Hey everyone, I'm really sorry for the delay—especially coming right after the previous one.
If you follow me on Patreon, you'd know that things have been a bit troublesome lately. I've been making constant rounds to the hospital, and it's been hard to keep up.
The last delay was intentional because I was adjusting the membership benefits, but this time I couldn't post on Patreon either… so we're back to square one 😅
Either way, I'm pushing through it.
To make up for it, I'll be posting two chapters back to back.
Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the story!
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"Do you see this!?"
The commentator's voice cracked through the stadium, carried by the roaring speakers, matching the intensity of the crowd from their homes. His tone was sharp, electrified, unable to contain the magnitude of what had just unfolded.
"Chris Prince has challenged Isagi Yoichi to a duel—in the same fashion Isagi himself does!"
The declaration hit like thunder, igniting the stands. Substitutes of both teams leapt to their feet, a tidal wave of cheers and gasps crashing in unison all across the world.
The duel wasn't just a clash of players—it was an echo of Isagi's own arrogance, turned back against him by none other than the World's No. 2.
The second commentator's voice joined in, no less breathless.
"Yeah! After that relentless back and forth, Hiori Yo carved out an opportunity—an opening that could've ended this match! But Chris Prince… Chris shuts it down just as decisively as Hiori did when he stopped Nagi Seishiro's offense earlier!"
The commentary poured fuel onto the fire already blazing in the stadium, their words tightening the coil of anticipation in every fan's chest.
"And now—"
The first commentator surged again, his tone trembling with intensity.
"—the fate of this match hinges on this very duel about to unfold!"
The entire world seemed to freeze, hanging on each syllable as he laid it bare.
"Both Isagi and Chris—either one of them has the power to overwhelm the opposing defense on their own. If Chris wins here, if he breaks through Isagi Yoichi… the chances of Bastard Munchen stopping him from equalizing are slim to none! Especially with Noel Noa not having joined the play yet!"
The second commentator seized the handoff, his words tumbling out with fiery conviction.
"And the same is true the other way around! If Isagi steals this ball—if he takes possession and launches an attack now—it's almost certain he'll seal the match right here and now, delivering victory to Bastard Munchen!"
The weight of their voices struck home. The stakes were undeniable.
The audience's roar dimmed into a collective, breathless hush, as if millions of hearts were holding back in unison. On screens across the globe, in cafeteria seats and silent living rooms, the reality sank in:
This duel wasn't just a contest of skill.
It was the axis upon which the destiny of the match—and perhaps the very legacy of these two players—was about to turn.
Every gaze, every heartbeat, every ounce of the world's attention narrowed down to that one patch of grass where Isagi Yoichi and Chris Prince stood, locked and waiting.
Completely focused and anxious.
The result of this collision would decide everything.
Then, as the world's eyes were glued to the screens, the moment finally broke into motion.
Both Isagi and Chris surged forward at the exact same instant, cleats tearing into the turf as they raced toward the ball suspended between them.
And yet—not a single glance was spared for it.
Neither of them looked down. Their gazes were locked, eyes drilling into each other with a ferocity that eclipsed the ball itself. A silent understanding passed between them, carried on the edge of their smiles.
This wasn't just a contest. It was a moment to savour.
Chris's grin was genuine, sharpened by excitement. For him, this wasn't about smothering an upstart anymore—it was about enjoying the rare thrill of a duel worthy of his time.
And across from him, Isagi's eyes blazed with equal fire. To him, this wasn't just about possession—it was about proving why Noel Noa, the World's No.1, had chosen him to stand here instead of taking the reins himself. That trust spoke louder than words. It declared Isagi as someone who belonged on this stage. Someone capable of facing Chris Prince head-on.
Their steps drew closer, the rhythm of their strides pounding like war drums. The ball hit the turf with a sharp bounce, landing squarely between them—an unclaimed prize hanging in the balance.
But neither of them lunged.
At the very instant the ball descended into striking distance, they veered their focus—not to claim it, but to claim each other.
Shoulder met shoulder in a brutal collision.
The crack of impact echoed across the pitch like the clash of rams locking horns, raw power reverberating through the air. The sound wasn't subtle—it was visceral, a deep, bone-rattling thud that every player on the field and every spectator felt in their chest.
