"Th-This is insane!"
"Isagi Yoichi and Lavinho are going head-to-head—The Blue Lock upstart is holding his own against the world's top dribbler!"
The commentators' voices cracked with disbelief, their excitement crackling through the stadium speakers as if the duel on the pitch had electrified the entire arena.
Even the bench wasn't immune.
Every pair of eyes was locked on the clash near the penalty box—on the moment the ball burst free, wild and unresolved. But for those who knew Isagi, who'd seen that flick before, it wasn't just an impressive move.
It was a signature.
Kurona leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching with an unreadable look.
That flick… He'd seen it before.
Back when Isagi challenged Rin in a one-on-one ego war.
Again, against Loki—the Master of PxG—in that brutal World 5 match.
It wasn't just about skill. It was about calling someone out. About meeting them as equals.
And now… now Isagi was using it on Lavinho.
Kurona's lips curved, just slightly. Not quite a smirk. More like a whisper of pride, shaded with awe.
"…He just keeps getting more and more awesome."
Meanwhile, in one of the only buildings without an active match—the screen room at Manshine City's training complex—three figures sat in silence, eyes fixed on the screen.
Nagi, Reo, and Chigiri.
They were watching Isagi Yoichi.
The duel with Lavinho played out in high-definition, every twitch, every grin, every reckless inch of ego broadcasted like a movie—and they couldn't look away.
Reo's arms were folded, lips slightly pursed, mind racing.
Chigiri leaned forward, the fire in his eyes tempered by caution.
They had all played beside Isagi once. All shared the pitch with him. But this?
This wasn't just strategy or intellect.
This was a whole different beast.
To Reo, Isagi was a contradiction. A tactician who made chaotic moves. A genius who ignored safe plays. A player who'd risk a whole match just to flex on the strongest opponent on the field. Or his own teammate.
He wasn't just trying to win.
He wanted to dominate.
To prove, beyond doubt, who was the best on the field—and then score.
It felt… familiar. Not in logic, but in vibe.
Only one other person ever gave off something like that.
Bachira.
Isagi didn't play by the book. He played by instinct, obsession, ego.
And now, locked in that clash with Lavinho—grinning, reckless, dangerous—he looked like a kid who'd just been given the ultimate toy:
A battlefield all to himself.
Nagi blinked slowly, watching the two sprint for the loose ball, their expressions nearly identical—grins sharp as blades, eyes filled with that singular desire to win their way.
He sighed.
But there was no boredom in his voice.
"…Tch. He's at it again."
Reo's fingers twitched.
Chigiri's jaw tightened.
They weren't just watching anymore.
They were waiting.
Because soon—it'd be their turn.
And when that time came?
They wouldn't just chase Isagi.
They'd beat him.
Back on the field, the ball spun out towards the right wing, a chaotic rebound with no clear owner. Ruiz, who had been hovering just outside the chaos, immediately broke into a sprint, aiming to intercept the loose ball before it could tip the balance of the match.
But then—he saw them.
His feet stuttered. His momentum died.
Two players. Two predators.
Both locked on the same target, both crashing in with brutal intent.
Isagi Yoichi and Lavinho.
They weren't just chasing the ball—they were challenging each other. And in that instant, Ruiz knew the ball wasn't his. He was just another spectator to what was about to unfold.
They closed in, almost colliding, eyes locked, neither flinching.
Then—
Isagi struck first.
With the barest touch, his right toe clipped under the ball, flicking it backward toward his body.
"Hah…!"
Lavinho's eyes widened as he reached out with his own foot, only to find empty air. He'd missed it. By less than an inch.
His weight still carried forward, and instinctively, Lavinho threw his balance into braking, trying to kill his speed and whip himself around to cut off Isagi's next move.
But Isagi wasn't stopping.
The ball, still under control, was rolling back toward him—and before it could settle, Isagi surged forward. In the same fluid motion, he caught it again with his right foot. Not to trap it. Not to pass.
To flick it.
This time, to the right.
