Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Victory hung heavy in the air like smoke. It should have been intoxicating, electric, the kind of sensation that ran through your veins for weeks and made your skin feel like it was burning with purpose. But for Isagi Yoichi, it felt wrong. Too quiet. Too cold. Something essential was missing.

He stood in the center of the Blue Lock lobby, the echo of the U-20 match still pulsing behind his eyes. He could hear the crowd roaring in his memory, feel the buzz in his legs from that last sprint, that last breathless strike that had changed everything. He’d done it—he had scored the goal that turned the tide. The moment should have been carved into his bones as triumph. And yet, as he moved through the corridors of Blue Lock, the echoes faded into silence. There was no energy. No laughter or chaos spilling from the training rooms. No sense of camaraderie or post-victory celebration lingering in the air. The sterile white halls felt even more artificial now, as if the victory hadn’t added to the atmosphere—it had hollowed it out.

Isagi felt it like a stone in his gut.

The days passed. Two weeks outside the facility had come and gone. Everyone returned, but something didn’t. Or rather—someone didn’t. He didn’t want to think it at first. Rin was always like that. Distant. Focused. Mysterious in his own sharp-edged, untouchable way. But now? Something had shifted. Something deeper. Rin hadn’t come back with the others. He hadn’t answered messages. He hadn’t shown up. Not once.

The rest of the players moved like nothing was wrong. Bachira laughed through drills. Chigiri ran like he was escaping ghosts. Nagi floated like a cloud, lazy and unconcerned. Barou trained harder than anyone, as if he could crush the silence with effort alone. Gagamaru, normally aloof, began asking subtle questions between practice sessions. Raichi muttered something bitter about people “chickening out” after the spotlight. Nanase looked genuinely confused, stealing glances at Rin’s usual place with quiet uncertainty. Tokimitsu fidgeted more than usual, muttering something about disappearances and pressure. Even Aryu broke his mirror-checking routine to ask if Rin was avoiding the cameras. No one dared say it, but everyone felt it.

Isagi noticed. Every time he stepped into the training room, his gaze snapped instinctively to the same corner. Rin wasn’t there. At first, he told himself it didn’t matter. Rin was Rin. But that excuse wore thin with each passing day. So on the eighth morning, when the tension in his chest refused to let go, Isagi walked to Rin’s locker.

It was pristine. Untouched. Cleats perfectly lined. Training kit folded with ritualistic neatness. A full water bottle, cap unscrewed like it had been set down with intention—waiting for the person who never returned. He stood there for a long time. Listening to the dead silence.

Later that day, Ego summoned them.

The strategy room filled in seconds. Every player instinctively sensed that this wasn’t a tactical meeting. The air had weight. The hum of the monitors felt like thunder in Isagi’s ears. The lights dimmed. The screen flickered. Ego’s face appeared like a guillotine dropping from the dark. No greetings. No buildup. “Itoshi Rin is no longer part of the Blue Lock program.”

The words dropped like a blade and the room froze. Isagi’s heart stopped. Those words didn’t register. They couldn’t. They weren’t real.

Ego continued, his voice detached, cold. “He has disappeared. We have no information about his whereabouts. He has broken all communication with the project. All attempts to reach him have failed. Consider him removed.”

The world tilted.

Isagi stared, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in shallow gulps. It didn’t make sense. Rin wasn’t someone who just left. Not without a reason. Not without saying something.

Nagi, uncharacteristically vocal, broke the silence. “Why did he leave?”

Ego’s face didn’t shift. “We don't know, but Rin made his decision. The reason is then irrelevant.”

“So he just left?” Chigiri’s voice cracked, raw confusion under the sharpness. “Without saying anything? Without reaching his goal?”

“He wasn’t exactly the social type,” Gagamaru muttered, half under his breath.

“But he cared,” Nanase said suddenly, his voice soft but firm. “He wouldn’t just leave. Not like this.”

Shidou scoffed, though there was less venom than usual. “Maybe he couldn’t handle it. After losing to his brother, after being second...”

“He didn’t lose,” Barou growled, arms crossed, voice like stone. “He changed the match. He shut Sae down. That wasn’t a loss.”. There was a murmur of reluctant agreement.

Ego smiled. Barely. “He was never one to care about you. Don’t pretend this is surprising.”

Nanase frowned slightly and looked away, while the words hit Isagi like a slap. His fingers curled. His breath trembled. Because it wasn’t true.

He remembered.

They were alone. The noise of the celebration was still echoing beyond the locker room door, but inside, it was silent. Rin had stormed in first, rage etched into every step. Isagi had followed, heart pounding, unsure why he felt drawn into the fire.

“Rin,” he said, voice hesitant but sincere. “That goal… it was yours. You stole the ball. You beat Sae. I just—”

“Shut up.” Rin didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The venom in his voice was razor-sharp. “Don’t get full of yourself.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying—”

“You’re my rival.”

The words hit like a blade. Isagi stared at him. The meaning unspoken.

Rin wasn’t acknowledging him as a teammate. He was drawing a line in the sand. “Don’t ever forget that. This means… I’ll definitely kill you.” His rival told him, his aura menacing.

And in that moment, Isagi understood. It wasn’t metaphor. It wasn’t exaggeration. It was a vow.

Back in the present, the room sat in stunned stillness. Even Barou hadn’t moved. Bachira, usually all smiles, looked pale, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Nanase glanced nervously toward Isagi. Gagamaru shifted his weight, his jaw clenched. Tokimitsu looked seconds away from shock, chewing his thumbnail. Aryu was speechless. Kurona had his eyes fixed to the floor. Even Shidou, leaning at the back wall, didn't grin.

“Will we ever see him again?” Bachira asked, voice flat beneath a forced smile.

“I hope we do. Rin... Rin isn’t the first for nothing...” Nanase whispered, barely audible.

Ego paused. For once, even he looked still. “That is uncertain. For now, he is no longer part of this project. That is all you need to know. So keep training—with or without him.” and then the screen went black.

Isagi stood like a statue. Heart racing. Mind spinning. The image of Rin’s locker burned behind his eyes. That last look Rin gave him. The fire. The promise. The unspoken war they had begun together.

But now? Now he was gone.

And the silence he left behind roared louder than any victory.

Chapter Text

The Neo Egoist League was never meant to be easy, nor was it designed to reward talent for the sake of glory. It wasn’t a tournament, not in the traditional sense—it was a crucible, a forge built to burn away weakness and hesitation, a place where raw potential collided with relentless pressure and emerged either shattered into fragments or sharpened into something lethal.

For Isagi Yoichi, this league had become far more than just the next chapter in his career. It was the place where his dream, once idealistic and distant, had turned into something desperate, something sacred—a battlefield where vision had to meet execution, where instinct alone was no longer enough unless it was carved open by understanding and stitched together by strategy. The future wasn’t a gift waiting to be delivered; it was a beast to be hunted down, subdued, and tamed with bloodied hands and bitten teeth. Every match felt like a duel against his former self. Every goal wasn’t just a number on a board—it was a declaration. A piece of proof. A confirmation that he belonged here, and more than that, that he was rising.

With Bastard München, he had scored two goals and assisted four, across three games. And those weren’t the result of blind luck or even untamed skill—they were the product of evolution. Of seeing the chaos of the pitch and threading his will through it, bending the flow of play around his decisions like a conductor wielding a blade instead of a baton. The world had begun to notice him. Whispers of his name grew louder. Articles, headlines, praise—it all mounted.

And yet, none of it managed to fill the silence growing steadily inside him. No volume of applause could drown out the echo of what was missing. Because no matter how much ground he gained, no matter how many walls he broke through, a single presence loomed as a void behind him.

Rin Itoshi was gone.

Not benched. Not transferred. Not injured.

Gone.

No warning. No message. No clue.

Vanished from the face of the game, like a ghost whose name was scrubbed from the world. No footage. No gossip. No leaks. Not even a whisper in the press. It was as if someone had taken a blade to his existence and erased every trace clean.

But Isagi remembered.

He remembered everything.

He remembered the way Rin’s eyes burned—sharp, merciless, never warm, only devouring. He remembered the rivalry that didn’t simply push them forward—it scorched them into motion. He remembered every session that turned into a battlefield, every drill that felt like a war, every second where they clashed not because they hated each other, but because they couldn’t help but drive one another forward. Rin had been his shadow and his fire. His enemy and his standard. And now, that fire had gone out. That shadow had vanished. The silence left behind was deafening.

With every goal Isagi scored, with every victory tallied, the absence grew louder in his chest. It hollowed him out, subtly and steadily, until even triumphs began to feel muted.

Victory had started to taste stale.

And the grief of it—because it was a kind of grief—didn’t belong to Isagi alone. It echoed through Blue Lock like the low hum of something cracked. Bachira, once a whirlwind of laughter and unpredictability, had grown quiet in training, as if his monster had no rival to provoke it anymore. Chigiri threw himself into sprint after sprint until his legs screamed—until pain became his only distraction from memory. Nanase walked like a ghost, eyes searching for something they hadn’t realized they’d lost. None of them dared speak Rin’s name aloud. But the silence screamed it for them.

And then it happened.

The message arrived with no ceremony.

Just a single line.

URGENT: All Blue Lock athletes. Report to the facility. Immediately.

The second Isagi read it, something in him shifted. A thread pulled taut inside his chest. As he sprinted through the familiar corridors of Blue Lock, his shoes hitting tile harder than usual, he began to notice the difference. The usual hum of voices and motion was gone. The walls felt too still. The lights flickered like they were holding back something unsaid. The building itself felt like it was watching. Like it was holding its breath.

He wasn’t alone.

Bachira ran beside him, every trace of mischief stripped from his face. His eyes were narrowed, fixed. Behind them, Nagi trailed slower, but not distracted—he moved with heavy steps and an expression drawn tight with tension. Even players who had barely spoken to Rin looked… shaken. Like a part of the foundation had buckled under their feet, and they were too proud to admit it.

No one spoke. There was nothing to say. Only a shared knowing.

And when they stepped into the strategy room, the shift was undeniable.
The air turned glacial.
The lights were already low, casting long shadows across the walls. The monitors glowed with an eerie, pale blue, as if projecting the calm before a storm. The air conditioning hummed louder than usual, but it wasn’t the machines—it was the weight of anticipation, of dread curdling just beneath the surface.

And then they saw him.

Sae Itoshi.

