"Get back! It's over if he scores!"
"Tighten the defence!"
The screams came fast, desperate—echoing from the FC Barcha backline as panic began to ripple through their formation. The midfielders who had pushed forward moments ago snapped back into motion, retreating like a tide pulled by the gravity of one name.
Isagi Yoichi.
He was coming for them again.
This time, there was no hesitation. No pause. Only the ball at his feet and the weight of momentum shifting entirely in his favor.
The FC Barcha defenders were ready. Or at least, they thought they were.
By now, they had constructed a mental image of Isagi. A profile built from what little time they had seen him operate on this pitch. They knew he had already scored twice. They knew he was lethal.
But it didn't quite feel the same.
Not like the Isagi from the Japan U-20 match—the one who exploded onto the stage and shattered expectations with every touch.
Yes, he had shown glimpses of brilliance in this match. His positioning was razor-sharp. His decision-making was merciless. But something about this version of Isagi felt… more calculated. Less chaotic. Less wild.
And for defenders, that made it easier to breathe.
Slightly.
But only slightly.
Because the scoreboard didn't lie. Two goals.
Two moments where he had broken their line and found the net.
And now, he was back.
Across the world, the viewers felt it too.
In living rooms, crowded bars, university halls, and cafes filled with silence—they waited. Eyes glued to the screen, hearts thudding with anticipation. The image of dominance Isagi had once created was still fresh in their minds—and yet, they were all waiting to see if it would happen again.
Waiting for that one moment of madness.
That one burst of genius that made defenders crumble and left fans gasping.
Because if there was one thing they knew about Isagi Yoichi—it was this:
He didn't just score goals.
He devoured his opponents.
And FC Barcha… they were standing right in front of the lion's jaws.
But Isagi Yoichi wasn't thinking about the goal.
Not directly.
His mind wasn't consumed by the idea of scoring some audacious, highlight-reel finisher to secure his hat-trick.
What he wanted… was more.
What he wanted was Lavinho.
To face him. To conquer him. Not by accident. Not through opportunistic chaos. But by design.
He wanted to earn it.
This game wasn't just about stats or glory. It was about evolution—about carving out a path where his ego, his vision, and his football could coexist with the monsters around him. And in this moment, nothing would satisfy that hunger more than turning this last attack into a true one-on-one with Lavinho before delivering the final blow.
But reality didn't care about his wishes.
Lavinho was still recovering behind him, and Noa—relentless, ever-watchful—was shadowing the space like a ghost that refused to let anyone breathe.
To make it happen, Isagi would need to force the impossible.
He would have to reshape the field.
It couldn't be brute force. Not against FC Barcha, not with this defense now coiled like a spring, ready to snap. He had to manipulate their expectations, their image of him—the one they'd built during this match.
And he planned to do that exactly.
As Isagi surged forward, cutting past the center line with the ball at his feet, FC Barcha snapped into formation. Their rhythm broke—fluid offense now hardened into urgent defense.
Two players closed in fast.
Gomez squared up dead ahead, broad-shouldered and crouched, eyes sharp and waiting to pounce. To Isagi's right, Picasso streaked in at an angle like a panther.
They were closing the jaws.
Any sane forward would've passed. Or stalled. Or tried to dribble back, play it safe.
Isagi didn't.
He pushed harder, leaning into the rush.
And then—he smiled.
"Picasso! Get back!"
The voice sliced through the air.
Bachira.
He saw it. Felt it.
But it was already too late.
Isagi's left foot cut under the ball—not with a pass, not with a shot—but something else. A low, firm strike that veered off course.
It was flying straight at Picasso.
For a heartbeat, the stadium seemed to inhale. Confusion rippled. The commentators faltered. Even the defenders hesitated.
Was it… a mistake?
Then came the impact.
Thump.
The ball slammed into Picasso's chest—clean, centered, like a cannonball into a brick wall.
His breath hitched.
His balance wobbled.
And the ball? It bounced.
Not wildly. Not randomly.
It skipped with precision—ricocheting off Picasso's body and spinning into the open space behind Gomez, who had lunged a step too far forward, baited by the illusion.
And Isagi was already there.
Slipping through the sliver of space he had predicted.
No stumble. No hesitation.
A perfect rebound.
A weaponized misread.
Not of the ball.
Of people.
Bachira's eyes widened. He had seen the shape of the play before it happened, but the execution—the audacity—was too fast, too clean to stop.
From the stands to living rooms across the world, the reaction was instant.
"HE DID IT AGAIN!"
Commentators were losing their minds.
"He used the defender as a wall! That's not luck—that's a designed play!"
"Isagi Yoichi is toying with FC Barcha!"
Clips exploded across social media. Slow-mo replays zoomed in on the moment the ball struck Picasso's chest. Frame-by-frame breakdowns already flooding timelines.
And at the heart of it all, Isagi kept moving—eyes locked forward.
Isagi was feeling it.
That electric rush pulsing through his veins—the same high that always came when the game bent to his will. After the 'Human Rebound', he surged forward.
Everything around him felt slower now.