The force sent a ripple of pain coursing through their frames, muscles flaring under the strain. And yet—
The smiles remained.
Pain or not, their expressions didn't waver. They grinned like warriors drunk on battle, savouring the raw clash of wills.
The collision launched them back, neither conceding ground freely. Their bodies recoiled, each pushed a step backward by the sheer violence of the charge, boots dragging against the grass as if the earth itself struggled to anchor them.
Two predators, meeting in full force.
"Kuhh—ha!"
"Ngh—heh…"
The collision reverberated through their bodies, and as they were thrown back, their eyes snapped toward one another again.
Both grinned.
It wasn't the smile of relief, nor of arrogance—it was the grin of men who had found a worthy adversary, the kind of expression born only in the fire of competition.
Their clash had revealed more than simple contact. The brief contest of bodies spoke volumes. Though Isagi's frame was honed to perfection—sculpted by his relentless training and his [Perfect Physique]—this single exchange proved an undeniable truth: Chris Prince's physicality reigned supreme.
The difference showed in the smallest of margins.
Where Chris yielded only a single step, Isagi was driven back two. That extra stride left him one step farther from the ball—a gap small in distance, but massive in the razor-thin margins of a duel at this level.
Their boots slammed back into the pitch with thunderous resolve. Balance regained, muscles coiled, they launched themselves forward once more.
This time, not for dominance.
For the ball.
Chris surged with the confidence of a man who could bulldoze through any obstacle. His strength was unshakable, his momentum crushing.
But Isagi was no ordinary obstacle.
If Chris had the greater strength, Isagi wielded the sharper edges—his agility, his balance, his explosive acceleration.
His body bent and flowed where Chris's was rigid and overwhelming, making up ground in bursts that tore through the turf.
That one-step disadvantage—that fleeting punishment from the earlier clash—vanished in an instant. Isagi's acceleration carved it away, his stride stretching long and sharp, his body a blade racing for the spinning ball.
The duel was far from settled.
Both of them reached the ball at the exact same heartbeat.
Boots slammed against the turf, bodies coiled, and in that frozen instant, both men drew into their stance—ready to strike.
Two predators lunging for the same prey.
From the outside, it looked like destiny itself had aligned them, two titans about to unleash identical strikes.
Their bodies bent low, legs swinging forward in perfect symmetry, the crowd holding its breath as if the collision of boots and ball would split the pitch in half.
But at the very last moment—Isagi's body shifted.
Instead of following through with the natural arc of his swing, his leg twisted mid-motion. His foot, like a blade breaking from its scabbard, cut low in a sharp, deceptive curve.
Like a Brazilian-style kick, his boot slid beneath the ball's surface and struck it upward.
His foot formed an S-shape while performing the move.
The World's No.2 cut only air. His boot carved through the empty space where the ball should have been, the sheer force of his wasted momentum jolting through his frame. The sound of a perfect strike—the explosion of leather on leather—never came. Instead, the silence was deafening.
The ball spun away, bouncing cleanly toward Chris's right.
Chris's head snapped toward it, his grin faltering for the first time. His body lurched as he scrambled to cancel the wasted momentum, muscles straining to rebalance and twist after the ball.
And that was when he heard it.
"You made a mistake, No.2…"
Isagi's voice was low, almost calm, but sharpened by the edge of a predatory intent. He moved opposite of the ball, pivoting to Chris's left side. Their chests brushed past in the same direction, their duel closer now than the breath itself.
"…facing me my way…"
Then Isagi turned around, turning towards Chris on his left.
Isagi's right foot swung out, precise and fast, cutting toward the ball at the exact moment Chris steadied himself to lunge again.
"…never ends well."
The strike came clean.
Isagi's boot flicked under the ball again, not forward this time but behind—sending it arcing cleanly into the air. The crowd saw it, jaws dropping in disbelief. The ball rose in a smooth parabola, cresting over Chris Prince's head as though mocking him.
A sombrero flick.
The duel had become a spectacle.
Chris's eyes tracked it as the ball soared behind his back, perfectly placed out of his reach.
Isagi got past him.
The duel was over.