Standing at the far end of the room like a blade left unsheathed. His arms crossed. His posture cold and unmovable. His eyes—sharp, cold, and far too calm—scanned them like a surgeon about to make the first cut. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence alone silenced the room like a guillotine.

Isagi’s breath caught in his throat.

If Sae was here… if Rin’s older brother had been called in to stand before them like this… then whatever was about to happen, it wasn’t just serious. It was irreversible.

His thoughts spiraled fast. Did Sae know? Had he found Rin? Was he bringing news? Was Rin hurt? Missing? Worse? Was this about a disappearance, a secret he couldn’t even begin to imagine? The questions tumbled through his mind, folding in on themselves like blades of panic.

The doors suddenly opened.

Ego entered, slicing the tension further with nothing but his presence, and Anri trailed close behind. The room dimmed even further as the main monitor activated. A wall of blue light flickered to life, casting sharp reflections into Ego’s glasses like two cruel stars.
“You’re about to witness something hidden from the public,” Ego said. His voice was low, but it landed like broken glass. “Something not meant to exist.”

Even Sae’s posture shifted at that. Barely. But it was there. A crack in his detachment.
Something secret. Something forbidden.

And then the screen changed. It flickered, then came to life in full.
A stadium. But not just any stadium—it looked like a battlefield abandoned by God. Storm clouds loomed above like bruises in the sky, swollen with thunder. The wind screamed as if mourning something already lost. Rain lashed sideways across the field, merciless and blinding. The floodlights flickered beneath the weight of the storm, casting broken shadows over the players standing at either end of the pitch.

One team stood in white—clean, disciplined, upright like statues carved from marble. Their uniforms were untouched by chaos, pristine even in the downpour. Their posture betrayed their training: professionals and loyal to the system that raised them.

And then the others emerged.
From the far end of the field, silhouettes stepped forward. They didn’t walk—they stalked. They didn’t look human—they looked forged. Their jerseys weren’t red. They were crimson—dark, heavy, soaked like dried blood clinging to flesh. Lightning flashed, and in that moment, they looked less like athletes and more like executioners sent from some colder world. There was no joy in the way they moved. No celebration. Only precision and menace.

The whistle blew.

And what followed wasn’t football. It was annihilation.

The Crimson Eclipse players didn’t burst forward in reckless sprints. They unfolded like a strategy already written, their movements so coordinated it was as if they shared a mind. One midfielder in white tried to cut through, daring to slice the ball between lines.

He never made it.

A figure stepped into frame so fast, so quietly, it felt like he had been there all along—waiting.

“Taiga Kurobane,” Ego narrated, his tone almost clinical. “Right back. Japan.”

The movement had been effortless. There was no wasted energy. No frantic press. Just a quiet dismantling of the play, like he had invited the mistake and punished it in the same breath.

Another clip.

A tall figure stood in the box. Three attackers came at him in formation—dribbling, feinting, calling. One passed, the other moved forward. But the tall defender didn’t panic. He took one step. Only one. And in that single movement, the entire formation crumbled like glass. “That mountain, it’s Ezra Zanek,” Ego continued. “He doesn’t chase. He waits. And then… you fall.”

Clip after clip flooded the screen. More names. More stats. More footage. And always the same pattern. No flair, no ego, and no individuality.
Only results.
Only execution.

Isagi stared, his heart thudding not with awe, but with unease. These weren’t players. They weren’t even rivals. They were precision instruments—scalpels made to cut down any team that stood in their way. It wasn’t football they were playing. It was war. And they had turned the pitch into a killing floor.

Around him, the others were silent. Not because they didn’t have reactions—but because they didn’t know how to voice them. What could you even say when everything you’d learned about the game was unraveling before your eyes?

Then Otoya moved. Just a step. Just a breath. He pointed at the screen. “That guy…” His voice was barely audible, but it cracked something open.

Isagi looked at where he was pointing, but couldn’t see anything. Suddenly Ego nodded without needing to ask. “Let me show you all what your teammate just saw.”

The footage changed again. No transition. No cue. Just a shift.

And then he was there.

The camera panned in on the far side of the pitch. One figure, alone, emerging through the storm as if it had summoned him.

He didn’t sprint, he glided. Rain curved around his frame, as if even the elements dared not touch him. His movements were too smooth to be rehearsed. They were composed, like music only he could hear. Each step was a note, every shift of his weight a verse. The game bent toward him.

The defender charged, and he did not dodge.

He dissolved.

One slipped past him, the other reached too late, and the final one—he didn’t even see the moment come. It had already passed.

The shot came next. It wasn’t just perfect, just as if it was fate.
Top corner. Clean. Sharp. Inevitable.

And then—he turned. No roar of triumph, no clenched fists, no smile.

Just a presence.

Hair once deep green now streaked with crimson highlights, the color slashed through like war paint. His eyes—cold, jade-like, sharper than glass—cut through the rain. His face was carved from stone, his body honed to precision. And wrapped around his arm, like a coronation in fabric, was a crimson armband, trimmed in black.

Rin Itoshi.

The camera lingered on his face, and it was lifeless. He didn’t look like someone who had scored. Not even like someone who had just played.

He looked like someone fulfilling a duty.

Isagi’s breath collapsed in his lungs, because he couldn't believe it.

That couldn’t be Rin.

But it was.

Because it was his hair—just tinted now with violent streaks of crimson—and it was his eyes too, the same green eyes that once glared at him with fire and fury, like they could burn holes through skin. It was him, physically—undeniably Rin Itoshi in form. But everything else had changed. The aura surrounding him, the way he carried himself, the silence in his stare—it was all different. Drastically different. He didn’t look alive anymore. He looked like a corpse still standing, moving only because someone had wound him up and set him loose. A body without a soul. A presence without a pulse.

Anri’s voice broke the silence, soft and solemn. “Rin Itoshi. Your past teammate is now the Captain and the main striker of Crimson Eclipse.”

No one moved.

The room had turned to stone : Reo’s expression was frozen, Nanase’s jaw trembled, Bachira whispered Rin’s name like it might shatter in his mouth.
But it was Sae that caught Isagi’s attention.

Because Sae had stepped forward. Just slightly. Barely perceptible. But the way his eyes were locked onto the screen, the way his entire body leaned forward—it wasn’t the gaze of a rival watching footage. It was the stare of a brother facing a ghost. Isagi felt his heart clenching as he tried to imagine Sae’s surprise and shock.

Ego adjusted his glasses, the screen’s light reflecting like a cruel halo across his lenses, making everyone focus on him again.
“He left,” Ego said, each word hitting like a nail. “After the U-20 match. Without a word. No explanation. No contract. No allegiance. He severed every tie with the Blue Lock project.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet—it was devastation.
Isagi felt the floor tilt beneath him.
Rin hadn’t drifted away. He had cut himself off deliberately. He hadn’t just disappeared—he had chosen to disappear. To remove Blue Lock from his identity like a past disease.

“Tch.” The scoff broke the stillness. Everyone turned to the voice.

It was Shidou.

He stepped forward, arms crossed, mouth curled into a strange smirk that wasn’t quite anger and wasn’t quite amusement. “And who the hell made this damn team?” he asked. There was a strange hunger in his voice, not admiration, and not contempt. Something in between.

Ego’s reply was immediate. “Excellent question.”

The footage shifted again, and a new image appeared on the screen : A luxury box, dimly lit, overlooking the carnage of the field below. One man sat in the center, poised, untouched. His wine sat full. Unmoved. He wore leather gloves, a crisp black coat, and an expression carved in frost. His hair was pale blond, streaked with silver. His eyes, cold and gray, surveyed the match not with interest, but with certainty.

As if he had seen it all already.

As if he had built it himself.

“Aleksei Dragunov,” Ego announced, and the name seemed to linger in the air like smoke. “He’s a former Director of Youth Development at UEFA. Once respected, then disgraced. Now reborn. He is the architect of Crimson Eclipse, the one who forged Rin into what you just witnessed.”

Ego paused and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped lower—just enough to let the venom rise through it. “He’s not just building a team to win. He’s building a weapon. We once shared the same ideal, but that man is long gone—just like Rin.”

His face darkened as he stepped toward the screen. “He gathered monsters. Outcasts. Players no one else could shape. And now he’s using them not to conquer, but to destroy. To burn football down to its foundation. To erase the systems we’ve spent decades building.”
He turned slowly to the room. “To erase Blue Lock. And through it… to erase you.”

This time, there was no silence out of awe.

No silence out of fear.

It was a silence born from the collapse of understanding, because something they all thought they knew had just been taken and turned inside out.
And no one—not even Isagi—had words left.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Chapter Text

Silence wasn’t uncommon for Sae Itoshi. It never had been. He lived inside it, moved through it like water. It wrapped around him during training, filled the dead spaces between victories, followed him home from stadiums glittering with praise. The media always called him cold. Distant. But that wasn’t quite right. He didn’t fear silence.

He thrived in it.

Until now.

This silence was different, this one stared back.

He stood alone in the darkened strategy room, the light from the projection screen the only thing casting shape to the walls around him. The footage had ended twenty minutes ago, but the screen remained frozen—paused mid-frame on a single image he couldn’t make himself look away from. Rin. Soaked in stormlight. Drenched in rain. Drenched in crimson. Turning from a goal that shouldn’t have been possible, his face a void. No celebration. No emotion. Just vacancy. Just execution. Just… finality.

Sae had watched the footage ten times. Maybe more. His fingers had long stopped keeping count. Every time he reached for the remote, he couldn’t bring himself to press stop. Because Rin wasn’t just scoring a goal in that clip. He was ending something.

Sae didn’t speak during the original meeting. Not when Ego queued up the footage. Not when Dragunov’s name echoed through the room like a cold-blooded omen. Not even when the word “traitor” was dropped with clinical precision into the silence. There had been no gasp of disbelief. No need to process. Because Sae had seen this coming.

He had seen the cracks in Rin’s foundation long before Blue Lock. He had seen the anger, the loneliness, the longing—layered beneath a boy who never asked for help because the person he most needed it from had walked too far ahead to notice.

And that was the truth that scraped beneath his ribs now: he hadn’t just seen the road Rin was walking—he’d paved it. He exhaled, a sharp breath that cut through his throat like glass. His steps took him to the far wall where he leaned back, arms crossed, head bowed slightly. His posture relaxed, but only on the outside. Inside, his thoughts whirled like broken blades.

Rin Itoshi.

