"Nice goal, Isagi."
Bachira came walking up, his steps loose, almost lazy, but his eyes said otherwise.
Isagi looked up, chest still heaving, adrenaline still simmering. But when he saw Bachira, the edge in his expression softened. He cracked a smile.
Bachira tilted his head, grin stretching.
"…Is this the kind of football you wanted to play?"
"Not exactly what I wanted"
Isagi said, smile widening just slightly.
"But close enough…"
He looked back out over the pitch—the place where he'd made it real.
"That'll do for now."
As Isagi spoke those words, a voice cut through the aftermath—low, amused, tinged with mockery.
"Would it now?"
The laugh that followed was unmistakable.
Kaiser.
He strolled up to them, chin tilted, that familiar smirk carved into his face like a mask he refused to take off.
"Well, anyway,"
He drawled,
"I think I owe you an apology."
Isagi raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak.
Kaiser continued, words dipped in velvet sarcasm.
"For not taking a clown like you more seriously. Though I have to say, you really did a fine job getting in the way of my life—just like I asked you to."
He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Look at you… being such a good puppy."
The silence that followed was taut.
Kaiser's gaze stayed locked on Isagi, waiting. Prodding. Hoping for a reaction.
But none came.
Isagi didn't flinch. Bachira didn't blink. They just stood there—expressionless, unreadable.
And then, in perfect sync.
They chuckled.
Low at first. Then deeper.
Laughter bubbled up between them, raw and unbothered, as if Kaiser's words hadn't stung but tickled.
Isagi turned to Bachira. Bachira turned to Isagi. And without a word, they high-fived—sharp and effortless.
Then they walked.
Right past Kaiser.
No words. No comeback. Just laughter echoing behind them like a mic drop.
Because really, there was no need for Isagi to talk back.
The scoresheet had done all the talking.
The whole match had been the answer.
Who was the dominant one, and who was the real clown.
And what Isagi and Bachira found hilarious—truly hilarious—was that Kaiser still had the guts to talk shit like he hadn't just been cooked on live broadcast.
Delusion, thy name is Kaiser.
As Isagi and Bachira finally calmed their laughter, still grinning as they walked, the stadium lights dimmed slightly—and the massive screen above the timer flickered to life.
A familiar face appeared.
Sitting in a sleek, dark room with a glass of red wine in hand, Ego Jinpachi smirked at the camera.
The stadium fell into a hush.
"Good work in your first match"
Ego said smoothly, swirling the wine like blood in a goblet.
"You Neo Egotists."
"Well, Blue Lock…"
He continued, raising an eyebrow.
"How was your first taste of the wider World?"
He took a sip—calm, unbothered—then leaned back, watching them all with a predator's interest.
"The world of professionals… is a game of musical chairs."
"Every player enters into fully formed systems. Established teams. Locked hierarchies. And unless you can steal a seat—force your way into relevance—you don't play."
His eyes narrowed.
"And each team has its own water. Its own 'Philosophy'."
The screen behind him flashed words in bold white against black:
'Rationality.'
'Freedom.'
'Order.'
Ego's smile deepened.
"Each one demands a different kind of player to survive."
"Will you drown in agony, unsuited to the waters around you…?"
"Will you adapt to them—conform—bend until you fit?"
"…Or…"
He lifted his glass.
"Will you dye that water to match your colors?"
Ego rose from his seat.
Another slow sip from his wine. The glass reflected the glow of a hundred screens behind him.
"In any case…"
He said, voice almost casual.
"Escape is an option too. Nobody's forcing you."
He glanced toward the camera, his smile never quite touching his eyes.
"Sometimes, running away from an unsuitable situation is the best choice."
He took one step forward. The lights behind him brightened—like a digital sunrise over a battlefield.
"But…"
His voice sharpened.
"Now that you've begun to understand how to fight in the Neo Egoist League…"
As he spoke, the main stadium screen burst into motion.
Names—player names—began appearing in rapid succession.
Numbers beside each name kept fluctuating.
"It's the end of Match 1…"
The numbers kept surging dramatically.
"So we'll announce the rankings."
As the numbers continued fluctuating on the massive screen, a voice broke the silence.
"What are those numbers?"
Raichi asked, brow furrowed, eyes tracking the shifting digits beside each name.
Ego didn't hesitate.
"Your Annual Salary."
He replied coolly, taking another sip from his glass.
That single line sent a jolt through the stadium.
Then Ego continued, voice sharp, deliberate, and ringing with pride.
"Right now, all of the Neo Egoist League matches… are being observed by the World's Football Club Owners."
"The highest tier of pro football is watching you."
He stepped forward again, the glowing data screens behind him intensifying.
"Every player's performance is evaluated in real time. And after each match—clubs submit their bids."