Clearer.
Then—another obstacle.
Espino.
The FC Barcha defensive midfielder charged in, cutting across the pitch with sharp footwork and a hard stare. His goal wasn't to steal the ball—Isagi could tell immediately. His steps were too light, too cautious.
He was stalling.
Buying time.
For the others to recover. To surround. To trap.
All while Isagi was being stalled by Espino, the field was shifting—fast.
Across the pitch, the tempo surged as the giants began to move.
Noa broke wide to the right, ghosting into position like clockwork, ready to offer support or tear open the flank if given the chance.
Lavinho, on the other hand, was retreating from the left—but not passively.
He wasn't just repositioning.
He was hunting.
His eyes were locked on Isagi's back, tracking every motion, every twitch of the ball. He wouldn't admit it outright—but Isagi had taken the ball from him. Had outread him. Had made Lavinho look human.
And that didn't sit right.
Not with Lavinho.
Not with the World's Number One Dribbler.
He closed the distance, boots pounding the turf, a grin tugging at his lips.
"Hey kid,"
He called out, voice light, casual—mocking.
"Hope you had your fun…"
He was already lunging, cutting in from Isagi's blind spot.
"…'Cause that's the last you'll have on my watch."
His foot shot out like a whip, aiming to snatch the ball clean from behind.
But Isagi reacted instantly.
A sharp drag-back.
The ball kissed the edge of his sole and slid behind him, just out of reach.
Lavinho overstepped, momentum carrying him forward.
Lavinho skidded to a stop, boots digging into the pitch as he snapped his body around.
And there he was.
Isagi Yoichi.
Standing perfectly still.
Ball at his feet.
Eyes locked dead ahead.
Waiting.
The space between them felt heavier than the rest of the field. Like gravity had thickened, drawn in by the raw tension of two players about to collide—not just in movement, but in ideology.
Lavinho's brow furrowed for just a second.
Then it clicked.
This wasn't a coincidence.
This was intentional.
Isagi had wanted this.
Had stalled Espino just enough. Had baited Lavinho into overcommitting. Had shaped the entire tempo of the attack just to bring this exact moment into being.
A one-on-one.
And Isagi was smiling.
"Really?"
Isagi's voice cut through the air—calm, sure, electric with intent.
"I think the fun's just about to begin."
That smile was still there—sharp, confident, brimming with the thrill of battle—as he stared down Lavinho without flinching.
Lavinho paused for a beat, eyes narrowing at the kid standing in front of him like he belonged in this moment.
Then—he laughed.
A low, amused chuckle that grew into something louder. Wilder.
"Haha…! That cyborg bastard's got a real dilemma on his ass now!"
He muttered it more to himself, grin widening as he kept his focus locked on Isagi.
The ego clash had begun—and Lavinho was all in.
He didn't care about Noa's structure.
Didn't care about game plans or formations.
All that existed was him.
And the kid bold enough to challenge a king to a duel.
But that wasn't the end of Isagi's boldness.
Not even close.
In the very next instant, he flicked the ball forward with his right foot—light, clean, deliberate.
Not toward open space.
Just there.
Dead center.
Exactly between them.
Both were the same distance away. Perfectly even.
Lavinho blinked. His grin twitched wider.
He didn't need to ask out loud. He already knew.
It was a message.
No—a declaration.
The kid wasn't just trying to win. He wasn't hiding behind tactics or tempo or misreads.
He was throwing down the gauntlet in the most primal way possible.
You and me.
Equal distance.
One ball.
One winner.
"...You little bastard"
Lavinho muttered under his breath, more amused than offended.
It wasn't disrespect. Not really.
It was the opposite.
This was Isagi treating him not as an unreachable legend, not as some obstacle to dribble past—
But as a rival.
An equal.
And that burned just right.
Lavinho's heart thudded in his chest. That old rush—that sweet addiction to one-on-ones—it surged like lightning through his blood.
No hesitation.
No delay.
He dug his boots into the turf.
The race for the ball had begun.
And he'd be damned if some upstart Blue Lock brat beat him to it.
They moved at the same time.
No stutter. No hesitation. Just pure, explosive acceleration.
Like a mirror split down the center, both of them lunged forward, muscles coiled, eyes locked on the ball that waited like a silent judge.
And then—
Impact.
Both right feet collided with the ball in the same heartbeat.
There was no winner.
No clean touch.
The ball was crushed between their boots—leather squeezing and contorting under the dual force of two titans trying to bend it to their will.
SKRRK—!
The sound was ugly. Awkward. A hard scrape of cleats and friction. The kind of moment that made crowds wince and defenders clench their jaws.
Their bodies jolted—shoulders brushing, weight shifting, neither willing to give an inch.
For a brief, brutal second, the ball was trapped.
Held hostage by raw pressure.
Two forces—equal, opposite, obsessed—straining to decide who would bend first.
And then—
POP!
The ball burst free from the vice-lock, ricocheting off to the side, loose once more, momentum wild and unpredictable.
But neither of them hesitated.
The duel was far from over.