His brother.

The kid who used to chase after him like the sky would fall if he didn’t catch up. The boy who played in silence, who never cried, even when his knees bled, even when their parents stopped understanding him, even when the weight of Sae’s absence was a hole in his chest.

He had always pretended not to notice. But Sae saw everything.

And now… that boy was gone. Long gone.

He was not just missing.

He was erased.

And he had done it. Piece by piece. Word by word.

Sae never regretted leaving for Spain. Not once. He had done what was best for himself and for his dream. But when he looked back now—truly looked—past the gleam of European pitches and endorsements, past the hollow victories and precision contracts, all he could see was a long trail of ash. A promise abandoned. A bond decayed.

And a pair of eyes he couldn’t forget. The last time he and Rin had stood face-to-face, they barely spoke. There had been no dramatic confrontation. No shouting match. Just a stare—cold and simmering beneath the surface. Fury bottled behind lashes, tension carved into every line of his brother’s jaw.

And then, Rin disappeared.

At first, Sae thought it was another tantrum. Rin had lost. Again. That this was his way of sulking.

But that wasn’t it. Rin hadn’t broken.

He had evolved.

Sae had seen it in the match, even before Isagi took the spotlight. Rin had shifted his game—tuned it. Adapted not out of emotion, but clarity. He no longer played like someone chasing his brother’s ghost. He played like someone building a new one.

But then, Sae had opened his mouth. And said the sentence that ended them: “The one who will change Japanese soccer is… Yoichi Isagi.”

He had said it because it was true. But truth, Sae had learned, was not a shield. Sometimes, it was a blade. One that had hurt his brother more than he could have wanted.

He remembered Rin’s expression when those words landed. It hadn’t twisted in pain. It hadn’t cracked with fury. It had simply… stilled. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing you’d already jumped.

That was the last time he saw him.

Until now.

Later that day, Sae entered Ego and Anri’s office, the space colder than he remembered—or maybe it was just the air around him that had changed. The fluorescent lights hummed low above, and the windows were veiled with frost. The quiet had weight here, and Sae stepped into it like stepping onto ice.

He stood before the desk, hands in his pockets, his tone flat. “So. What do you want me to do?”

Ego didn’t lift his head from the terminal. “A reaction, not a strategy. That’s rare for you.”

Sae clicked his tongue. “You didn’t drag me here just to watch that match.”

“No,” Ego replied. “I brought you here because I thought you’d understand what we’re up against.”

Sae didn’t speak. His eyes were locked, hard and unreadable.

Ego went on. “Rin isn’t coming back. Not as the boy you once knew. He’s not fighting for recognition anymore. He’s fighting for erasure. He wants to wipe out the system that made him.” He paused. “That includes you.”

Sae’s jaw flexed. “I didn’t make him.”

“But you made the wound.”

That one hit deeper than he wanted to admit. He turned his head, then slowly returned his gaze to Ego. “So what’s your play?”

Ego’s voice dropped to a blade’s edge. “We scout Crimson Eclipse. Analyze every pattern, every weakness. And when the time comes… we kill the King and his team.”

Sae narrowed his eyes. “You think I’ll help you bury him? My brother?”

Ego didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. “I think,” he said evenly, “you’re the only one who knows what Rin is capable of when he stops trying to impress you. And you should stop pretending... Rin isn’t your brother anymore.”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud. It was surgical. Clean. Like a scalpel carving through bone. Sae looked down for a moment. Then back up. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll think about it. But don’t expect me to save your team.”

He turned to leave.

“Sae,” Ego called behind him, his tone sharper.

Sae paused. Anri’s voice was softer. “Soon, the world will hear about Crimson Eclipse. Once it goes public… we’ll contact you. Can we count on you then?”

Sae stood still for a beat. Then nodded. “As soon as you have news. Call me.” And he left, the door shutting behind him like a coffin lid.

Ego and Anri exchanged a glance. One that said: We’ll see.

[Days later]

Sae sat in his apartment—spacious, quiet, filled with clean white walls and still furniture that didn’t ask anything from him. He had bought the place during the U-20 match, telling himself it was temporary. But lately, it felt less like a place to stay and more like a place to haunt.

He stood by the window, watching Tokyo drift below him like a memory. Japan looked smaller from here. Further away. Foreign, even.

Maybe it was Spain.

Or maybe… it was Rin.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about the footage. It played behind his eyes even when he slept. Rin. Moving like a machine programmed for perfection, like he had finally accepted that his emotions weren’t tools—they were burdens. And he had cut them out, one by one.

There was no more hate in the way he played. No more fury.

Just will.

And it chilled Sae in a way he hadn’t expected.

He finally understood it—what had always burned inside Rin. That anger, that silence, that rage that never boiled over but always hovered beneath the skin. It hadn’t been childish. It hadn’t been stubbornness.

It had been grief.

Grief no one gave him space to voice. Grief Sae had helped create.

And now… now Rin was winning. Now he could beat anyone he wanted. That should have made Sae proud. It should have confirmed every push, every cold word, every moment of distance.

But it didn’t.

It felt wrong. Like watching someone perform a perfect concerto on broken strings. There was mastery in it. Precision. But no soul. And Sae knew that meant something was coming. Something worse.

Suddenly, His phone buzzed.

At first, Sae ignored it. Just a single vibration against the glass table beside him, subtle enough to be dismissed. But then it came again. And again. Rapid, pulsing, relentless—like a mechanical heartbeat shaking the quiet of his apartment. The sound became a rhythm. Too persistent. Too intrusive. It wasn’t just a message. It was an alert, like something was about to break. Like something already had.

With a heavy sigh, he reached for it and tapped the screen, expecting the usual: calendar reminders, match updates, contract emails, PR obligations. But what greeted him wasn’t a schedule. It was chaos.Instagram mentions flooding in. Twitter notifications multiplying by the second. DM requests, comment chains, tags attached to his name like a wildfire had started—and he was standing in the center of it. Headlines. Video links. Screenshots of someone’s face.

And then he saw it.

Not the fans.

Not the media frenzy.

Just one message, sitting quietly in his inbox, marked with a name that made his chest tighten: Anri Teieri. No words. No explanation. Just a link. A blue hyperlink that seemed to glow too brightly against the dark background of his screen. It blinked like an open door.

Sae stared at it for a moment longer than necessary. Then, without breathing, he tapped.

The feed opened instantly. A press conference. Crimson Eclipse.

The words appeared like a curse across the top of the screen—polished, formal, suffocating. The camera panned across a wide, pristine conference hall. Marble floors. Stainless steel fixtures. Glass podiums polished to perfection. Banners lined the walls in deep blood red, the Eclipse emblem emblazoned with chilling symmetry. The players sat in a calculated arrangement, their uniforms matte black with hints of crimson threading the seams like veins.

They looked composed. Controlled. Not like footballers—but like diplomats. Each one took their turn with the mic, speaking fluently about their formation, their values, their rebirth. It wasn’t casual conversation. It was rehearsed. Scripted. Each word dipped in honey and delivered with a subtle undertone of menace.

It felt staged, too perfect.

Sae’s gaze flicked across each speaker, his mind registering them as pieces of a greater machinery—but Rin wasn’t among them. Neither was Dragunov.

He felt the tension climb in his spine. His body leaned forward on instinct, as if his muscles knew what was coming before his mind caught up.

And then… they appeared. From the back of the room, walking through the shadows cast by the stage lights, two figures emerged side by side. The moment they entered the frame, the entire room shifted. Journalists turned. Cameras clicked. A hush swept across the audience like a held breath.

Rin Itoshi, Sae’s brother. But not the one he remembered.

His hair—black now, streaked through with slashes of crimson that looked too intentional, like battle marks or ceremonial blood—fell across his forehead in sharp, sleek angles. His posture was perfect. Controlled. Shoulders square, chin lifted. He didn’t glance at the crowd. Didn’t register the attention. He simply walked beside Aleksei Dragunov with the unthinking confidence of someone who no longer questioned the path beneath his feet.

Dragunov, tall and draped in black, walked beside him like a war general accompanying his finest weapon. His gloved hand rested briefly on Rin’s shoulder as they approached the table at the front of the room. Not a reassuring touch. Not familial. Leashed pride disguised as mentorship.

Sae’s eyes didn’t blink. Not once.

The two of them sat. The reporters came alive again, voices tumbling over one another. Questions flew in. Questions about the program. About Crimson Eclipse’s mission. About how the team was formed.

Rin said nothing. Every single question addressed to him was intercepted by Dragunov. He answered fluidly, calmly, always with the same soft amusement, as if he were entertaining the foolish curiosity of lesser minds. There was something performative about it, but not in the way athletes typically held themselves under cameras. It was more intimate. Cult-like.

At one point, Dragunov even chuckled as he leaned into the mic. “Rin understands that Blue Lock is a fraud,” he said, voice laced with indulgence. “He made the decision to evolve. Not everyone can handle the truth of it.”

His hand fell once more on Rin’s shoulder, firm and steady.

Sae’s hands clenched slowly in his lap, fingers curling into fists. Not because Dragunov had dared to speak on Rin’s behalf.

But because Rin let him.

The Rin he knew—the boy who once snapped at reporters for twisting his quotes, who rolled his eyes at scripted interviews and corporate nonsense—would never have allowed this. Rin had hated being spoken for. He had always fought to speak for himself. But now… now he didn’t even look uncomfortable. He looked empty. And that was far worse.

More questions followed, blurring together in Sae’s ears. The conference became background noise. He wasn’t watching the event anymore. He was watching Rin—the way his eyes didn’t flicker once, the way his mouth stayed closed, the way his breathing didn’t even shift under the storm of flashbulbs and attention. He looked less like a person and more like a monument. Cold. Carved. Distant.

Then it happened. A question rose above the noise—clear, pointed. “Does Sae Itoshi approve of this change?”

The entire room stilled. Even Sae did. Time didn’t freeze—but it fractured. The silence stretched. Dragunov inhaled, ready to speak once more. Sae could see it coming like a slow-motion blow: the script, the spin, the polished lie.

But Rin moved, he stood up. Deliberate. Controlled. He didn’t look at Dragunov. Didn’t glance at the cameras. He leaned toward the microphone, his eyes narrowing on the journalist who had asked the question.

And then he said it. “Who?”

Just one word. But it struck like a guillotine.

Sae’s heart didn’t race. It stopped. Because he understood. It wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t a misheard question. It was calculated, deliberate.

