"Both teams have made substitutions! Both Masters are activating the Star Change System for a five-minute clash of titans!"
The commentator's voice rang through the stadium, laced with pure adrenaline.
"Bastard München is bringing in Noel Noa, subbing out Rensuke Kunigami, while FC Barcha has swapped Lara for Lavinho!"
Lavinho stretched out his arms, his golden curls bouncing as he turned toward Bachira with a grin that screamed mischief.
"Let's give 'em a show, Highlights."
Bachira's eyes gleamed.
His monster purred in excitement.
The match was about to ignite once more.
Bachira began the play, rolling the ball toward Lavinho with a gleam in his eye.
"Bring it on, Cyborg"
Lavinho smirked, his golden curls bouncing as he took off with the ball.
Across the field, Noel Noa advanced like a machine honed for war, his eyes locked onto Lavinho.
Two Masters. Two styles. One collision course.
The audience held its breath as they clashed at the center of the pitch.
Lavinho danced forward with elegance, each step infused with flair and freedom—his imagination flowing into every feint and flick.
But Noa was the perfect countermeasure—sharp, clinical, and efficient.
He didn't just react—he predicted. His eyes dissected Lavinho's footwork, reading every weight shift, every subtle twitch. He wasn't defending with instinct; he was solving Lavinho in real time.
Imagination vs. Logic.
Kaiser stood a few steps away, his posture loose, gaze steady.
A few meters across, Bachira stood frozen, eyes wide with wonder, lips parted slightly.
He couldn't take his eyes off them.
Lavinho and Noel Noa, colliding in the center of the pitch with the force of two worlds crashing together.
To Bachira, it didn't feel like watching football.
It felt like witnessing something greater.
As the two Masters fought for dominance—one flowing with unchained creativity, the other forged by pure discipline—it was as if the air itself bent around them.
The field wasn't a field anymore.
It was a battlefield between Gods.
Noa and Lavinho were locked in a one-on-one that dragged every eye in the stadium to the center of the pitch.
Lavinho pushed forward with tight, rapid touches, staying low, center of gravity shifting effortlessly as he probed for an opening. His movement was unpredictable—sharp changes of pace, sudden feints, delicate stepovers that tested Noa's reactions.
Noa, focused and composed, didn't bite. He stayed a half-step back, reading Lavinho's hips, tracking the ball, adjusting his stance with every shift. He wasn't dominating the duel—but he was holding the line, barely keeping pace with Lavinho's fluid attacks.
Then Lavinho made his move.
He dipped his right shoulder, baiting Noa to lean in. Noa responded, planting hard to cut off the angle—
—and that was the trigger.
Lavinho tapped the ball behind his standing leg with a Rabona flick to the left. A quick burst forward and he was past Noa, breaking the standoff with a flash of technical brilliance.
The ball popped loose momentarily—just ahead of him.
"That's the end of your stroll, Lavi."
That's when Kaiser came in.
He had been watching it all unfold, reading both Masters, anticipating the moment the ball would escape. The second Lavinho slipped past Noa, Kaiser sprinted toward the ball, looking to intercept before Lavinho could regain control.
But Lavinho was quicker.
"Is it now? The only person who ends my stroll is me—definitely not some One-Hit Wonder"
He scoffed, mockery lacing his words as he reached the ball in full stride. With a deft touch of the outside of his boot, he pulled it across his body, inviting Kaiser to come at him head-on.
Kaiser fell for it.
"Huh...?"
He muttered, eyes widening in surprise.
In a heartbeat, Lavinho executed a sharp cut inside, a slick drag-back followed by a precise chop. Kaiser, caught off-balance, lunged forward only to find himself tumbling to the turf, his footing betrayed by the swift turn.
Another unfortunate name joined the ever-growing list of the Dance of Defeat.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lavinho caught a flicker of movement—fast, sharp, and low to the ground.
Emerging from behind the collapsing bulk of Kaiser came a sudden figure—Isagi Yoichi.
His timing was perfect. The entire duel with Noa had masked his presence, and Kaiser's fall created the perfect visual blindspot. Lavinho hadn't seen him coming—not until the very last moment.
"Hoo...!?"
His eyes widened—half a second of surprise.
Isagi had read the sequence masterfully. He had waited for the precise instant when Lavinho would be off-balance—post-flick, mid-stride, just past Noa, focus still split. Now, Isagi was closing in with explosive momentum, lunging to snatch the ball before Lavinho could touch it again.
There was no time for flair. No time to weave or dazzle.
Just control.
