monsters are looking at the goal. For example... do you even know what the best striker in the world, Noel Noa, said?"
He paused, his eyes scanning the room, relishing the way Isagi and the others held their breath.
"Instead of assisting my teammates to win by 1-0," Ego quoted, his voice dripping with venomous delight, "I’d rather score a hat-trick and lose 3-4. That is the heart of a true striker. You see?"
Ego’s voice dropped, becoming a low, gravelly hum that vibrated through the speakers.
"Eric Cantona, the greatest soccer player of the 20th century, said it plainly: 'I don't care about my team. I just want to stand out.' And then you have the greatest of all time, the three-time World Cup winner, Pelé. When asked who the world's best forward, midfielder, or even goalkeeper was, his answer was always the same: 'Me.'"
He leaned back, his silhouette stretching tall against the wall behind him.
"The answer is still 'Me,' right? Because to those guys, being number one wasn't a goal—it was their entire identity. These men weren't just players; they were revolutionary strikers who set the world on fire because they had the ego to believe the pitch belonged to them and them alone."
"All of them," Ego said, his voice dropping to a dark, haunting whisper that seemed to echo in the corners of the room, "are peerless egoists. That is exactly what Japanese soccer lacks."
He looked out at them through the lens, his eyes wide and unblinking. "If you are not the world’s top egoist, you can never become the world’s best striker. It's that simple."
Isagi felt a cold sweat breaking across his skin.
What he’s saying... it has to be wrong, he told himself, his mind screaming against the logic.
Everything he had been taught since he first kicked a ball—teamwork, sacrifice, the "one for all" mentality—was being called a lie.
And yet, looking at the faces of the legends flickering on the screens, he couldn't find the words to argue.
"If you are not the world's top egoist, you can never become the world's best striker," Ego declared, his voice final and sharp.
"And I want to create someone like that in this country. I want to create a soccer machine... a monster filled with nothing but the hunger to score."
Ego’s speech finished, leaving a ringing silence in the room.
Isagi watched from the corner of his eye as the golden-eyed boy in the corner suddenly leaned over to the ginger-haired man next to him.
A strange, playful smirk danced on his lips, completely at odds with the suffocating tension everyone else was feeling.
"I'm sold," the boy whispered, though his voice carried in the quiet room.
"I like the sound of that 'monster' thing. It sounds like a blast."
He stretched his arms over his head, his joints popping, looking more like a cat waking up from a nap than a player about to enter a high-stakes survival camp.
He looked back at the screen where Ego's silhouette remained, his yellow eyes gleaming with a reckless sort of joy.
"I’m going to give it a think, but I’m still not totally sold on the 'machine' part," he murmured to himself, his grin widening.
"I don't want to be a robot. I just want to have fun. And if being a monster is the only way to have the most fun on the pitch... then I guess I'm in."
He nudged the ginger-haired man, who was still wearing a look of pure disbelief.
The ginger-haired muscle monster standing beside the golden-eyed boy stared down at him, his expression a mix of bewilderment and budding intrigue.
Kunigami had spent his whole life playing by the rules of sportsmanship and "fair play," yet here was this strange, flighty boy talking about monsters and fun while the rest of them were having an existential crisis.
He looked at the way the smaller boy moved—the fluid, almost feline grace and the way he seemed completely unbothered by Ego's threats.
Kunigami felt a strange tug of interest; he was slightly intrigued by the golden-eyed boy's personality.
In a room filled with suffocating tension and desperate strikers, there was something almost sweet about how genuine the boy was being.
He wasn't posturing or trying to act tough; he was just being himself.
Kunigami shook his head, trying to clear the thought.
What am I thinking? I just met this guy, he reminded himself, tightening his grip on his gym bag.
He didn't even know the kid's name, yet he found himself leaning slightly toward him, drawn in by that infectious, carefree energy.
"You think this is a joke?" Kunigami muttered, his voice deep and gravelly, though there was no real bite to it.
The golden-eyed boy just chirped a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Not a joke! Just a game, right? And games are better when they're exciting."
Isagi swallowed hard, the air in the room feeling like lead in his lungs.
Nobody has ever told me that before... he thought, and even his thoughts seemed to be trembling.