Erasure.

It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t rebellion. It was indifference.

Sae sat frozen, eyes locked to the screen, as the room fell into stunned silence. The journalists didn’t seem to know what to do. Some blinked. Some looked toward Dragunov for clarification. But none of them understood what had just happened.

Sae did. He paused the video. The image froze on Rin’s face—expression blank, gaze hard, the mic inches from his lips. Sae stared at it, not with anger, nor with heartbreak. But with something deeper. Something quieter. A kind of grief that didn’t cry or scream—it just carved its way through the chest, bone by bone.

Because there had been no emotion in Rin’s voice. No sarcasm or no resentment. Just detachment.

He had severed the final thread.

Sae stood slowly and walked into the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, watching the faucet run longer than necessary. His hands were steady. His heart wasn’t. He drank, but it didn’t help. The ache was internal, incurable. Not even pain—just… hollowness.

When he returned to the living room, the video had resumed. Dragunov leaned forward, laughing easily. “Rin’s just trying to say this is his own story now. That’s all.”

The journalists nodded, satisfied with the translation. They didn’t see it. They didn’t know Rin. Not like Sae did.

He turned off the screen. The room dimmed instantly. He stood in the heavy quiet, gazing out at the Tokyo skyline through the tall window. The lights of the city flickered faintly, far below. For a moment, it all looked like a toy model of the place he had once called home—miniature, delicate, breakable.

The silence wrapped around him again. Not the peaceful kind he was used to. Not the kind that sharpened him. This one gnawed.

He didn’t bother checking the other messages. They would all be the same. Reporters. Fans. Friends. Strangers. All of them asking about him. About Rin. About his younger brother.

People wanted to know about Sae’s point of view, even if Rin had clarified it was his own choice.

After a long stretch of stillness, Sae sat down again. The couch felt unfamiliar beneath him. He picked up his phone. Scrolled through his contacts. Found Anri. His fingers hesitated only for a moment, which side should he team up with… His brother was now way stronger and detached from him, as he wanted. But it felt too wrong, it wasn’t what Sae had hoped for him.

Then, he typed. “I’m in. Tell Ego I’ll help destroy Crimson Eclipse.” He hit send, then leaned back into the cushions, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as the weight of the decision settled over him like rain-soaked cloth. He closed his eyes. Not to rest. But to focus.

Because whatever came next—He wouldn’t run from it. Even if it meant facing the last person in the world who once mattered to him.

Even if it meant killing the king.

Chapter Text

Monsters never spoke to Isagi Yoichi.

Not in the way they did to Bachira.

There was no haunting laughter in his mind, no eerie whispers clawing at his sanity during matches, no half-imagined figures guiding his feet across the pitch. His evolution wasn’t a possession—it was a process. Cold, methodical, brutal.

Isagi didn’t move like a beast set free. He moved like a surgeon in combat, calculating every cut before he made it, trusting his instinct to win. He’d sharpened his blade on logic, on luck, on spatial awareness, on raw hunger.

The voice that guided him was his own. No one else, just him, and the goal.

And yet, lately... something was changing. He felt it in the shift of gravity around Bachira. Felt it in the absence Rin Itoshi left behind: a silence too sharp to ignore.

Isagi had always known that the bonds forged in Blue Lock weren’t simple.

They weren’t pure friendships. They were something more volatile, more sacred, born in blood and ambition. But there had always been something anchoring them: a rhythm, a tempo. A madness they could recognize in one another.

Bachira had always danced to his own beat, chased monsters in the dark like they were old friends.

But now?

Now there was only silence. Not emptiness, just an absence.

Something had gone missing.

Something important.

And Isagi couldn’t stop staring at him like a man trying to identify a dangerous wound.

Bachira was present, technically, at drills, at meals.

But his eyes never quite focused. His laughter—once wild and unfiltered—was reduced to an occasional smile, tight at the corners, forced. He moved like his body still remembered how to play, but his soul hadn’t caught up.

The monster inside him had always seemed invincible, unchained.

But now? Now it felt like it was hiding.

Or worse…

Dead.

One night, long after lights-out, Isagi found himself unable to sleep.

The kind of insomnia that didn’t just itch at your nerves, but gnawed at your sense of self. His body was exhausted. His muscles screamed.

But his mind?

It was wide awake, pacing through shadows, replaying Rin’s footage again and again in his skull like a ghost on loop.

He walked. Let his legs carry him without purpose, and eventually, they brought him to the edge of the pitch.

There, sitting alone beneath the humming glow of floodlights, was Bachira. Perched on a rusted bench like a forgotten piece of furniture, knees pulled up, head bowed. His silhouette flickered like static under the artificial lights. His shadow stretched long and thin behind him, almost serpentine, coiled.

Isagi hesitated. Then approached, the sound of his cleats crunching the gravel the only thing breaking the night. He rolled a nearby ball toward Bachira. It bumped lightly against his shin. No reaction.

“…Yo,” Isagi said quietly.

Bachira didn’t look up, too focused on the grass under him. “Do you ever think about what happens when a monster dies?”

Isagi blinked, caught off guard by his friend’s sudden question. “What?”

“My monster…” Bachira murmured, voice fraying at the edges. “It used to talk to me all the time. In training. In dreams. During matches. Screaming, laughing, guiding me. It was always there. Always with me. But now?”

He finally lifted his eyes, looking at the sky. “It’s gone. I call for it, but nothing answers.”

Isagi’s throat tightened. He sat down beside him on the bench, the metal cold against his skin. His fingers flexed unconsciously—anxious, searching. “Maybe it’s not gone,” he said after a pause. “Maybe it’s just quiet… Waiting.”

“No.” Bachira’s voice was flat. “It’s scared.”

He turned to face Isagi fully, eyes gleaming like a child who had just seen something he couldn’t understand. “I think it saw something worse than itself, something stronger, something real. And it ran.”

Isagi knew what he meant before the name even left his mouth. “…Rin.”

A silence stretched between them. The air was too still. Like even the wind was listening.

Isagi leaned forward, staring at the turf like it might reveal some kind of answer. “I’ve watched the footage too. Everyone has. Crimson Eclipse… they’re not just strong. They’re unnatural. Efficient. Cold. That team doesn’t play like humans, they move like code...”

“It’s not Rin anymore,” Bachira whispered. “It wears his face, uses his body. But it’s not him.”

Isagi hesitated. The words formed slowly, carefully. “I’m not sure if he ever was just Rin.”

Bachira frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Isagi’s voice dropped, almost ashamed, “…maybe he was always this. And we just didn’t want to see it.”

Bachira was quiet for a moment, like he didn’t want to acknowledge what Isagi had just said.

Then he stood, stretching slowly. “He’s in my dreams,” he said. “Chasing me with no face and no voice. Just footsteps and silence. I run and run, but he’s always just behind me. And when he catches me…” He shivered. “I disappear.”

Isagi stood too. His heart was beating faster now. Not from fear—but from knowing. “That’s not a dream,” he said slowly as he pats Bachira’s shoulder. “Maybe that’s a message...”

Bachira looked at him with a strange softness. “Maybe he can still be saved?”

Isagi didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the truth was—He wasn’t sure if that was even a possibility.

The next morning, the whole world shifted beneath Isagi’s feet like a groundslide no one could predict. It started with a flicker, brief and almost imperceptible, as if the facility itself hesitated—a heartbeat skipped, a breath caught. The lights dimmed, plunging the dormitory into shadows that clung to the corners and stretched like fingers across the walls.

Then came the sharp, metallic tone that pierced the uneasy quiet—the PA system’s cold, emotionless voice slicing through the stillness. No warmth, no preamble. Just an order that sent a shiver down every spine:

“All active Blue Lock players. Report to the Core Room. Immediately.”

The words echoed down the sterile halls, bouncing off steel and concrete like a summons to war. There was no room for questions, no comfort in familiarity. The usual morning chaos—the clatter of breakfast trays, the low murmur of tired jokes—vanished, replaced by a heavy silence that weighed on their shoulders, pressing them forward in uneasy procession.

Even the harsh footsteps of Barou, typically so loud and defiant, were muted as if the very air was holding its breath. It was as though the world itself sensed the gravity of what was coming.

Isagi felt his stomach twist—not from fear, but from something sharper: a keen anticipation, a raw hunger masked as dread. He walked with the others, each step carrying the weight of unspoken questions, the hum of anxious thoughts thrumming in their chests.

They filed into the Core Room, a place usually reserved for plans and analysis, but today it felt different. Dimly lit, clinical, almost sterile, the air buzzed with a tension so thick it clawed at Isagi’s skin.

At the center stood Ego, his tall frame silhouetted against the glow of countless monitors. The sharp angles of his face, usually animated by smirks or calculated coldness, were drawn taut and grave. Beside him, Anri stood still, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, nails biting into the sleeves as if trying to hold herself together.

The silence stretched unbearably long before Ego spoke, his voice breaking through the stillness with a cold finality: “A challenge has been issued.”

The words fell like a hammer, and the room froze in place. No one breathed, no one moved, as if the very ground beneath them had cracked open.

The announcement was simple, devastating: “Blue Lock has been formally invited to a match. A closed event. No spectators. No press. No broadcast.”

The gravity of it settled over Isagi like a shroud. No cheering crowds, no cameras rolling. Just them—faces set in grim determination—and the ghostly silence of a battlefield hidden from the world.

The room held its breath, the tension thick and choking.

Ego delivered the blow: “Against Crimson Eclipse.”

The name slammed into him harder than any blow. Crimson Eclipse—the team they all feared, that seemed less like players and more like mythic predators.

The very air seemed to collapse, folding inward, and Isagi could almost taste the bitterness rising at the back of his throat. Someone cursed quietly, another exhaled a breath so sharp it cut through the tension like glass breaking, and, somewhere deep in his chest, Isagi felt the tightening of a coil—the primal urge to fight, or to flee, or to break under the pressure.

“Rin Itoshi issued the challenge himself.”

Silence followed like a death sentence. There was no video message, no recorded greeting. Just a file, cold and impersonal, bearing a single line of text that chilled Isagi to the bone:

‘Come if you dare to face your evolution.’

Ego’s gaze swept the room, sharp and unforgiving. “This is not a request. This is your next trial.”

Behind him, the monitors flickered to life, revealing a desolate image: an abandoned stadium nestled in the misty mountains of southern Poland. Fog curled like smoke across the cracked stands, and the field lay silent, a forgotten relic swallowed by time.

