Chapter Text
Reo’s world fell into a sudden silence.
She didn’t hear the Barcelona players celebrating, didn’t hear the fans or her teammates behind her. All she could hear was the echo of that pass—that pass from Demian. It sliced through the field like a piano chord struck in a quiet room: crisp, effortless, beautiful.
Demian can see the pitch the way I can.
That was the only explanation for the way he played.
And for a moment, her heart fluttered.
He could expand how I use my vision. The same way Ren did.
Demian didn’t let up. His presence was like a gravitational field—pulling defenders, dragging midfielders, distorting the shape of the game itself. And yet, he thrived.
Akkun stayed close to him, as close as humanly possible. And to his credit, he held up—barely. Demian began drifting back into midfield, where he linked up with Yuri, Falco, and Sino. The three midfielders reshaped into a diamond around him, adjusting to him effortlessly. It was played in perfect rhythm.
Reo stared in awe.
Thank you, Fukuda-san, for finding me on that beach, she thought with quiet gratitude.
But that feeling returned. Even though all the pieces of Barcelona’s system had fallen into its place, Reo felt as if something was missing. Something she couldn’t label. When she saw the midfielders play, Reo felt as if she was being forced into a box. Restricted. Reo had to force herself out of these thoughts.
Esperion fought back. Togashi cut off Sariel with a sharp tackle and quickly offloaded to Kiriki. Kiriki’s quick pass found Kuri, and Reo joined in, forming a smooth triangle with Ootomo. The ball zipped forward with renewed purpose. For a brief moment, there was a rhythm again—order in the chaos.
But it was snatched away in an instant.
Obsidian closed in, anticipating Kuri’s next move, and dispossessed him with a clean, brutal tackle just as he reached the edge of the penalty box. The whistle blew. The play stopped.
Before any Esperion player could reach Kuri, Demian was already beside him, offering a hand. Reo couldn’t hear the words at first—she was too far away. But she could read the posture, the smirk, the expression on Kuri’s face.
Then, suddenly, the stadium erupted—not from the match, but from a stray dog darting across the field, sprinting past the benches, the referee chasing uselessly behind.
Reo turned at the noise, blinking in surprise, but then she heard Fukuda-san calling out to them from the sideline. But before heading back, she turned toward Kuri and Demian.
As she approached, Demian’s voice floated clearly through the air.
“Thanks for being my stepping stone,” he said casually. “I have always wanted to tell you that.”
Reo felt her lips curl into a quiet chuckle. That sound drew both their gazes. She didn’t look at Demian. Her eyes locked on Kuri instead, and she asked, in crisp Spanish, “Did you find what you were looking for in this match?”
Kuri smirked and turned to face Demian. “I was looking for an idiot like you who could say nonsense like that. If you think this has ended then you don’t know what you are talking about.”
Kuri took a step towards Demian, leaned in and said, “I should thank you, Demian. I can’t find someone like you in Japan.”
He continued speaking, but Reo no longer heard him. The chuckle had vanished. Something inside her was breaking open—raw, sharp, molten.
A heat rose from her chest, spreading through her limbs. It wasn't the fire of competition or the adrenaline of a challenge. It was something far more volatile—Anger.
But it wasn’t directed at Demian. Or Kuri. Or even Barcelona.
It was at herself.
I am an idiot.
Until that moment, she had believed she understood what Kuri had been looking for in that match. That he simply wanted a worthy opponent. But now she understood how shallow that assumption had been.
Kuri is tired of players watching his back and chasing after him. He wanted someone to chase after. Someone who could show him a whole new world.
Kuri’s eyes gave it away. In them something was present that was not there before this match. Hunger. Hunger for more. Hunger for new.
Reo felt a sickness curl in her gut.
Because she had done the exact same thing—chasing Kuri, without realizing it. Without questioning it. And the realization made her skin crawl.
If I wanted to chase someone, she thought bitterly, I could have just kept chasing Nagi.
That memory struck her like a blade. The old path. The one she had abandoned because it felt stagnant, hopeless. But here she was again—running after another prodigy, repeating the same damn pattern.
Anger like lava surged through her veins, consuming joy, awe, admiration—everything.
No more chasing. No more following. I will play my football. I will win my way.
Barcelona had changed their tempo. Now it was Esperion’s turn. They needed to respond.