Isagi Yoichi had outplayedChris Prince.
The World's No.2 had been bypassed, his strength nullified, his dominance broken.
The ball arced cleanly behind them, the sombrero flick completed.
Isagi wasted no time. His body spun with sharp precision, his boots carving into the grass as he turned to chase after it. His momentum carried him forward, chest heaving, vision locked on the prize. That ball was his—his duel, his victory—and the next strike would be the finishing blow to decide the match.
Chris followed too, though a half-step slower. The shock of Isagi's audacious move still clung to his frame, forcing him to react instead of dictate.
Just like against Noa, the World's No.2 was a beat behind.
And in that razor-thin window, the offense of Bastard München seemed inevitable.
But before either of them could close in, another voice cracked through the pitch.
"He's right, Chris…"
The words carried from above.
From the corner of his eye, Isagi caught it—an arc of purple streaking into the air. A figure had already leapt, muscles uncoiling, frame extended like a blade as he soared toward the falling ball.
"…I learned that the hard way!"
The timing was flawless. The silhouette was unmistakable.
Reo Mikage.
His foot connected cleanly, the thump of leather on leather cutting through the noise like a blade through silence. The ball veered away in a sharp arc, booted clear of danger before Isagi's offense could even take root.
Gasps erupted across the World, the eruption of sound twisted with disbelief. In one instant, Bastard München's attack had been gutted. Isagi's perfect setup—the victory he had earned over Chris Prince—was dismantled before it could bloom.
The momentum snapped.
For Isagi, it was like being struck in the chest. Embarrassment prickled under his skin. He had been so enthralled by the thrill of clashing with Chris—so consumed by the rush of duelling against the World's No.2—that he had neglected the bigger picture. He hadn't kept his vision wide. He had lost track of Reo.
And Reo… Reo had gambled.
Even as the duel unfolded, Reo had placed his bet—not on Chris Prince, but on Isagi Yoichi. He had read the flow, felt the inevitability in the air, and made the choice to gamble everything on Chris's defeat.
And it paid off.
Because the moment Isagi triumphed, Reo was already in motion.
Now, as he landed with perfect balance, his strike complete, it was his intervention—not Chris's strength—that halted Bastard München's assault.
The duel had ended with Isagi victorious, but the battle was far from won.
"What a play!"
The commentator's voice cracked with disbelief, almost drowned out by the roar across the world.
"Reo Mikage steals the show from Isagi and Chris with that incredible intervention! Even though Isagi got past Chris, the play wasn't over—and Reo Mikage took full advantage of it, shutting out the offense!"
The second commentator jumped in, just as breathless.
"That's genius anticipation! Isagi beats the World's No.2 in a duel, but Reo refuses to let it end there—he reads it, and he breaks Bastard München's momentum!"
The drama now doubled. Isagi's victory had electrified the audience—but Reo's cut had stolen the oxygen right after.
The ball spun across the pitch, veering sharply left from the force of Reo's strike.
And waiting, charging, already alive to the shift in play—was his partner.
Chigiri Hyōma.
The flash of red tore across the wing, his hair streaming behind him like a comet's tail. His eyes locked onto the ball as it descended in his path.
"It's time to add another one to the scoresheet."
His words were a quiet promise, carried on the edge of his breath as he guided the ball under control. His pace never faltered—if anything, it burned brighter as the wing opened before him. He pushed forward, the stadium tilting with his acceleration, Manshine's counter igniting in a heartbeat.
But just as the lane spread wide, a shadow cut across his vision.
A figure slid into his path.
"Not gonna happen, speed freak."
Kunigami stepped in like a wall, cutting across Chigiri's lane with no hesitation. His frame bore down hard, his charge timed to perfection—using Chigiri's own blistering momentum against him.
With a sharp lunge of his right foot, he went straight for the ball, aiming to snatch it away in one decisive sweep.
But Chigiri was already a step ahead.
"You're too slow, meat-head."
The words tore past his lips with a hiss as his right foot stabbed down beside the ball, hooking it cleanly. In one seamless drag, he yanked it leftward, the ball skidding across the turf in perfect sync with his body. His weight shifted instantly, flowing into that space as if his body and the ball were one.
Acceleration burst through his legs.