It was a place for ghosts—perfect for a battle that none were meant to witness.

Isagi felt his heart burning in his chest as he watched the footage in silence.

“This is the location,” Ego said, voice flat and unyielding. “We’re leaving in six days. No media. No backups. No substitutions. What happens there will not be recorded. It will not count toward your league stats. It will only count toward your lives and your ego.”

He marked a pause and started walking out of the room, before he left, he stopped and turned around. He looks at each Blue Lock’s player, the ones who had trained so hard to be where they were today. Here. In the Blue Lock program.

Ready to face their last ennemis before the World Cup.

If they lost now, against Crimson Eclipse, they would never have the strenght to win the World Cup.

Ego spoke once again, “ Your training will become harder and rougher, If we want to stand a chance against them, we will have to be better. “ and then he left.

The final words hung in the air like a verdict.

No one spoke.

Because what could they say?

They were being summoned into the lion’s den.

Training after that announcement became something else entirely—something brutal and unforgiving.

Ego didn’t bother explaining.

He didn’t offer encouragement or sympathy.

He broke them.

Every drill was chaos incarnate, randomized opponents that shifted without warning, mismatched teams thrown into tactical storms that changed by the second. Four versus six, two versus eight—no pattern, no mercy.

Each exercise was a test of adaptability, endurance, and raw instinct.

Ego’s voice was a constant roar above the turmoil: “ Adapt or die. ”

The words became a mantra that carved itself into Isagi’s bones. It was hell. And yet they endured.

In the blur of exhaustion and sweat, Isagi found his mind sharpening like never before. Dreams became fleeting shadows he no longer chased; sleep came only in brief, stolen moments. Eating was mechanical, flavorless—the body fueled, but the soul starved.

Every waking hour was consumed by study: footage of Rin’s movements dissected frame by frame, patterns unraveled with surgical precision.

But Rin no longer moved like a man playing to win.

He moved like a force of nature—inevitable, unyielding, a code beyond human comprehension.

They all felt it. The boundary had been crossed. Rin had stepped beyond mortality.

And now, Blue Lock was being invited to follow—or to be left behind in ruin.

Three days before their departure, the Core Room doors creaked open once again, but this time the atmosphere was different—thicker, heavier, almost suffocating in its intensity.

The usual hum of low conversations and shifting chairs stopped abruptly, replaced by a silence so complete it felt unnatural, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break it.

Then, without ceremony, Sae Itoshi stepped inside.

No entourage.

No announcements.

Just him—tall, composed, eyes sharp and unreadable, holding a clipboard that seemed almost trivial compared to the weight of his presence. The faint fluorescent lights above flickered, casting cold shadows that traced the angles of his face and the hard lines of his jaw.

A ghost from a past they had only heard whispers about, now standing among them like a sentinel guarding secrets too heavy to share.

A ripple of whispers surged through the room.

Some players exchanged quick glances; others tried to mask the tension tightening their throats.

Why was Sae here?

What did it mean?

In the end, they all knew that his arrival wasn’t a beacon of hope.

It was a warning.

Sae’s gaze swept slowly across the gathered players, lingering on Isagi for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if searching for something buried deep beneath the surface.

Then he spoke, his voice low, steady, void of any warmth or encouragement: “ I’m here because I’m the only one who understands what Rin has become and what he’s capable of now. ” His words hit like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through every mind in the room.

There was no room for bravado or empty promises.

Sae didn’t offer motivation or cheer—they had enough of that from Ego.

Instead, what followed was relentless scrutiny.

He tore their tactics apart with surgical precision, calling out flaws no one else dared admit, breaking down entire plays and rebuilding them from the ground up. Mid-drill, he would bark out orders, forcing sudden shifts in formation, demanding adaptability on a scale none had ever experienced.

“ You do this against Rin, ” Sae said once during a brutal scrimmage, voice cutting through the chaos, “ and you die. ”

The starkness of the statement left no room for misinterpretation.

It wasn’t just a game anymore.

It was survival.

Players bristled at his coldness, some openly resenting the merciless pace and harsh judgments.

Yet beneath the surface, they knew the truth:

Sae wasn’t here to help them win.

He was here to prepare them for something far darker.

To prepare them for the impossible.

One night, long after the dormitories had fallen silent and the rest had succumbed to restless sleep, Isagi found himself wandering the empty halls. The quiet was thick and profound, wrapping around him like a heavy cloak.

At the vending machines—bathed in the harsh glow of flickering fluorescents—stood Sae, alone, quiet, staring at the rows of snacks as if searching for answers in the cold metal.

Isagi hesitated, then approached. “ Do you think we can beat him? ”

The question slipped out before he could stop it, voice barely above a whisper but weighted with every ounce of doubt and fear he had been carrying for days.

Sae turned slowly, eyes meeting Isagi’s without a flicker of hesitation. “ No, ” he said simply.

The word hung between them, final and absolute, heavier than any defeat.

Isagi felt his chest tighten, the breath caught in his throat.

But Sae wasn’t finished. “ I think you might be able to reach him. Maybe. If Rin is still here… ”

The implication was subtle, yet seismic.

Sae wasn’t saying Rin was invincible.

He was saying Rin was beyond them—except maybe, just maybe, Isagi held the key.

The thought unsettled him deeply.

Hope was a dangerous thing when paired with fear.

Because reaching Rin meant facing not just a rival, but a force that had transcended the limits of humanity.

And that path was dark and lonely.

Isagi’s mind spun with questions he couldn’t answer.

That night, back in the suffocating darkness of his room, Isagi lay on his narrow cot staring up at the cracked ceiling. The only sound was the steady rhythm of his own breathing, slow and deliberate, yet his mind raced like a storm.

No phantom voices whispered guidance.

No comforting illusions softened the edges of reality.

Just silence.

Cold, unyielding, and absolute.

Outside, the wind scraped softly against the windowpane, a faint susurration of nature’s indifference to human struggle.

It reminded him that the world kept turning—oblivious to the battles waged in cold rooms and distant fields.

In the stillness, one thought crystallized with brutal clarity:

If Rin is no longer human, then maybe the only way to stop him is to become something beyond human too.

The weight of that realization was crushing.

It pressed against his chest like a vise, squeezing tight with the knowledge that Blue Lock’s next match wouldn’t just decide a championship or a legacy—it would decide what they were willing to sacrifice.

What parts of themselves they were ready to lose.

Because in the shadow of Rin Itoshi’s transformation, there was only one truth:

Evolution didn’t ask for permission.

It demanded surrender .

And Isagi knew, deep in the marrow of his bones, that surrender was no longer an option.

Chapter Text

The night had no right to be that quiet, especially when Rin was in a bad mood.

Kamakura was usually a cacophony : cars humming, trains screaming, sirens wailing somewhere in the distance like urban lullabies.

But tonight, Rin Itoshi sat in silence. The kind of silence that didn’t soothe, but strangled.

The apartment was dim, not dark, just… indifferent. The glow of the ceiling light flickered like it resented being on, the floor beneath him was damp from his own forgotten water bottle, condensation spreading in uneven streaks like a slow bleed. He hadn’t moved for hours.

Not since the match.

Not since those words.

« The one who will change Japanese soccer is… Yoichi Isagi. »

That voice…

That damn insufferable voice.

So calm, so effortless.

As if the words weren’t sharp, as if the sentence didn’t just carry the weight of a blade driven clean through Rin’s chest.

Like it meant nothing.

Like he meant nothing.

Rin didn’t remember how the match ended. He didn’t remember walking off the pitch, or the sound of the final whistle, or the way his teammates clapped him on the back.

He didn’t remember the locker room, or the cold sting of the shower. Even the praise washed over him like static, even if they had just won.

All of it was just white noise.

Because in his head, there was only one voice.

Sae’s voice.

And one image… Isagi, his arms raised and his eyes bright. The stadium lights pouring down on him like divine spotlight, like he belonged there.

Like the moment had been built for him and no one else.

But it was supposed to be Rin’s moment.

He hadn’t trained for the applause, not even for greatness. He trained for him. To crush Itoshi Sae. To destroy his own brother.

To sever the bond, to bury the past, to stand so far above his brother that even Sae—cold, indifferent, unreachable Sae—would be forced to acknowledge him.

To look at Rin, and only Rin, and say, “You won.”

But when Sae finally opened his mouth… the name he spoke wasn’t Rin’s.

It was Isagi’s.

And that single word unraveled everything.

Rin was supposed to be the storm : unpredictable, violent, unstoppable.

But in that instant, he realized the truth.

He wasn’t the storm... He was still just a shadow.

And now, that shadow didn’t even belong to Sae, it belonged to Yoichi Isagi. Fucking Yoichi Isagi.

The next twenty-four hours passed like a slow execution.

The media called it the match of the generation.

Screens lit up with endless replays. Fans screamed, analysts dissected every pass, every goal. Memes exploded online. Highlight clips looped on every platform. Slow-motion breakdowns turned seconds into monuments.

And in all of them… Isagi. He was everywhere.

Sae was impressed, for the first time in years, he actually admitted it : That Japan’s soccer had hope.

But not because of Rin.

Sae didn’t mention his name once. He didn’t look at him like a rival, not even like a brother. Just… past him, like he really had no value at all.

As if Rin was already behind, as if he had already been replaced.

He wasn’t strong enough for Sae.

And maybe, not even for Japan.

He didn’t let himself fall apart, not outwardly. No outbursts, no tears, no dramatic collapse.

Instead, he trained.

Not the way he did in Blue Lock, but with brutal discipline. Long-distance runs at dawn, Isometric holds until his arms trembled, yoga on the cold floor of his room, breath held too long, like he was trying to smother the thoughts that kept rising.

He barely ate, he drank only enough to stay upright and his sleep came in two-hour bursts, broken by cold sweat and nothing.

It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t focus.

It was survival.

A way to keep the silence from getting too loud.

Until one evening, when the message came.

“If you want to stop being a puppet, if you want to destroy the chains around you, I can offer you a way out. Let me know when you’re ready.”

– Aleksei Dragunov.

Rin stared at the message like it was a hallucination.

The name rang faint bells, a disgraced European coach, a tactical mastermind turned outlaw, a man who had once been revered and then vanished.

Some said he ran an underground training syndicate for “burnt” talents, players broken by the system, but that was just rumors he heard.