A rapid double-tap—a feint hidden within a feint. The first flick had baited Lavinho in. The second punished him for trying to recover.
Lavinho's momentum betrayed him. His attempt to decelerate now left him off-balance, a step behind. Too slow to reaccelerate. Too close to adjust.
And just like that, Isagi slipped out of reach.
It wasn't a flashy move. It wasn't dribbling in the traditional sense. It was tempo manipulation— A spatial murder.
He burst out of Lavinho's pressure zone, body angled toward the diagonal right. Not sprinting blindly, but accelerating with purpose, his field of vision already sweeping across the evolving formation ahead.
Lavinho took off without hesitation.
The moment Isagi slipped free, flicking the ball with that maddening precision, Lavinho's instincts screamed for pursuit. His legs burned with the thrill of it, body leaning into the sprint like a predator refusing to lose his prey. This wasn't just about the ball anymore—it was the chase, the ego. The unfinished dance between two monsters of different generations.
But before he could close the distance—before he could reach out and snatch back the tempo—
A figure stepped into his path.
Noel Noa.
Lavinho's breath caught—not from surprise, but from recognition. That quiet, suffocating kind of presence that said:
'You go no further.'
Noa's body was angled perfectly—blocking the lane, cutting off not just Lavinho's run, but the very possibility of continuing the duel. His eyes, as sharp and expressionless as ever.
"You had your fun, Lavi."
Noa said, calm as a command.
"It's time to end this."
Lavinho's momentum stalled. He shifted left—Noa mirrored. Tried to drop back—Noa tightened the space.
There was no flash. No battle of tricks. Just absolute, mechanical control.
A wall. A verdict.
"Haaah! What a buzz-kill!"
Lavinho laughed, voice bright but dripping with frustration.
He threw his hands up, exasperated but still smiling, teeth bared like a cornered beast. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just disappointed—like a child yanked out of recess before the bell.
Because the duel had been real. The challenge had sparked something in him. And now it was being denied.
Noa hadn't outplayed him.
He'd closed the curtain.
Still grinning, Lavinho eased off, not fighting the block anymore. He glanced past Noa, eyes locking onto the back of Isagi's jersey as it disappeared into open space.
Ruiz snapped back into motion.
For a heartbeat, he'd frozen—caught in the gravity of that duel between Lavinho and Isagi. But now that the moment had ended, his body kicked back into gear. He bolted after Isagi, legs churning as fast as they could manage.
But even as he ran, something on the edge of his vision made his stomach drop.
To the right.
Kaiser.
Charging in like a missile.
His stride was longer, more aggressive, teeth bared like a knight closing in on a dragon. Not a trace of calculation—just fury wrapped in velvet, style laced with violence.
Because Kaiser wasn't running for the ball.
He was running for Isagi.
And Ruiz could see it now—in the way Kaiser's eyes didn't track the field, didn't scan for angles. They were locked, burning, fixed on the Number 11 with a hatred too deep to be tactical.
Kaiser had had enough.
The training sessions had hinted at Isagi's growth. The data, the replays, the stats—it all pointed to a player on the rise.
But this?
This was too much.
Kaiser felt something twist in his chest.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
It was insult. It was pressure. It was reality pressing down on him in real time.
Isagi Yoichi was becoming a monster.
And worse—he wasn't even looking at Kaiser.
Didn't acknowledge him.
Didn't see him as a threat.
That alone made something snap.
Kaiser's pace surged.
He didn't care about strategy. Didn't care if Noa approved. Didn't care if Lavinho had just lost a duel, or if Isagi had a passing lane or a shot window.
He was going to crash into this moment with all the fire left in his name.
Kaiser closed the distance like a thunderclap.
His boots chewed up turf. His eyes blazed like a man possessed. And in the next instant, his shoulder slammed into Isagi's.
But the contact didn't do what he wanted.
Isagi didn't stumble. Didn't flinch.
He absorbed the hit like a stone wall, not even shifting his weight.