Chigiri's speed wasn't just pace—it was control honed into a weapon.
But just as he surged into the gap, Kurona slipped into the frame, darting forward like a knife. Invading the pocket of space Chigiri's move created, ready to clamp down and suffocate the run before it bloomed.
For most players, that double pressure—Kunigami's brute force and Kurona's sharp positioning—would've spelled the end of their drive.
But Chigiri wasn't "most players."
He had trained for this exact battlefield, this exact scenario where the left flank became his kingdom. His speed-dribble wasn't just about straight lines anymore—it was about domination.
With the same right foot he had dragged left, he pivoted sharply, the outside edge of his boot flicking against the ball. In a fluid snap, the ball shifted direction again—this time whipping back to the right, cutting against both defenders' momentum.
Kunigami's weight was already thrown forward. Kurona's step committed to the intercept. Both were left trailing air as the ball slipped past them, clean and untouched.
And Chigiri was already there.
His body flowed after it without the slightest stutter, his crimson hair flashing as he tore through the opened lane. One smooth, continuous motion. No pause, no falter—just pure velocity.
Chigiri's run blazed on, his strides eating the pitch in ruthless succession. The defenders scrambled to realign, panic flashing in their movements.
Ness darted in first, angling his body across the lane. Ali surged up beside him, the two forming a barrier meant to choke out the wing.
But Chigiri didn't even blink. His killer route was set. The rhythm of his sprint was unshakable, his acceleration slicing through their attempt like it was paper. A single drop of the shoulder, a faint twist of his frame—and then he blitzed past, leaving both of them reeling in his wake.
"Crap!"
Ness hissed, teeth gritted as the red streak bore passed them.
This wasn't the Chigiri of before. He wasn't just following Reo's brilliance, reacting to his partner's movements and waiting for the chance to finish.
No.
This time, Chigiri was hunting.
The red panther had bared its fangs, and every step was a predator's charge. His eyes narrowed, burning with feral focus as he tore down the flank. He wasn't chasing someone else's idea—he was forging his own.
And his prey was already in sight.
The 44° Golden Zone.
His Golden Zone.
Ahead, Mensah loomed near the box—Bastard München's last bastion, braced to hold his ground.
But Chigiri didn't slow.
His run curved outward, dragging his line wide as though aiming to slip around on the flank. The bait was clean, deliberate, irresistible.
Mensah bit, shifting to cover the outside angle, his focus pulled toward the sideline.
And that was the moment Chigiri struck.
A razor cut inward, his body slicing across the turf as he shifted inside from the left. His stride never broke, but his trajectory snapped like a whip, carving the perfect lane.
The Golden Zone opened before him.
The angle—his angle—gleamed.
He was ready to shoot.
"You're not fast enough, kitten."
The words slithered in from Chigiri's right, sharp with arrogance.
Then came the impact.
"Guh..."
Kaiser's frame slammed into him, a sharp shoulder check that jarred his balance and smothered his shooting stance in an instant.
And Mensah reacted immediately—his body shifting, cutting off the angle to the Golden Zone. In the span of a heartbeat, Chigiri's window to strike had been sealed.
Frustration burned in his chest. He had trained for this. He had honed every dribble, every cut, every blazing route just to carve out this chance—and now, at the final step, the goal wasn't within reach.
But dwelling meant death.
Lose focus here, and Kaiser or Mensah would strip him bare.
So Chigiri adapted.
Grinding his teeth, he braced his frame, shifting his weight to shield the ball. His right shoulder pressed back hard into Kaiser's advance, absorbing the pressure, refusing to yield.
And in the same motion, his eyes snapped right.
His left foot planted into the turf, and with a whip of motion, he struck through the ball.
Not into the danger. But out—just beyond the penalty area, threading it past Mensah's desperate reach.
The ball spun clean, rolling into space.
Straight toward the figure who had been waiting, poised on the edge of the box.
Agi.
He received the pass with ease.
"Nice decision."
Agi muttered, voice low and immediate, throwing a glance at Chigiri.
But there was no time to savour it.
Hiori was already there—closing in fast, reading the play like an open book. His stride carried that sharp inevitability.