Rin didn’t answer right away, but the idea began to take root. Because, if Blue Lock had been a crucible for ego… this man offered something colder, sharper, a forge.

The next day, Rin decided to give a chance to the message.

He texted the man back, asking for a place to meet, not out of hope, but because he refused to rot in that miserable state any longer. He needed to move, to evolve, to destroy anything that dared stand in his way.

He would become stronger, not just to survive, but to dominate, to erase every doubt, every names that had ever stood above his : Yoichi Isagi and Itoshi Sae, but also the version of himself he used to be.

He would crush them all, and when it was over, there’d be no debate.

He’d be the best striker in the world.

No one else.

Just him.

Itoshi Rin.

—Three Nights Later—

The café looked abandoned.

Hidden in a crooked alleyway in the backstreets of Tokyo, half-covered in ivy and shadows, like time had forgotten it existed. The sign above the door had no name, just a faint red eclipse etched into the black wood.

No one passed by and there was no lights inside, just a low hum.

Rin stood outside for a long time, his track jacket pulled tight around his shoulders. He felt stupid.

Stupid because this could be a setup, or a prank, or worse, something cult-like.

But when the door creaked open on its own, already unlocked, he didn’t walk away, he decided to step inside.

The air hit different : cold, dry, and still, like the inside of a mausoleum. He could hear the slow whir of an old ceiling fan, the faint ticking of a clock that might not even be real.

Rin glanced around him. He could feel it, the unease, the discomfort, slithering through his veins.

That’s when he saw him. A single man sitting at the back, backlit by the flickering neon glow of the street through stained windows. He didn’t rise, nor did he smile. He simply tilted his head, like a scientist observing a chemical reaction, unfold exactly as expected.

“So… You came…” the man said simply with a scoff.

It was him… Aleksei Dragunov. Not a prank, not some troll trying to bait him during a weak moment.

He looked more like a military general than someone you’d see on the sidelines of a football field.

He was tall, wiry, not old, but weathered. His short blond hair was streaked with faint silver strands and styled back with a slight tousled volume, giving him a sharp, distinctive look.

His eyes were hidden behind dark tinted lenses that didn’t reflect light, they swallowed it whole. He wore black gloves indoors, his coat echoing the cut of an uniform.

His aura wasn’t one of charm, it was an unspoken order.

Making it impossible to ignore.

“Sit.” Dragunov said, as he pointed at the chair across from him.

Rin didn’t last a second.

He sat, slowly, carefully. Just in case something would happen…

Every cells in his body screamed to stay on edge, but it wasn’t fear—it was instinct. The way animals know when they’re in danger, in the presence of a predator for example.

Dragunov steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the dark wood of the table, as he opened his lips to speak. “The U-20 match really was something, huh?“

Rin stayed quiet, arms crossed, eyes locked on the man in front of him, a part of him already regretted showing up.

Maybe this was a waste of time. Maybe he should’ve stayed home, locked himself in his room and trained until his legs gave out, like always.

At least that would’ve been familiar.

Instead, here he was, in a dead café tucked in some forgotten alley, facing a man who didn’t smile, didn’t blink much, didn’t even bother to pretend this wasn’t strange.

Maybe he was a creep.

Maybe that’s why he got fired.

Maybe this was some twisted trap, or worse—maybe he was connected to the Russian mafia, like in those old movies Rin used to watch when he was a kid. The kind where the guy sitting across from you pulls out a gun and you never make it out.

But none of that really scared Rin anymore.

What caught him off guard wasn’t the danger, nor it was the fact that he just seriously considered and accepted the possibility of getting hurt—or worse—it was the thought that came right after all those doubts:

“Would Nii-chan even care if I died?”

That question hit harder than he expected. It sat in his chest like dead weight, and for a second, it made him feel like a kid again, left behind, forgotten, nothing more than someone chasing after someone else’s shadow.

He blinked the thought away before it could settle too deep, but it stayed there, tucked behind his expressionless face.

Then Dragunov spoke, cutting through the silence, like he’d been waiting for the exact moment Rin would slip into that spiral.

“Alright, alright,” he said, waving one hand lazily. “You don’t seem like the type to enjoy small talk, so let’s not waste time.”

He pulled off the dark lenses that had been covering his eyes.

Underneath, his gaze was sharp—grey, cold, steady. Eyes that didn’t just look at you, but through you. Like he already knew what Rin was thinking. Like none of this was new.

“You want control,” Dragunov said simply. “And more than that, you need it.”

Rin didn’t answer, he now felt interested in Dragunov’s words.

“You were promised freedom at Blue Lock,” Dragunov continued. “But what did they give you? Rivalry. Chains. They pit you against each other like dogs, trained you to bark on command. They taught you evolution but gave you a mirror to compete with.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

Because every word felt like a clean cut, hitting exactly where it hurt most, exposing every weakness without missing a single one.

“You were born in war, Rin.“ Dragunov marked a pause as he grabbed something from his pocket. “I’m not offering peace… I’m offering purpose .”

He slid a matte-black card across the table. On it, a blood-red eclipse with no name, no number, just coordinates.

A place far from here.

Rin could guess it by the way it was written in a different language.

“What is this?” Rin asked, his voice low, still feeling defiant about this whole situation.

“A rebellion,” Dragunov said, his voice now tinged with amusement, like he was enjoying this too much. “You might have hear echoes of it… I’m building a place beyond the system. A facility where outcasts, exiles, forgotten pros, become architects of a new game. We don’t play for goals, nor for sponsors. We play to rewrite history. ”

Silence again.

Rin could’ve guessed it, he’d heard the rumors, but still, something about hearing it out loud, being approached for this kind of football, caught him off guard.

It wasn’t fear.

It was something colder.

Curiosity mixed with a quiet edge of disbelief.

“And what do you want from me?” he asked, his tone casual, eyebrow raised as he let the card slip from his fingers and fall back onto the table.

Dragunov leaned forward. “Your instinct, your mind… You’re not just a striker, Rin, you’re a conductor. A beast that doesn’t chase, but waits, calculates, then strikes so precisely, the victim thanks you before dying.”

His smile was sharp, cold, and something Rin didn’t expect to see in a man like Dragunov. It wasn’t manipulation, nor It was flattery, used to charm him.

It was pride.

Real, raw pride.

Like Dragunov had found the exact monster he’d been waiting to unleash.

The compliment burned, making Rin’s chest feel tight, uncomfortable, and almost suffocating. But at the same time, it pulled something loose inside him. Something that had been buried for so long he hadn’t even realized it was still there.

Not talent.

Not potential.

Just hunger.

And maybe he’d gotten it all wrong. Maybe that thing he always thought was hunger, when he imagined crushing Sae… wasn’t hunger at all. Maybe it had just been revenge. A childish wound he never allowed to heal.

Because what he felt now, right here, in this cold café, sitting across from a man who saw him not as a project, but as a weapon—this wasn’t about Sae. This wasn’t about Isagi either. This wasn’t about proving anything to anyone.

This was his .

For the first time, Rin started to understand that this quiet fire in his chest, this pull toward something unknown, something brutal and real, might be what it meant to love something.

Not for attention.

Not for validation.

Not to satisfy some broken version of himself.

Just for him.

For Itoshi Rin.

The future best striker in the entire World.

After a long pause, Rin finally spoke.

“I don’t want to be a prodigy.” he said, eyes drifting toward the card sitting between them, its black edges sharp against the worn table.

His gaze lingered for a moment before he looked back up, locking eyes with Dragunov. “I want to become something that doesn’t need to prove itself to anyone. Something that makes people shut up and say, ‘Yeah, he’s clearly the best.’ No debate. No comparison. Just reality.”

Dragunov stood slowly, his chair scraping back against the floor with a low drag. He looked down at Rin, voice dropping into a near-whisper, but the weight of his words was impossible to ignore. “Then come with me, Rin.”

Rin didn’t answer right away.

He stared at Dragunov, then turned his eyes away, letting silence fall between them again as the question echoed inside his head.

It should’ve been an easy choice. He wanted to grow, to dominate, to burn every weakness out of himself until nothing was left but results.

But this?

This wasn’t just about football anymore. It was about leaving everything behind : Blue Lock, Ego’s system, the only structure he knew.

It meant disappearing, giving up control of his future to a man he met less than an hour ago.

Was he ready for that?

Could he trust this stranger?

Was this hunger he felt real, or was it just desperation wearing a new face?

Then Dragunov spoke again, his tone steady and unreadable. “Nobody is ready for you here. And nobody’s waiting for you either. Am I right?”

The words cut deeper than Rin expected, making him slightly froze into place. But he stood up as well, matching Dragunov’s height as best he could, though the man still had a few inches on him. But Rin didn’t look away this time.

“Tell me more,” he said, voice low but firm. “About the whole program.”

A slow grin stretched across Dragunov’s face, like a man who already knew he had the answer in his pocket. He extended a gloved hand toward Rin. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know. So… it’s a deal then?”

Rin looked at the hand in front of him, unmoving.

His fingers curled slightly at his sides.

There was hesitation, of course there was. He didn’t trust people, he never had. And this entire offer could be a trap, a mistake, a detour that took him so far from his goals he’d never recover.

But something inside him, something sharp and alive, refused to back down now. He could feel it.

This wasn’t about faith in Dragunov.

It was about betting on himself.

He exhaled slowly, rolled his eyes in his usual stubborn way, then gave a small nod as he took Dragunov’s hand.

“As long as I become the best.” He simply answered.

He didn’t know if this path would really take him there. He didn’t know if this was the right choice, or if he’d regret it the second he stepped on the plane. But one thing was certain… He wanted more.

More than Blue Lock.

More than Sae.

He wanted to feel that hunger again.

That raw, ruthless craving Dragunov had just awakened in him.

Dragunov chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound. Then he placed his other hand over theirs like sealing the deal in blood.

“You made the right choice, Rin.” he said, eyes gleaming.

Rin didn’t answer. He just watched him, silent and burning from the inside.

“We’ll burn the whole world down,” Dragunov finished, voice soft like a promise, “together.”

Chapter Text

The players of Blue Lock descended from the private aircraft in silence.

The flight had been long, hours spent in a pressurized metal tube suspended between continents, with no conversation, no banter, no release. Just silence. A silence heavy enough to press into bone.