He raised a hand, as if revealing a grand prize.
"The highest bid becomes your worth."
A pause. Then—
"This is our new ranking system."
"The Blue Lock Auction."
With that declaration, the numbers froze—locking into place as the screen reorganized into a clear leaderboard.
Values solidified beside names. No more surges. No more climbing digits. Just raw, hard truth.
Bachira's eyes scanned the board—and then locked onto his name.
Bachira Meguru — ¥32,000,000
Club: FC Portimonense
Then his gaze shifted as the next bid caught his eye.
Alexis Ness — ¥50,000,000
Club: Bastard München
But before Bachira could say anything, his eyes slid one row down—and stopped.
There it was.
Isagi Yoichi — ¥78,000,000
Club: Berserk Dortmund
Bachira blinked.
"Whoa…"
A whistle escaped him as he nudged Isagi with his elbow.
"Look at you, big shot."
On the bench, Raichi, Hiori, and Kurona were all staring at the board, the number practically glowing on the screen.
Raichi nearly choked on his own breath.
"Seventy-eight million?!"
His eyes bulged.
"That's way more than Ness!"
Frustration laced his voice.
Beside him, Hiori adjusted his headband, eyes still on the screen.
"Yeah… and it's from Dortmund."
Raichi blinked.
"Dortmund?!"
"They're Bastard München's main rival in the German League."
Hiori added calmly.
"It's a well-known team to receive an offer from."
Kurona said, a note of awe slipping into his voice.
For a moment, all three of them just stared—Raichi, Hiori, Kurona—caught in disbelief of what Isagi had just pulled off.
But the silence didn't last.
Because the next number hit the screen like a hammer.
Michael Kaiser — ¥300,000,000
Club: Bastard München
Everything stopped.
No one said a word.
The number was too big, too loud, too absolute. It didn't just overshadow Isagi—it buried him.
Raichi's jaw clenched.
"...Three hundred mil?!"
He muttered under his breath.
"What is he, a walking brand deal?!"
Hiori's eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
His voice was soft, almost numb.
"…That's insane."
While Hiori and Raichi kept staring at Kaiser's monstrous figure, Kurona tilted his head slightly.
"Umm… ours is still zero."
He said in his usual calm tone, as if commenting on the weather.
Raichi snapped his head back to the board, eyes scanning quickly.
"…Damn. Me too."
He groaned, slumping a little.
"It's because we didn't play"
Hiori said, unfazed. His voice was as calm as ever—more observant than bothered.
Raichi clenched his jaw.
That's when Ego's voice cut in .
"That's right. Do you get it now?"
He stood tall, the stage behind him glowing with numbers and names.
"When the Neo Egoist League ends, the Top 23 Blue Lock players—excluding the international players—ranked by annual salary… will automatically become Japan's new U-20 National Team."
He let that sink in before continuing.
"To all of you, this is a place to hone your weapons. But to the foreign rising stars… this league is a marketplace—a stage to showcase their value to the world's top club owners."
Then his tone shifted—just slightly. His eyes narrowed behind the glass.
"…Though, don't you find it odd?"
The question lingered in the silence.
"That the world's superstars would come to play… in an underdeveloped football country like Japan?"
That made heads turn in confusion.
But not Isagi's.
He heard the jab, and grinned.
Then, without hesitation, he looked directly at the nearest camera.
He waved.
And smiled.
Ego continued, the screen behind him shifting again.
"This is a real-time show—broadcasting your ego, your battles, your rivalries… It's already surpassed 80 million."
"This is the ultimate entertainment spectacle."
"Blue Lock TV."
His eyes gleamed.
"Do you get it now?"
"Your life-risking battles… are being broadcast to the Entire World."
Ego grinned—wide, razor-edged, intoxicating.
"The world's football fans…"
He said, voice laced with triumph,
"…are anxiously awaiting the birth of a hero."
He raised his glass in a mock-toast to the camera, to the players, to the chaos itself.
"So rejoice, diamonds in the rough."
He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle over the pitch, over the stunned and awe-struck faces.
"Because right now…"
Ego's grin deepened.
"Blue Lock is undeniably…"
"The Hottest Place for Football in the World."
The silence that followed was thick.
Ego's words hung in the air like smoke—inescapable, electric.
All across the stadium, players sat frozen, absorbing the scale of what they were now a part of. Of what they were being watched for.
The weight of the world's gaze. The price of ego.
But Ego wasn't done.
He turned slightly, eyes locked on the screen now behind him—already shifting to a new layout.
His voice rang out again, sharp and deliberate.
"And now…"
He paused, letting the tension pull tighter.
"The next match… in ten days…"
"…will feature Germany's Bastard München…"
The logo flashed on screen. Familiar. Dominant.
"VS England's Manshine City."
.
.
.
.
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