Agi had been the obvious option, the most open man to receive the ball, and Hiori had seized upon that fact instantly. His presence clamped down like a shadow, not giving Agi a single window to breathe.
Yet Agi wasn't flustered. His expression didn't shift, his rhythm unbroken. He hadn't intended to drive the ball forward anyway.
Because just a couple of yards behind him, another storm was brewing.
Both Isagi and Chris were bulldozing into the frame, shoulder to shoulder, locked in their relentless duel even as they surged toward the play. Chris sought to join the attack, his hunger sharp and unrelenting, while Isagi fought to slow him down, matching him step for step, refusing to let the World's No.2 dictate the pace.
They were a terrifying force in motion—two predators colliding, dragging their chaos with them. And Agi knew it. Wasting even a heartbeat, letting that pair arrive in his space, would've been nothing short of a mistake.
So he made his choice.
Without hesitation, his right foot swung down, slamming through the turf with force. The strike wasn't aimed at goal—it punched the ball into the ground, launching it up in a sharp rebound. The leather spun violently as it bounced, vaulting high into the air with a sudden burst of elevation.
"Score it, you lazy prodigy."
Agi's voice cut through the pitch, loud enough for his intended target. His eyes weren't on Hiori anymore, nor on the blocked lanes ahead. They tracked only the ball's ascent—and the figures beyond it.
The ball rose over the clash of bodies, soaring above Chigiri and Kaiser alike.
Chigiri's head tilted back, his crimson hair trailing as his eyes locked on the unexpected arc. His chest tightened with the realization—Agi had set the stage.
And then—
From behind him, a blur cut into the frame.
A figure rushing in, movements effortless yet charged with intent.
Nagi Seishiro.
He rose into the air with a grace that felt almost unearthly, his body flowing upward as though the ball itself had been waiting for him. In one seamless motion, Nagi's chest absorbed its spin, cushioning it with that uncanny control.
The stadium's breath caught.
Kaiser was the first to react, instincts blazing as he lunged forward to smother the threat. His boots tore into the turf, eyes locked on Nagi.
But before he could close the gap—Mensah shifted.
Stunned for a heartbeat by Nagi's sudden arrival, his hesitation threw him directly into Kaiser's lane. Their bodies clipped just enough, and in that instant, Kaiser's charge lost its sharpness, his speed blunted by his own teammate.
It was all the space Nagi needed.
The ball descended, lowering into perfect range, and his frame coiled with that laid-back elegance. His eyes glimmered faintly as he inhaled the moment, the sheer velocity of the game.
'This place…
This momentum…
It feels so great…'
The words pulsed inside him, not spoken but alive in every fiber of his being.
Kaiser lunged again, arms flaring, legs stretching wide to seal off the shooting path after getting around Mensah. For most, it would've been the end. But Nagi didn't hesitate—he didn't even blink.
He let the fire push him forward.
His right leg swung, clean and precise, driving through the ball with an authority that resounded across the pitch. But his aim wasn't for the net directly. His strike slammed the ball down hard against the turf—mirroring Agi's technique, yet imbued with his own flair.
The ball skipped, skidding low, darting forward like a silver bullet.
Right between Kaiser's outstretched legs.
The shot ripped upward in its ricochet, smashing against the crossbar with a violentclang that sent vibrations ringing through the frame. And then, in the next instant, it ricocheteddown—inside the goal.
The net bulged.
The sound thundered.
Nagi Seishirō…
…had scored.
"GO—GOOOALLLLL!!!"
The commentators exploded from their seats, voices cracking with raw excitement as the ball thundered into the net. Their cries reverberated through the stadium speakers, mirrored instantly by millions watching from their homes across the globe. The eruption was seismic—fans leapt, screamed, fists punching the air as if they themselves had struck the ball.
And at the heart of it all—Nagi Seishirō.
The moment the ricochet sealed his strike, his body jolted with a surge of emotion too rare, too powerful to contain. His head tipped back, his arms spread wide, and a roar tore from his chest.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!"
The usually detached prodigy screamed into the sky, his voice cutting above all. His face lit with something unshackled, unpolished—pure exultation.
He was basking in glory, his own creation—an echo that would burn itself into the memory of everyone watching.
He had scored.
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