The image Ego had painted was horrifying—a lone hero standing atop a mountain of 299 corpses.
No way... I don't have any achievements to speak of. I'm just a nameless striker.
Ego’s eyes flashed with a sudden, sharp intensity behind his glasses, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd like a blade.
"Now, you lumps of talent," Ego hissed, his voice dripping with a clinical sort of disdain.
"Your past 'achievements' in your little high school leagues mean less than nothing to me. You’re all just raw material waiting to be processed."
He leaned forward, his silhouette looming over them from the giant stage, his fingers steepled in front of his face.
"Now, let me ask you one final question," Ego continued, his tone dropping to a low, dangerous hum.
"Imagine you are in the final match of the World Cup. 80,000 spectators are screaming in the stands, the atmosphere is electric, and the score is 0-0. The game has gone into overtime. It is the very last play of the match."
He paused, letting the weight of the scenario settle over the nervous teenagers.
"You’ve broken through the defense. You receive the ball. It’s just you and the goalkeeper. To your right, a teammate is wide open—if you pass, your team wins the World Cup for sure. But if you shoot, you alone become the miracle that changed history."
Ego’s grin widened, looking more like a tear in his face than a smile.
"But you gamble your nation's hopes and the certainty of victory just to shoot without hesitation?" Ego’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous gravel.
"Only those with that specific taste of crazy egoism may proceed ahead."
A wave of shivering ran through the crowd, Isagi included.
It wasn't just the cold air of the facility; it was the sheer madness of the philosophy being shoved down their throats.
Isagi looked at his hands, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Gamble everything? Even the win?
The thought was terrifying, yet a small, dark part of him felt a jolt of electricity at the words.
"I'll say this once more," Ego continued, his silhouette looming over them like a dark god.
"Soccer is a sport that exists for you strikers. Think of everyone else on the field beside yourself as nothing more than supporting actors."
He tapped a finger against his temple, his eyes wide and unblinking behind his thick frames.
"The midfielders, the defenders, the keeper... they are there to provide the stage. They are the backdrop to your brilliance. If you waste even a second worrying about their feelings or their 'roles,' you’ve already lost. On this pitch, you are the director, the star, and the only person whose story matters. Everyone else is just a prop in the play of your life."
"Why can't I stop shaking?" Isagi whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard it felt like it might break through.
His vision was blurring, the room spinning as Ego’s words deconstructed everything he had ever believed about the sport.
"Discard your common sense!" Ego shouted, his voice finally breaking into a roar that echoed off the cold, metallic walls.
"On the field, you are the leading actor! Everyone else is just a shadow, a bit player in the story of your greatness!"
Isagi gripped his hair, his breath coming in shallow hitches.
Nobody ever told me any of this, he thought, a sense of vertigo washing over him.
All those years of being told to pass, to play for the team, to sacrifice for the win—it all felt like a lie.
Own goals... overall wins... live for nothing... "But that moment!" Ego’s eyes were wide, manic, reflecting the flickering data on his screens.
"To disregard the pass, to take the shot yourself, to feel the weight of the entire stadium on your shoulders and still pull the trigger... that is what it means to be a striker!"
The world around Isagi seemed to blur, the sounds of the other 299 players fading into a dull hum.
Ego’s words were clawing at the inside of his skull, shredding every bit of "team spirit" he had ever been taught.
This guy is gripping my fate in his hands, Isagi thought, his chest heaving.
The realization was terrifying, but beneath the fear, a spark of something primal was catching fire.
The mantra began to loop in his mind, louder and more frantic with every heartbeat.
I am a striker. I am a striker. I am a striker.
It wasn't just a position anymore; it was a hunger. The logic of the "common sense" player died right there on the cold floor of the briefing room. He didn't care about the 299 others.
He didn't care about the "National Treasure" Kira standing stunned beside him.
As the heavy metal gates behind the stage groaned and began to slide open, revealing a dark, yawning tunnel into the heart of Blue Lock, Isagi didn't hesitate.
His legs moved before his brain could even process the command.
He was the first one to spring forward, his cleats clattering against the floor as he sprinted toward the opening.
The tension in the room snapped like a high-tension wire.
