"It's finally time for… Match Five of the Neo Egoist League!"
The roar of the commentator's voice spread across the world, his excitement tore through the speakers. The packed arena shimmered under floodlights that bathed the field in a vivid glow — a battlefield gleaming in anticipation.
"We have Italy's Ubers versus Germany's Bastard München!"
The second commentator's voice rose, his tone laced with adrenaline as camera drones zipped across the field, capturing the focused, stone-cold faces of both teams.
"In his last match, Shoei Barou pulled off a hat-trick, launching himself into superstardom as the 'Hundred-Million-Yen Man'!"
Barou's crimson-dyed hair flared under the spotlight like a crown of fire as he stood near the center circle, eyes locked forward with regal disdain.
"Will he be able to do the same against Isagi's team!?"
The question hung in the air, and immediately, the broadcast cut to Isagi. His calm expression contrasted the chaos — eyes razor-sharp, lips curved in a faint, knowing smirk. His heartbeat seemed to sync with the stadium lights flickering around him.
The second commentator's voice burst through next, rapid and animated:
"The difference between these two stars has been clear as day! In his first match, Isagi Yoichi also netted a hat-trick — and in the last one, he recorded one goal and an assist! Every single attack of Bastard München runs through him!"
The camera split-screened both of them — Barou's fiery glare on one side, Isagi's cool confidence on the other — two kings destined to collide.
"With his massive salary of 250 million yen, he's become one of the most talked-about players in the entire Neo Egoist League!"
"Will he continue his reign of domination… eradicating team after team with his evolving genius?"
The first commentator's tone sharpened, suspense heavy in his voice.
"Or will the Emperor himself — Michael Kaiser — finally make his comeback and reclaim the spotlight!?"
And then — both commentators spoke together.
"The match the whole world has been waiting for… is about to kick off!!"
The camera panned wide, capturing the two teams standing in formation across the lush green pitch. Their kits gleamed under the lights, two empires ready to wage war.
As the announcement echoed across every corner of the world — from stadiums to living rooms — the tension reached its breaking point.
The entire Neo Egoist League seemed to hold its breath.
Players stood on the pitch, poised like drawn blades — every muscle tightened, every nerve screaming to burst into motion. The air was electric, a charged silence before the explosion of chaos.
At the center of the field, beneath the blinding lights, the ball gleamed — the calm eye of the storm.
Kaiser stood before it, one foot slightly forward, posture regal yet unnervingly still. His golden hair shimmered faintly under the lights, like the final gleam of a fading monarch's crown.
To his left, Ness took position — ever the loyal right hand of the Emperor. But the loyalty that once came with blind devotion now trembled under the weight of doubt.
He was tense. That anxious energy rippled through his body, through the very air between them. And Kaiser noticed — without looking, without even needing to turn fully. He could feel it. The nervous breaths, the hesitations, the way Ness's fingers twitched ever so slightly by his side.
It was valid. It was expected.
The world had shifted beneath their feet.
They weren't at the end of the rope anymore — they were hanging off the edge of it.
Ever since Isagi's rise, since the match that shook the world, the narrative had changed. Commentators, fans, even analysts began whispering the same truth.
'Kaiser has fallen behind.'
That the so-called Emperor was no longer fit to sit at the table of the New Generation World Eleven.
That Bastard München's new heart beat to the rhythm of Isagi Yoichi's vision.
Those voices had eaten away at Ness. He'd spent sleepless nights replaying every failure, every missed chance, every time Isagi's name was chanted louder than Kaiser's.
But Kaiser —
Kaiser didn't seem fazed.
His face was unreadable, carved in cold marble. Not a trace of doubt, not a flicker of anger.
Only focus. Pure, lethal focus.
The referee raised the whistle — a sharp gleam of metal under the floodlights — and then, the shrill note cut through the air.
FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!
And even before the echo could fade, Kaiser moved.
A sharp step forward, the ball spinning from his touch like a bullet set free.
The match had begun.
Kaiser's eyes glimmered coldly as he sent the ball to Ness, then exploded forward in a blur of motion. His acceleration was merciless. Ubers' defensive line reacted instantly, pressing high as the orchestrated machine Snuffy had built moved in perfect synchronization.