Bachira’s usual gain was absent, replaced by a thin-lipped, contemplative frown. Chigiri’s crimson hair fluttered faintly in the cold air as he stared forward, jaw tense, fingers flexing restlessly. Nagi dragged his feet off the plane with a familiar sigh, but said nothing this time. Not even Reo broke the silence, he walked beside Nagi with his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

Even Ego and Anri walked without speaking. No observations, no threats, just motion.

Sae led them all, a few paces ahead, his steps controlled and even, as if walking into his own execution. His back was a straight line, shoulders squared, head high, but there was something taut beneath it, like a thread pulled too tight. Isagi didn’t need to ask why.

This wasn’t just about the game.

This was about family.

This was about Rin.

A row of matte black vehicles stood waiting at the edge of the frozen runway, windowless, armored, and utterly silent. They looked more like transport for a military strike than for athletes. The air around them was freezing, dry and sharp as broken glass. The sky above stretched wide and grey and indifferent.

Standing beside the lead vehicle was a tall man dressed head-to-toe in tactical black. His features were sharp and bloodless, skin pale like cold stone. His eyes held no spark, no soul. A long scar dragged across his face, jagged and blunt, like it hadn’t healed right, like it hadn’t needed to.

He didn’t speak. Not until Ego approached.

“Blue Lock?” the man asked, voice thick with an Eastern European accent, harsh, precise, and unforgiving.

Ego nodded once.

The man said nothing more, he just opened the door.

The ride felt like it lasted hours, though it was impossible to track time in the armored silence of the van. The road curled endlessly through snow-covered woods and white fields that glistened like salt flats under the overcast sky.

Isagi stared out the tinted window, eyes following the trees that slid past like apparitions, skeletal and ancient, their limbs twisting upward like fingers toward something unreachable. The landscape was motionless, lifeless, a frozen graveyard.

The longer they drove, the more his chest tightened. Not from the cold, but from anticipation. From the sick weight of dread blooming in his gut like black mold.

He was going to see him again.

Rin.

The name echoed in his head like a mantra. 

A curse. 

A prayer.

His ex-rival. 

The one who had once mirrored his hunger, his obsession. The player who moved like a blade in motion, who cut through defenders with eyes that burned like live coals. The one he had fought with, against, and beside. The one he had started, however foolishly, to trust.

That Rin was gone. 

Swallowed whole.

And now, whatever had taken his place waited in the snow.

Isagi wasn’t sure what scared him more, the idea of facing Rin again… or the possibility that there would be nothing left to face.

Beside him, Bachira leaned in, resting his head lightly on Isagi’s shoulder. Seeking warmth, maybe, or reassurance. Isagi didn’t pull away, but the contact couldn’t melt the ice threading through his veins. 

The fear was still there. 

Low. 

Vibrating.

A feeling like he didn’t belong in his own skin.

Eventually, the cars slowed, tires crunching against packed snow, and stopped before a building that looked less like a stadium or training facility and more like a bunker.

Steel-faced, that radiated cold. 

Isagi felt a shiver running down his spine, and he was sure that it wasn’t caused by the coldness of the snowflakes falling on his skin.

The tall man with the scar stood in front of the doors, waiting as the Blue Lock team disembarked. His expression hadn’t changed since the runway. 

If he blinked, no one noticed. 

“This way.” he said simply.

The doors hissed open, and the group stepped inside silently.

The air inside was even colder than outside. Not temperature-wise, but emotionally. It was the cold of antiseptic places, of laboratories, of rooms where people didn’t live, they were studied. Dissected.

The walls were smooth, white, and humming faintly with electronic static. Screens flickered to life as they passed, displaying strings of text in what looked like Russian. Cold red letters scrolling across silent displays. Isagi didn’t recognize a single word, but somehow, he still understood the warning they carried.

Shidou let out a huff, drawing the group’s attention before saying, “This place looks like a damn hospital. Kinda creepy, huh?” Yet, even the smirk tugging at his lips did little to ease anyone’s nerves.

They continued to discover new hallways in a pure and uneasy silence, and as they turned down a long corridor, something changed. Paintings lined the walls, one for each member of Crimson Eclipse. 

At first glance, they seemed like ordinary portraits. But the longer you looked, the more wrong they felt.

Each player stood with a hand pressed to their chest, over their heart, like soldiers taking a vow. Every detail of their bodies was rendered with obsessive realism: the folds of their uniforms, the scuffs on their boots, the flex of muscle beneath their sleeves. But their faces…

Their faces were blurred. 

Not casually, not in haste, but with intention. Meticulously smeared until identity was unrecognizable. 

As if the person didn’t matter. 

Only the player did.

Isagi’s stomach twisted. He slowed his steps, his eyes dragging over every canvas they passed. He recognized the numbers, the postures, the way each body held tension like a weapon. They had studied these players on screen for days.

And now they were being turned into symbols.

Then he noticed Sae had stopped walking. Frozen in front of a particular painting.

Isagi drifted toward him, the rest of the group continuing ahead.

Sae stood before a massive frame that dwarfed the others. Unlike the rest, this figure didn’t have one hand over his heart.

His hands were clasped together, in a religious prayer, and a golden crown was painted above his bowed head, ornate and radiant, like something out of a church fresco. It shimmered faintly under the corridor’s sterile lights.

But the face…

The face wasn’t blurred. It was erased. A solid black circle replaced it, perfect and hollow. Not painted carelessly, but precisely, like a void. Like nothing existed behind it.

Beneath the frame, in bold crimson letters, the title read:

“The King.”

And beneath that:

“The one created to be the best.”

Isagi’s breath caught in his throat.

He knew who it was. The posture, the build, the weight in the shoulders. 

It was Rin.

But this wasn’t a portrait, it was a monument, a shrine, a conversion. Everything about it was wrong, sacrilegious.

Rin would’ve hated it.

Or at least… the Rin he used to be.

“This place isn’t built for football…” Isagi whispered, voice low and tight, not to Sae, but to himself.. “It’s built for something else. To prove something…”

Sae didn’t respond, his eyes lingered a moment longer on the painting, unreadable. Then he turned and walked on. Isagi followed right after, with one last look at the crown, the praying hands, the black void. and then he tore his gaze away.

But now, each step felt heavier than the last.

They arrived at a massive black door, tall, seamless, and utterly imposing. It was set flush into the wall like a vault, more fitting for a research facility or a containment cell than anything related to football. There were no handles, no hinges, just a glossy surface that seemed to absorb light.

The tall, scarred man stepped forward and pressed his palm against a biometric scanner embedded beside it. A thin red line swept across his hand, followed by a soft mechanical chime. 

Then a deeper sound… click. 

Like a lock sliding open on something that had been bolted shut for a very long time.

A breath of air hissed from the seal as the door parted, revealing a narrow threshold of pale white light.

Then, suddenly, a voice. Low, calm, drenched in confidence. It spilled from the other side of the door like smoke.

Russian. 

The words were foreign, but not unfamiliar, not in rhythm, not in intent. Isagi didn’t understand the language, but he didn’t need to, to know who the other man was.

A figure stepped forward into the light.

Aleksei Dragunov.

His entrance was deliberate, performed, like an actor taking center stage. Tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a long black coat that hung on him like a mantle. His silver-blond hair was slicked back with clinical precision, not a strand out of place, and his skin was pale enough to border on artificial, porcelain, but hard-edged.

But it was his eyes that held everything together.

Grey. 

Empty.

Not cold in a brutal way, but clinical, surgical, like someone who could take you apart and not even feel remorse doing it.

Everything about him radiated control. From the way he walked, measured, soundless, to the way his fingers twitched slightly when he stopped, as though they missed holding a scalpel.

Isagi’s stomach tightened.

This wasn’t a coach.

This was a man who engineered players.

“Ah” Dragunov said, his thick accent curling every syllable like smoke around a glass. “Ego. It’s been a while, hmm?”

Ego didn’t respond immediately. He stepped forward, his mouth a hard line, hands clasped behind his back. “Indeed.”

Dragunov reached out and placed a hand on Ego’s shoulder, friendly, almost warm, if you only looked at the gesture. But the contact was off. The kind that lingered just half a second too long, just heavy enough to assert dominance. Ego tensed, just slightly, but he did not flinch.

Dragunov smiled.

“When was the last time we saw each other like this?” he asked, his voice almost amused.

Ego answered flatly. “When you got fired.”

The words landed with a thud.

The air in the corridor grew still, like the moment before a blade is drawn. Everyone in the room felt the awkwardness between Ego and Dragunov.

The smile on Dragunov’s face didn’t vanish, but something behind it hardened. The skin around his eyes pulled ever so slightly. 

Then Dragunov exhaled and turned his attention to the players.

“Ah, I see you’ve brought your full roster.” he said smoothly, eyes passing over them like a scalpel assessing tissue. “You’ve taken this little match very seriously. Good.”

His gaze finally landed on Sae.

“Even brought the eldest Itoshi.” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Japan’s prodigy… and all the delusions that come with it.”

He stepped forward and offered his hand.

Sae didn’t take it, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even acknowledge the gesture.

He just stared.

The stillness between them sharpened into something brittle.

Dragunov chuckled, withdrawing his hand slowly. “Ah. I see now where Rin’s stubborn character came from.”

Isagi’s heart jolted. Rin’s name rang out through the silence like a bell tolling in a cathedral. It was the first time it had been spoken aloud since they landed. The weight of it hit harder than expected. 

The air changed. 

He felt Bachira shift beside him. It was like someone had reopened a sealed wound, and Dragunov knew it.

He turned to the rest of the group, smile pulling wider, shark-like now. “I’m afraid I must return to work.” he said lightly. “But my assistant will escort you to your rooms. Make yourselves at home. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything… except mercy, haha. »

Nobody, except him, laughed, Isagi couldn’t help but feel like he wanted to run away from the awkwardness of the situation, to go back to Blue Lock and to forget about this fucking « Crimson Eclipse » that wanted to destroy them.

Ego stepped forward. “We should discuss match logistics, rules, format, referees…” He started to say before Dragunov waved a hand, eyes already drifting away. 

“In time. You just arrived. You’ll need to acclimate, ouraltitude does strange things to the blood… » His voice and smile were teasing, but Isagi caught the warning beneath it.

Then Anri stepped forward, her tone composed. “When will we meet the other team?”

Before Dragunov could answer, the tall female assistant behind him did.

“At dinner.” She said, like a verdict.

Dragunov nodded. “Yes, tonight. We’ll dine together. You’ll meet them properly then.”