"Way to ruin the rhythm, kid... well, let's go again next time. For now—"
Lavinho didn't hesitate. He planted his left foot firmly to the right side of the ball, shifting his weight as if to brace for a turn or shield. But instead of holding possession, he pivoted sharply and swung his right leg across with a sudden Rabona pass—crisp, clean, and perfectly angled.
"—let's break through the defense, Highlights!"
The ball zipped outward in a diagonal arc, bypassing Isagi's outstretched foot entirely—redirected to the right wing.
To Bachira.
It was a flawless transition.
The pass was clean. Fast. Weighted to perfection.
The moment it left Lavinho's foot, the entire rhythm of the play shifted—from artful clash to rapid-fire counter.
Isagi's lunge came up short.
He had timed everything right—his position, his speed, even the angle of approach. It should have been enough. But Lavinho didn't indulge him with a 1v1. He didn't hesitate. He simply offloaded the ball with decisive clarity.
A choice between ego and progress—and Lavinho chose the team.
Isagi's eyes widened as he flew past the ball, his expression hardening as he landed, pivoting on his heel immediately to recover. His instincts were sharp, but he had been outmaneuvered. The window had closed before he could strike.
And now, the ball was exactly where chaos thrived most—
—at the feet of Bachira Meguru.
"Aye aye, Master!"
Bachira responded with a grin, voice light but eyes locked in.
He exploded forward instantly, the ball never more than a breath away from his feet. His control was razor-tight, each touch purposeful even at full tilt. Shoulders hunched slightly, arms loose for balance, his gaze flicked upward—scanning ahead, reading the next wall he'd have to break through.
Standing in his way was Alexis Ness.
"I've had enough of you pests."
Ness's expression was taut, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. The frustration sat heavy in his features—two goals from Isagi, zero from Kaiser, and now Lavinho had just toyed with Kaiser on the pitch. It stung. It gnawed at his pride.
But Ness didn't let it show in his stance.
He stayed composed, crouched low with a firm center of gravity. His feet adjusted light and sharp, hips angled to cut off the inside, arms twitching for balance—baiting Bachira to push wide, but he wasn't overcommitting. Not yet.
He didn't want to win the ball with a tackle.
He wanted to box Bachira in, force a delay, kill the tempo.
Because he knew—if Bachira paused, if he hesitated—Bastard München's defensive unit would cut off all the options.
Though Bachira had no intentions of stopping whatsoever.
He wasn't thinking of slowing down.
He was thinking about breaking through.
The moment he stepped into Ness's range, he stopped.
A split-second freeze.
Then it came.
A sudden burst. A whip-crack of motion as Bachira snapped his foot out and dragged the ball into a V-cut—faking left, body dipping low—
—and then exploding right.
The tempo spike was instant.
Ness lunged.
His weight shifted the wrong way, body caught leaning just enough to miss the window.
Bachira was already gone.
"Too stiff, noodle boy~!"
He laughed mid-dash, He slid past with a brush of air and grass, hair whipping back as he reconnected with the ball, accelerating once more into Bastard München's second defensive line.
As Bachira stormed ahead, the monster within him howled in delight.
And yet—cutting in from the side with ferocious speed came Grim.
Lunging in with sharp intent.
But Bachira didn't blink.
At the very last second, with a flick of his heel and a cheeky grin, Bachira sent the ball skimming to the left—a pass cloaked in flair and audacity.
The ball curved out into space—toward Otoya, who had sprinted into the open lane.
Grim's momentum carried him too far, too fast. He skidded to a stop with a curse on his lips as the ball slipped by him.
Otoya didn't hesitate.
With a single glance, he read Bachira's movement—already ghosting past Grim, curving inward toward the center.
Otoya tapped the ball forward with a soft, deliberate pass—clean, fast, and just a bit ahead to lead Bachira's run.
A classic one-two.
And Bachira was already there.
He met the return pass in stride, the tempo rising again.
"Off to you, Master~"
Bachira's voice was playful, as the ball rolled into his path, he didn't waste a millisecond. With one smooth motion, he redirected it—a fast, clean pass to the center.
It was like a magic trick—appear, disappear, relocate the danger.
"Nice one, Highlights!"
Lavinho's voice rang out as he received the ball mid-stride, his grin stretched wide, golden curls bouncing with every step.
The pass was perfect. He barely had to adjust.
"You had enough fun with your pointlessness, Lavi."
The voice cut through the rhythm. Lavinho barely had time to register it before Noa was already in motion—a calculated predator, not charging, but intercepting. It wasn't reckless aggression. It was placement. Noel Noa had studied Lavinho's rhythm, anticipated the stride, and lunged not at the man, but at the narrow window between touches—right where flamboyance left space for precision to strike.