Ness caught the ball and, under pressure, fired it back toward Kaiser in a tight one-two. Their timing was sharp — near mechanical — the rhythm of two men trying to resurrect the chemistry that once made them feared.
But Ubers weren't amateurs.
Niko — sharp-eyed and tactical — read the motion instantly, cutting in from the side. Beside him, Drago surged forward like a wall of muscle and intent, their movements closing in on Kaiser's route.
Just as Niko reached striking distance, Kaiser's timing revealed its brilliance. With the faintest shift in his center of gravity, he flicked the ball left — once more toward Ness — drawing both defenders into his orbit, forcing their bodies to commit.
Ness reacted fast, darting around Niko's shoulder and returning the pass with a clean strike. The ball zipped through the air between them like lightning jumping between conductors.
The two Bastard München attackers — Emperorand servant — were now moving as one continuous motion, an elegant and ruthless duet slicing through Ubers' opening structure.
Their offense was hyper-fast, the rhythm of pure aggression.
As Ness's final pass spun toward Kaiser's path, the crowd rose with a collective gasp — the perfect setup for Kaiser's signature finish.
But before he could receive it cleanly —
"You're bulldozing right off the bat on your own? That's cute."
Aiku's voice slid through the noise — smooth, unbothered, and dripping with casual confidence.
His posture was unshaken, his gaze sharp as a hawk's.
As Kaiser drove forward, the Ubers' captain read the movement perfectly and stepped into his lane, every inch of his body angled for interception.
But Kaiser didn't even blink.
That trademark arrogance — that regal detachment — didn't waver for a second. His stride didn't shorten. His eyes didn't so much as flick toward Aiku. The moment before collision, his boot lashed out — not in panic, not in desperation, but with cold, deliberate flair.
His heel met the ball, and instead of trapping or shooting, Kaiser flicked it backward.
The ball sliced through the air behind him, spinning out of Aiku's reach like a defiant signature stroke. Aiku's eyes widened, his lunge cutting through empty space.
The ball was flying farther left.
It skipped once across the turf and rolled neatly to the feet of a man who looked equally stunned to find himself at the heart of the Emperor's design.
Yukimiya Kenyu.
'Me..? Why me?'
The thought flashed in Yukimiya's mind, his heartbeat stuttering for a second. He had charged up from his Left Wing-Back position, ready to attack but never imagining he'd receive the ball — least of all fromKaiser himself.
For a brief instant, everything slowed — Kaiser's heel flick replaying in his head, the sudden hush of confusion rippling across both teams.
Then — instinct.
Before he could overthink it, Yukimiya dropped his stance, body lowering, eyes narrowing with predator's focus.
The two shadows in front of him — Rikko and Perone — were already moving to press, closing in from both sides to trap him near the touchline.
Their presence was suffocating, a wall of muscle and timing.
But Yukimiya's eyes — those refined lenses that read space, and speed with unnatural precision — were already painting a way out.
He feinted left, shifting his weight just enough to bait Rikko into overstepping, then exploded to his right in a blur of speed. The grass kicked up beneath his boots as he tore between the narrow gap, brushing shoulders with Perone's outstretched arm.
The ball clung to his stride, the movement so fluid it was as if he were gliding across the field.
Rikko's breath caught as Yukimiya slipped past both defenders in one elegant surge.
The rhythm of the attack had changed — Kaiser's cold calculation had shifted into Yukimiya's wild acceleration.
However, just as he thought he was in the clear.
Another presence invaded his space.
Niko Ikki.
He hadn't anticipated the ball reaching Yukimiya — no one had — but his adaptability was razor-sharp. Even in surprise, Niko's mind worked like a tactical algorithm recalibrating in real time.
He stepped in with a clean intercepting angle, his balance perfect, his body already leaning into the challenge.
Yukimiya barely had time to react. The space had vanished, replaced by Niko's frame blocking the lane like an iron gate.
"Damn—"
Yukimiya grit his teeth, forcing his body to shift tighter, closer — his boots brushing the ball with delicate control as he tried to squeeze past.
But Niko wasn't letting him through that easily.
