Ethan Loki was seven years old when he realized he was different.
The ball sat at his feet on the worn concrete of the neighborhood court in Bondy, France. Ten kids surrounded him—older, bigger, faster. They thought this was going to be easy. A little kid with dreams too big for his small frame.
They didn't understand yet. Neither did he, really.
But he was about to find out.
"Come on, petit!" Jean-Marc laughed, the twelve-year-old captain of the local youth team. "Show us what you got!"
Ethan didn't respond. Words didn't matter right now. Only the ball mattered. Only the goal mattered.
He pushed forward with his right foot, and something... clicked. The world slowed down. Not literally, but in his mind, everything became crystal clear. He saw Jean-Marc stepping to his left before he even moved. He saw the gap that would open between the two defenders in exactly 1.3 seconds. He saw the goalkeeper shifting his weight to his right foot, preparing to dive that direction.
He saw everything.
Three moves ahead. Always three moves ahead.
His body reacted before his brain fully processed the information. He dragged the ball to the left with the outside of his boot—a move he'd never practiced, never learned, but somehow felt as natural as breathing. Jean-Marc lunged where Ethan was supposed to be. The ball glided past him like water flowing around a stone.
The first defender came in hard. Too hard. Too committed. Ethan could see the desperation in his eyes, the way his knee was already bending for a slide tackle. Amateur mistake. He flipped the ball up with his toe—where did he learn that?—and it sailed over the outstretched leg. The second defender was already moving to close the gap Ethan had predicted, but the young prodigy was faster. Not physically faster. Mentally faster.
He was always three moves ahead.
The ball landed perfectly at his feet. Now it was just him and the goalkeeper. Twelve meters out. The perfect distance. His left foot was his strong foot—everyone at school knew this. The goalkeeper knew this too. He was already leaning left, anticipating the shot.
But something inside Ethan whispered: not the left foot. The right. Inside post. He'll never reach it.
Ethan didn't question the voice. He struck with his right foot, a technique so pure and precise it surprised even him. The ball left his boot with minimal backspin, dipping at the last second. The goalkeeper dove left—exactly as Ethan knew he would. The ball kissed the inside of the right post and settled into the net with a satisfying thud.
Silence.
Then eruption.
"Putain! Did you see that?!"
"How did he—"
"The petit just destroyed us!"
Ethan stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the ball in the net. His heart pounded not from exhaustion, but from exhilaration. From understanding.
He just knew. He saw it all. The entire sequence played out in his mind before it happened in reality, like watching a movie he'd already seen. The positioning, the timing, the finishing—all of it felt like accessing a database of knowledge he didn't know he possessed.
Jean-Marc walked up to him, his expression a mixture of shock and respect. "What was that, Ethan? Where did you learn those moves?"
The young boy opened his mouth to answer, but he had no answer. "I... I don't know. I just saw it. The whole thing. Before it happened."
"Saw it? What do you mean?"
How could he explain this? How could he tell Jean-Marc that when he had the ball, the field transformed into a chess board? That he could see passing lanes that didn't exist yet? That he knew exactly where every player would be, where every space would open, where the ball needed to go?
"I saw where everyone would move," Ethan said slowly, testing the words. "Like... like a pattern. And I saw where the goal was. The exact spot. I just had to put it there."
Jean-Marc stared at him for a long moment. Then he grinned. "You're weird, petit. But that was the sickest goal I've ever seen. Do it again."
"Okay," Ethan said, retrieving the ball.
And he did. Again. And again. And again.
Seven goals in the next twenty minutes. Each one different. Each one predicted three moves in advance. Each one finished with a precision that shouldn't be possible for a seven-year-old.
That night, Ethan lay in bed in their small apartment, staring at the ceiling. His mother was in the next room, watching television. His father worked the night shift at the factory. His older sister Marie was doing homework at the kitchen table.
Normal family. Normal life.
Except Ethan wasn't normal. Not anymore. Maybe he never was.
He closed his eyes and replayed every goal in his mind. The movements came back to him in perfect detail—not just what he did, but what he felt. The instinct of knowing exactly where the goal was, like an invisible magnet pulling his shots to the perfect spot. The strategic vision of seeing the entire field as a living, breathing puzzle. The technical flair of moves he'd never practiced but executed flawlessly.
Three things. Three impossible things, all happening at once.
The instinct of a legendary German striker whose name he'd heard his father mention: Gerd Müller. The Bomber, they called him. The man who always knew where the goal was.
The vision of a genius he'd read about in a manga at school: Julian Loki from Blue Lock. The midfielder who saw the game three moves ahead, who turned football into a chess match.
The technique of a Brazilian magician from the same manga: Lavinho. The dribbler who made the impossible look effortless, who turned football into art.
Three legends. Three skill sets. All living inside him somehow.
How?
The question burned in his mind, but he had no answer. He was seven years old. He didn't understand genetics or talent or destiny. All he knew was that when he stepped on that field, he became something else. Someone else.
Someone extraordinary.
He heard his mother laugh at something on the television. The sound brought him back to reality. He was still just Ethan Loki, a kid from Bondy with an Ivorian father and French mother, living in a two-bedroom apartment that was too small and too cold in winter.
But on the field... on the field, he was unlimited.
His phone buzzed—a cheap smartphone his parents bought him for emergencies. It was a text from Jean-Marc: My coach wants to meet you. Saturday. 9 AM. This is serious, petit.
Ethan stared at the message. Saturday was three days away. Three days until someone official, someone who mattered, would see what he could do.
Three days until his life would change forever.
He closed his eyes and smiled. In his mind, he was already seeing it play out. The meeting. The tryout. The offer. Three moves ahead.
Always three moves ahead.
That was his gift.
That was his curse.
That was his destiny.
End of Chapter 1