Lavinho's eyes narrowed mid-step.
'Of course he'd aim there.'
With barely a heartbeat to act, he improvised. The heel flick came instinctively—an arrogant little dance move to anyone else, but for Lavinho, it was language. The ball popped behind him, just past Noa's reach. He spun with it like a samba flourish, shaking off the interception with defiant grace.
"That's called freedom, you damn cyborg!"
He snapped, voice brimming with heat and laughter.
"Then what I do must be straight-up crime…"
The voice was calm—low and calculated—but the moment was anything but.
A leg cut in, slipping into the blind spot neither Lavinho nor Noa had accounted for. In an instant, the ball was gone—cleanly—lifted right out of Lavinho's range before the next move could even begin.
Both men's eyes snapped toward the thief.
It was Isagi Yoichi.
He stood between them, calm and composed, the ball at his feet as if it had been passed to him—not stolen from the clash of titans. No wasted motion. No panic. Just presence.
Lavinho's eyes narrowed in disbelief, and Noa's expression sharpened—but neither made a move.
Isagi's smile lingered as he met Lavinho's stunned glare, and then Noa's cool gaze. He wasn't intimidated.
"...Because I don't play by your rules"
Isagi said, voice quiet but unwavering.
"I rewrite them."
Lavinho had crafted the perfect play—slipping past Noa with flair and instinct. The crowd hadn't even caught their breath from his escape.
But just like before… Isagi was there.
Not with a flashy tackle. Not with brute force.
With timing.
He'd done it again. Used the moment, used the rhythm not to follow, but to break it. The same way he used Kaiser's to mask his presence—he now used Noa's pressure as a trap. He had read both their movements like lines in a book.
Only this time… it wasn't Kaiser.
It was Noa. The Master of his own team.
And this time… Lavinho didn't have the margin to recover. No last-minute flick. No improvised save.
This time—Isagi succeeded.
"Ca–can you believe this!?"
The commentator's voice exploded through the BLTV broadcast, carried to millions of screens worldwide.
"Isagi Yoichi! A player making his international debut—already with two goals to his name—and now he's stolen the ball from Lavinho himself!"
"Will he score the winning goal!? Will he complete his HAT-TRICK!?"
Inside the eerily silent stadium, there were no cheers—only the rapid pounding of cleats on turf and the raw tension between elite egos clashing.
But across the world, people were watching.
Screens lit up in homes, bars, schools—anywhere football was worshipped. The name Isagi Yoichi was spreading like wildfire through chat rooms, comment sections, and headlines. Analysts scrambled to update stats. Social media was already flooded with replays and hot takes.
The world was watching.
They had seen him once before—Isagi Yoichi, the unpredictable genius who turned the tide against Japan's U-20 team. The player who emerged from obscurity to crush expectations, to redefine what it meant to devour the field.
And now… they waited to see it again.
Against FC Barcha.
With his words left hanging in the air, Isagi moved.
The ball stuck to his feet as he surged forward, slipping cleanly through the space between Noa and Lavinho—a gap that barely existed a second before. His eyes scanned the field in real-time, calculating every shift, every potential threat, every player whose positioning might threaten his plan.
This was his moment—and he would end the game his way.
Behind him, Noa reacted first, Lavinho followed, recovering his pace as the realization clicked into place.
He now understood why he'd been caught off-guard.
It wasn't that Isagi had out-skilled him.
It was the weight of Noel Noa's presence.
Unlike Kaiser, Noa wasn't just a nuisance on the field. He was a force—a name that demanded attention. And Lavinho had gotten locked into that one-on-one, focused so tightly on the duel that he'd left the rest of the board wide open.
Still, that didn't mean much to him. Not in the way it would to others.
To Lavinho, this wasn't a failure.
He was still the best player in the world.
And what Isagi had done was just play chicken—a flashy gamble to create surprise.
Not real skill.
But unlike Lavinho, Isagi had no such thoughts.
There was no pride to defend. No delusion of being untouchable.
Just pure, relentless calculation.
He hadn't stolen the ball to make a statement—he had done it because it was the only way forward.
Even now, he wished for a true 1-on-1 against Lavinho. A chance to test himself head-to-head against the embodiment of flair and chaos.
But with Noa on the pitch, that wish was a luxury.
Noa had been shadowing Lavinho the entire game, suffocating every window of expression. The moment Lavinho danced, Noa followed. And that tension had created the very moment Isagi seized.
And so, Isagi moved.
As he crossed into the Middlefield, the FC Barcha defense tensed, their formation coiling tighter.
Because Isagi Yoichi was coming toward them.
Again.
.
.
.
.
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