He slammed his shoulder into Yukimiya's with a shove, sharp enough to knock him off balance but subtle enough to avoid a foul.
The ball trembled under the clash, spinning between their feet. Niko's eyes narrowed; this was his moment.
He adjusted his stance, one leg sliding in for the sweep — a one-touch steal.
He was about to take it.
But then — the ball was gone.
It darted past his foot before he could even blink, cutting cleanly between his legs and rolling out of reach.
"...What?"
Niko spun, eyes widening. The pass had already left Yukimiya's boot — a quick, decisive touch that sent the ball gliding across the field.
For all his flash and footwork, Yukimiya had made a choice that carried the weight of clarity — and rebellion.
Because the reason Kaiser had passed to Yukimiya wasn't trust.
It was a gamble.
Kaiser had seen Yukimiya's desperation: How he had failed to shine in the last match, been brushed aside in Bastard München's evolving hierarchy.
Yukimiya was on the verge of irrelevance — and Kaiser knew it.
To him, Yukimiya was another pawn to reshape the team's system, a potential new gear to erode Isagi's growing influence.
Grim was gone, so Kaiser sought a replacement — someone desperate enough to cling to him.
But that desperation had a choice.
And Yukimiya — instead of sinking into Kaiser's fading orbit — chose to align with the rising star who ruled this field.
The sinking ship refused to drown.
It had turned its sails toward the grand fleet of the conqueror.
The ball sliced across the pitch, ignoring Kaiser completely — heading not to the Emperor, but to the conqueror.
Yoichi Isagi.
"And here it comes!"
The commentator's voice exploded, his tone shaking with excitement.
"Possession shifts to the Ace of Blue Lock — Isagi Yoichi!"
The stadium roared like thunder.
At the center of the field, Isagi trapped the ball cleanly. His body lowered, his gaze slicing across the entire pitch.
His eyes burned with quiet purpose.
"Tch…!"
The sound slipped out like the hiss. Kaiser clicked his tongue in irritation, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze back toward the midfield.
There, in the center of the pitch, stood Isagi Yoichi.
Calm. Composed.
The ball resting beneath his foot.
Ubers' defenders, who only moments ago had been scattered by Bastard München's offense, all seemed to tense in unison the instant Isagi touched the ball.
Their muscles tightened.
Their eyes sharpened.
Every instinct screamed the same thing—It's him.
The fortress of Italy's Ubers, ripped open seconds ago, reassembled like clockwork.
A synchronised defense, snapping back into its deadly structure.
Aiku, Niko, Rikko, Perone — every man returned to position with mechanical precision, their formation locking tight.
And at the center of their sights — the single threat every one of them recognized — stood Isagi.
The ball hadn't moved in several seconds, but the tension around it was suffocating.
He just stood there.
Still.
Watching them.
Letting them rebuild.
That unwavering stare of his wasn't indecision — it was dissection.
He was watching them reform, observing the lines, the patterns, the microscopic shifts in their body language.
And when the last piece of Ubers' defensive wall clicked into place—
Tap.
Isagi nudged the ball forward.
The sound was small. Almost gentle.
Then his body shot forward, low and fast, accelerating through the heart of the pitch.
The fortress he had patiently allowed to rebuild… was about to be shattered.
All across the pitch, a ripple of reaction coursed through Ubers' defensive line the instant Isagi moved.
Every pair of eyes locked onto him. Every heartbeat quickened.
It was simply a motion, and yet it was enough to make every defender on the Italian side flinch.
Some flinched out of instinctive fear, the memory of his unpredictable plays still burned into their nerves from footage and reputation alike.
While others flinched not from panic — but from thrill.
The entire fortress seemed to awaken, like a beast jolted into awareness.
On the sidelines, Snuffy sat with arms crossed, as his eyes followed Isagi's advance.
The faintest smirk tugged at his lips, that calm, lion-like confidence radiating through him.
"Don't panic, Ubers…"
He muttered under his breath.
His gaze didn't blink, following Isagi's every step as the Blue Lock Ace crossed the midfield line, drawing nearer to his defenders.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees — his eyes gleaming not with worry, but with anticipation.
"...and calmly follow the designs."
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