As Isagi lunged forward, a blue blur of motion, the rest of the room ignited. It was a physical wave—a sudden, desperate charge of three hundred strikers all possessed by the same manic hunger.
Kira stood frozen, his face pale as he watched the "National Treasure" status he’d worked so hard for dissolve in an instant. "Isagi..." Kira stammered, his voice lost in the thunder of footsteps. "You..."
"Damn, let me in there!" a voice barked from the crowd, a striker shoving past him with a wild grin.
"I’m going too!" another screamed, their eyes fixed on the dark maw of the tunnel.
One by one, then ten by ten, the strikers abandoned their common sense.
A chorus of "Me too!" and "Count me in!" erupted, turning the orderly briefing into a stampede. They weren't teammates anymore; they were competitors racing for the top of a mountain made of their own peers.
The shadows of the massive, industrial hall seemed to swallow the light as the last of the boys vanished into the dark.
Ego stood alone on the stage, his lanky frame silhouetted against the yawning maw of the gate.
There were no monitors here, no flashing data points to distract him—only the lingering scent of sweat and the fading thunder of three hundred desperate heartbeats.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The silence of the empty room was his only audience as his thoughts churned with a cold, clinical precision.
In the world of soccer, first-class goalkeepers, defenders, and midfielders can be raised, he mused, his eyes fixed on the spot where the boy with the intense, flickering gaze had first broken into a sprint.
You can build them through repetition.
You can forge them with manuals and discipline until they are perfect cogs in a machine.
He adjusted his glasses, the frames glinting in the dim overhead lights.
But strikers... strikers are something different entirely.
A faint, jagged smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, hidden by the gloom.
He knew the truth that the rest of the world was too polite to admit.
A first-class striker isn't produced in a sterile training camp or a tactical briefing.
They are the anomalies.
They are the monsters who suddenly appear, unbidden and primal, in the exact place where the game is at its hottest.
They are drawn to the friction, the chaos, and the suffocating pressure of the goal like moths to a funeral pyre.
He watched the heavy gates begin to groan shut, the metallic screech echoing through the hollow space. The 300 were no longer players; they were raw ingredients thrown into a furnace of his own making. He didn't care if they burned. He only cared about the one who would walk out of the ashes, reborn in the heat of the fire.
"All 300 are participating directly. There is no going back now," a firm, determined voice spoke from the shadows behind Ego.
Anri Teieri stepped forward, her heels clicking against the cold floor as she moved into the light.
She stood tall, her expression a mix of professional steel and the heavy weight of the gamble they were taking.
She looked at the back of Ego’s slouching silhouette, her gaze fixed on the man who held the scalpel to the heart of Japanese soccer.
"I will act in accordance with what you say, Ego-san," Anri said, her voice steady despite the madness of the situation.
"I am trusting you with the future of Japanese soccer... and with the lives of these 300 boys."
Ego didn't turn around. He just watched the flicker of the dark hallway behind the gate, his eyes wide and unblinking behind his thick glasses.
A jagged, thin smile pulled at his lips, reflecting in the glass of the screens.
"Trust?" Ego murmured, the word sounding like a joke in his mouth.
"That’s a heavy word, Anri. But you’re right. This isn't just a training camp. To find one true hero, we have to create a graveyard."
He leaned back, his spindly fingers interlaced.
"It might mean ruining the lives of 299 boys," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, chilling hum.
"But if that’s the price for a single world-class striker... then it’s a bargain. The 'future' isn't something you protect. It's something you forge in a fire that consumes everything else."
"That's what Blue Lock i
s," Ego finished, his voice dropping to a low, jagged rasp that seemed to vibrate against the cold metal of the control room.
"Yes," Anri said.
Her response was short, clipped, and echoed with a chillingly cold detachment.
She stood behind him, there was no room for hesitation anymore; the machine was in motion.
"Shall we start, then?" Ego’s thin, spindly fingers hovered over his face. A sharp, predatory smile pulled at his lips, stretching his face into something truly monstrous in the flickering blue light of the monitors.
"Let's honor the place where the game is the hottest in the whole world," he murmured, his eyes wide and unblinking behind his thick spectacles.