He turned, the tails of his coat slicing the air. He took two steps, then paused, as if savoring something.

Sae’s voice rang out. “What about Rin?”

The corridor froze.

Dragunov didn’t turn around. He stood in profile, gaze distant, then finally glanced back over his shoulder.

“Oh…” he said, eyes gleaming faintly. “You’ll see him at dinner as well.”

A beat of silence. 

Isagi held his breath before Dragunov spoke once again.

“If he shows up.”

And then he was gone.

The door at the far end slid open with a hiss.

No one spoke as they were led deeper into the facility by Dragunov’s assistant. They moved in silence, feeling too nervous to even dare whispering.

Isagi’s thoughts churned in loops.

« If he shows up. »

What did that mean? Was Rin hiding? Was he not allowed to appear? Or, worse, was he no longer someone you could meet ?

Their escort led them down corridor after corridor, hallways of chrome and white, everything too clean, too uniform, almost surgical in its perfection. The walls were smooth and had only few windows, humming faintly with hidden power. There were no posters, no trophies and no signs of personality. Just sterile minimalism and artificial light.

Isagi kept his eyes scanning the surroundings, but it was all the same. Every turn looked like the last, every hallway felt like a loop designed to disorient.

Finally, they reached a stairwell, metal steps that spiraled with industrial efficiency. No railings, no sound. Just footsteps echoing into silence.

They climbed.

The second floor was just as stark, only narrower, more suffocating. The lights overhead flickered once, then stabilized, casting everything in a dim ivory hue that made skin look pale and eyes sunken. The temperature here was slightly colder, too, as if the air itself was watching them.

The hallway was lined with doors.

All identical.

Numbered in small silver digits.

The assistant stopped at the center of it all and turned to face them.

Her expression hadn’t changed since they’d met her. Cold. Professional. But something about her posture now, just barely, seemed heavier, slower, like she didn’t like being here either.

“We will let you decide who will share rooms.” she said calmly, her voice echoing in the stillness. “If that’s not a problem for you all…”

Her words hung awkwardly in the air.

Anri stepped forward and nodded. “It’s perfect. Thanks.”

The woman didn’t nod, she didn’t smile, she only stood there, eyes lingering on the group for a moment longer than necessary, as if she was studying something.

Then she spoke again, this time slower. “I will come to inform you when dinner is ready.”

She marked a pause. 

“For now, you should all stay on this floor. If you wish to explore more of the facility… I advise you to wait and ask Dragunov directly.”

Her voice didn’t raise, it didn’t shift, but everyone felt it. That strange pressure beneath her words. Like a warning veiled as politeness. Like there were things in this building not meant for them. 

Not safe for them.

“If you need anything,” she added, “you’ll find assistants or security near the stairwells at all times.”

She looked at the whole group, searching for someone with a question. And then, without another glance, she turned and walked away. Her footsteps were soundless on the floor, disappearing into the white void of the corridor behind her.

For a few moments, no one spoke.

They just stood there, in that too-clean hallway, surrounded by numbered doors and humming lights. The silence pressed in like a weighted blanket.

Isagi looked around, and it truly hit him.

This wasn’t like Blue Lock.

Blue Lock had been intense, chaotic, raw, filled with shouting, ego, ambition, life. Even at its most brutal, there was energy in the air, the electric tension of dreams colliding.

But this place? This facility?

It wasn’t built for hope, it wasn’t made for dreams. This place was designed for obedience, for power.

Even the walls felt like they were listening.

He glanced around and saw the change in everyone’s posture. Nagi, normally lazy and half-drifting, was alert, standing straighter than usual. Bachira wasn’t smiling. Chigiri’s fingers tapped restlessly at his side. Barou wasn’t posturing, he was silent, muscles taut. Even Tokimitsu’s breathing had slowed into something measured and shallow, like prey trying not to be heard.

And then there were the adults.

Anri’s usual warmth had drained from her eyes.

Ego stood with his arms crossed, staring at the hallway like it was mocking him. Calculating. 

And Sae…

Sae looked like he’d seen this before.

No one was speaking, but Isagi could feel it… Everyone was tense, but everyone was trying not to show it.

And yet, in the pit of his stomach, that tension only grew heavier.

There was no comfort here, no safety. Just the sterile quiet of something being tested, observed, dissected.

Even the silence in this place felt weaponized.

Ego exhaled loudly, breaking the silence like a hammer through glass.

“You’ll sleep in groups of three or four,” he announced flatly. “I don’t give a damn about how you split. Choose whoever you want, just don’t make a mess.”

His voice echoed down the corridor, bounced off the metal and glass. Isagi wasn’t sure if the tension eased, or got worse.

Everyone exchanged glances. Silent, uneasy calculations passed between them.

Nobody wanted to be alone here.

This wasn’t Blue Lock, where rivalry was the point. This was something else… Something colder. Something with rules none of them fully understood.

Isagi felt a small nudge.

It was Bachira, already grinning, but it was a smaller grin than usual, strained at the edges. “We’re together, right?” he asked, voice low.

“Of course.” Isagi replied immediately, grateful for the anchor.

Bachira’s shoulder bumped lightly against his, a silent way of saying ‘I’m sticking close.’

Then, as if on cue, a familiar voice piped up.

“Hey…” Hiori stood a little behind them, hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves. “Would it bother ya two if I joined? In the room, I mean.”

Isagi turned.

Hiori didn’t look scared, but he didn’t look calm either. His usual quiet composure was fraying slightly at the edges, like a thread tugged too many times.

Isagi smiled. “Of course. Actually, it’s been a while since we had time to talk.”

“Yeah.” Hiori said, his expression softening, the tension in his jaw relaxing just a little. “That’d be nice.”

“Three’s good!” Bachira added with a nod. “Three’s a magic number anyway.”

They were about to find a door when a new voice joined in.

“Wait, uh… would you guys mind if I joined, too?”

It was Nanase. His smile was nervous, hands gripping the strap of his duffel bag like it was a lifeline.

The three boys exchanged glances, then nodded almost in unison.

“Sure!” Isagi said. “The more the better.”

Bachira beamed. “Room party!!”

Isagi chuckled under his breath, the sound sharp in the quiet hall. He was grateful for the levity, even if it felt out of place here.

One by one, the others began to pair off. Chigiri joined up with Kunigami and Reo. Nagi, unsurprisingly, was trailing after Reo too. Barou took a room with Aryu and Tokimitsu, muttering something about “no one snoring or I’ll crush you.”

Even in the way they grouped up, you could feel it.  Everyone was trying to stay close to familiarity, even the strongest of them didn’t want to be left alone in this cold and humid play.

Room 208 was at the far end of the corridor, tucked into the silence like a secret meant to be kept.

The hallway around them was eerily empty now. Most of the other players had already settled into their rooms, and the noise, what little there had been, faded behind thick, sealed doors. Only the soft hum of the overhead lights remained, buzzing in the air like static clinging to skin.

They approached the door. There was no handle, nokeypad, no keycard reader. Just a narrow, glossy panel embedded next to the frame, pulsing with a faint blue glow.

As they came closer, it blinked once.

Recognized.

With a soft mechanical hiss, the door slid open.

No assistant, no gesture, no human presence to guide them. It felt like the building itself had decided they belonged inside.

Isagi hesitated at the threshold, something in his chest tightening. The air spilling out from the room was noticeably colder. It smelled faintly of sterile metal and something artificial, like a place that hadn’t been touched by breath or warmth in a long, long time.

They stepped in.

The door closed behind them on its own with a quiet click, delicate but absolute.

The interior was unsettling in how perfect it was.

Two bunk beds, one along each wall. A single metal wardrobe stood rigid between them. A mirror was mounted beside it, tall and centered like it had been placed there with surgical intention. The walls were pristine white, and the floors gleamed faintly under the dim overhead light. There wasn’t a single speck of dust, not a wrinkle in the sheets, not even a fingerprint on the mirror.

Everything was untouched.

Untouched and unlived-in.

It didn’t feel like a dorm room, it felt like a laboratory cell.

A space designed to observe, not to comfort.

Isagi moved toward the left bunk and set his bag down on the lower bed. The mattress didn’t give much under the weight, stiff and cold like hospital foam. His fingertips brushed the sheets. They were crisp, almost scratchy, definitely too clean.

He opened the wardrobe, the hinges didn’t squeak. Inside: empty, except for metal hangers perfectly aligned. The scent of sterilizing agent hung heavy inside, sharp, synthetic, chemical. 

Behind him, Bachira had tossed his bag onto the opposite bunk, his usual casualness dulled by the atmosphere. Nanase sat on the top bunk, legs dangling, running his palm over the cover like he was trying to feel if it was real. Hiori was quietly observing the room.

No one spoke at first.

The silence didn’t invite words.

Then Isagi glanced toward the mirror, and froze.

It wasn’t just the size, it was the placement.

Dead center. 

Perfectly aligned with the middle of the room.

Its surface shimmered slightly, unnaturally still, like a screen pretending to be glass. His own reflection stared back at him, pale and quiet and subtly wrong. His face looked more hollow in here. Like the mirror filtered out everything but stress.

There was something about it that made his skin crawl, like it wasn’t there for them to use. 

It was there to watch them.

He turned away.

“I don’t like this place…” Nanase muttered, voice barely above a whisper. Like saying it too loud might awaken something.

“I don’t think anyone does.” Hiori replied, still organizing his things. His voice was steady, but his eyes weren’t. They kept flicking toward the door, as if expecting it to open again without warning.

Isagi nodded, trying to ignore the heaviness pooling in his chest.

“Let’s just… unpack.” he said softly. “Make it feel like our room.”

He opened his bag, beginning to arrange his clothes like he always did: socks folded twice, jersey laid out at the foot of the bed, towel draped neatly across the corner. Small rituals of comfort. Familiar motions to push against the unfamiliar.

But it didn’t help.

Not really.

The air still felt too dense. Too quiet. As if the walls had absorbed their presence and were listening now.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since they stepped off the plane, but now it beat slower, heavier. Like it was matching the rhythm of the place.

Like the building had its own pulse, and his body was trying to sync with it.

Behind the walls, beneath the floors, something was alive, not organic, not human. 

But watching.

Waiting.

Isagi’s eyes flicked back to the door, still closed, still sealed, still too silent. Waiting for it to open again.

For Dragunov, maybe.

Or…

For Rin.

And somehow, that was worse.