Kaiser gritted his teeth. The collision should've given him an edge—a crack in Isagi's posture to reach the ball. So he went for it anyway, foot darting low, trying to flick the ball out of Isagi's control before momentum betrayed him.
But then—he felt it.
A hand.
Isagi's right arm pressed lightly but deliberately against his chest, not shoving, not grappling—holding him at bay.
It was insulting in its simplicity.
Isagi turned his head slightly, eyes calm, lips curling into something smug.
"Am I getting in the way of your life, Kaiser?"
He asked, voice low and smooth.
"Is it too much?"
That smile.
That smile.
Kaiser's blood roared in his ears—but before he could snap back with words or motion, Isagi moved.
A whisper of motion—a V-cut, sharp and exact. Isagi's left foot carved the angle, guiding the ball behind Kaiser's reaching leg and to the opposite side. In the same breath, Isagi's body flowed to the right, curling around the edge of Kaiser like water around stone.
As Isagi slipped past Kaiser, his body uncoiled like a spring.
No hesitation. No glance for options.
Just a full, brutal commitment to the kill.
With his right foot, he unleashed the shot.
The ball exploded off his boot—no curve, no flair, no forgiveness. A straight-line power shot, slicing through the air with vicious clarity. A missile aimed for the top-left corner.
It screamed past Kaiser's hip just as the German Ace turned to recover—too late.
Kaiser never even saw the shot leave Isagi's foot.
Neither did the goalkeeper.
From his vantage point, Isagi had vanished behind Kaiser's frame—deliberately. He'd used the body of Kaiser like a screen, just as he had with Ness earlier. A blind spot crafted through movement and positioning, honed for this exact outcome.
The keeper's eyes widened a split-second too late.
'Again'
The keeper realized.
Again, he'd been fooled.
"Shit—!"
That was all he could spit out before throwing himself into the air, hand outstretched, fingertips grazing nothing but wind.
The ball soared.
It didn't wobble. Didn't deviate.
It was a shot built in silence and fired in rage.
On the flank, Bachira had seen the entire play unfolding—read it the moment Isagi rounded Kaiser.
And he ran.
Hard.
Eyes wild, steps relentless.
He wasn't chasing glory.
He was trying to deny it.
But the moment he slid, the ball was already in.
Wham.
The impact echoed off the crossbar. The net jolted violently, catching the ball in its threads before it dropped down to the pitch.
As soon as the ball slammed into the net, the referee's whistle pierced the air—a shrill, decisive sound that signaled the end.
Goal.
Victory.
Commentators' voices surged like crashing waves, overlapping in a chaotic symphony of disbelief and awe.
"ISAGI YOICHI!! HAT-TRICK!"
"BASTARD MÜNCHEN TAKES THE WIN—AND IT'S ALL HIM! THREE GOALS! THREE GOALS FROM ONE MAN!!"
"THE FIRST HAT-TRICK OF THE NEO EGOIST LEAGUE—AND HE DOES IT IN HIS DEBUT MATCH!"
"Look at that scoreboard, look at it!"
BASTARD MÜNCHEN — 3
FC BARCHA — 1
Cameras snapped into focus, zeroing in on the epicenter of the storm.
Isagi Yoichi.
He didn't pause.
He broke into a run—forward, sharp, electric.
But even as he sprinted, he turned his head, eyes locking onto one man across the pitch.
Lavinho.
A grin cut across Isagi's face—cocky, genuine, earned. He pointed directly at Lavinho.
You.
I beat you.
It wasn't arrogance. It was truth. The kind spoken only through goals.
And Lavinho—still catching his breath, still burning with adrenaline—met his gaze and smiled back. A slow, dangerous smirk. One born from the pure joy of the duel.
Their eyes locked.
Rival to rival.
Ego to ego.
He could still feel it in his legs—the spark, the hunger. If Noa hadn't cut across his line, disrupted that rhythm with his interference… Lavinho might've kept pace. Might've stolen the moment back.
But he didn't dwell.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't bitter.
He was alive.
The duel had ended—for now.
But the fire had only just been lit.
.
.
.
.
.
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