6
The hall was colder than expected.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sterile light onto the polished floors. It smelled faintly of sweat, rubber, and metal. Not a stadium. Not a training ground. More like a facility—functional and detached.
Like a lab, Itsuki Amano thought.
He stood near the center of the room, surrounded by boys his age and older. Some paced. Some stretched. Some cracked jokes too loud, trying to sound confident. Every single one of them had been handpicked. Every single one of them had been told the same thing:
"You're here because you have the potential to be Japan's greatest striker."
Itsuki didn't feel flattered. He felt tense.
Not scared—tension was different. It coiled deep in his chest, quiet and dense, like a wound-up spring. His hands were tucked in his jacket pockets, but his right thumb rubbed circles against his palm.
A tic.
His coach used to call it his "loading cue." Like a machine starting up.
Relax, he told himself. Don't show too much. Don't show too little.
His eyes moved slowly across the room.
Sixty-something boys. All with egos. All with dreams. All about to be torn apart.
Itsuki had read about Blue Lock before accepting the invitation. Everyone had. The secrecy. The controversy. The premise was outrageous—turning forwards into enemies to produce one genius. But deep down, he understood it. Lived it.
He needed to be perfect. Not just better than the next guy. Not just skilled. Flawless. Because if he wasn't, everything he'd worked for—every hour spent in the rain, every late night juggling on gravel—would mean nothing.
And he couldn't accept that.
"Hey." A voice pulled him back.
He turned. A shorter boy with spiked brown hair and a confident grin looked at him curiously.
"You nervous?"
Itsuki hesitated, then shook his head. "Not really."
"You've been staring at everyone for five minutes straight."
"Oh. Just trying to figure out how many of them will still be here tomorrow."
The boy blinked, clearly thrown.
Itsuki gave a small, polite smile. "It probably won't be many."
Before the other boy could respond, a loud metallic clack echoed through the hall. The main doors slid open.
Silence spread instantly.
A tall man stepped in, dressed in black, his sharp face framed by square glasses. He moved with calm precision, like someone who knew he was the smartest person in the room.
"Welcome to Blue Lock," he said, voice amplified. "My name is Jinpachi Ego."
The screen behind him flickered to life. Dozens of names filled the display, grouped into teams: A through Z.
Itsuki scanned for his.
Team Z.
His name sat near the bottom of the list: Amano, Itsuki.
He didn't recognize any of the others, but committed the names to memory. He didn't like relying on chance. That meant knowing what you could about the people around you—especially if one of them might be the reason you go home tomorrow.
"I'm not here to teach you how to pass," Ego continued. "I'm here to teach you how to devour. Only one of you will become the striker Japan needs. The rest of you? Failures. Stepping stones. Forgotten."
Some players flinched. Some stood taller.
Itsuki's heart beat faster.
He didn't look around this time. He didn't need to.
He was already mapping the weight of Ego's words onto his chest. Already replaying every moment he had almost scored. Every misstep. Every fraction off.
He had to be sharper here. Cleaner. Smarter. Not just talented.
Impeccable.
"You're not teammates," Ego said. "You're rivals. So let's begin with a simple game."
The screen changed again.
TAG.
The explanation was short: One person is "it." If they fail to score a goal within the time limit, they're eliminated from Blue Lock.
Just like that.
Itsuki's breath caught for half a second.
Not benched. Not warned. Gone.
And just like that, the tension in the room turned real. Everyone started sizing each other up. No more pretending. No more polite introductions.
Itsuki noticed him then—across the room.
Standing quietly near a wall. Hood pulled up. Headphones in. Eyes half-lidded but sharp as broken glass.
Rin Itoshi.
Itsuki didn't react visibly. But something in him locked in.
He had seen Rin play before—on highlight reels, in whispers from coaches. A clinical player. Composed. Efficient. Not flashy, but terrifyingly effective.
A chill ran down Itsuki's spine—not from fear, but from recognition.
That was what he wanted to be.
Not a rival. Not yet.
But maybe... a mirror.
He dragged his eyes away and rolled his shoulders once. Loosened his neck. Let his nerves burn themselves down into focus.
This is it, he thought. No more waiting.
A loud metallic clang echoed through the chamber. A ball was ejected from a chute in the wall. It hit the floor and rolled slowly to a stop in the center of the room.
Above them, a cold digital countdown started ticking.
02:16… 02:15… 02:14…
No further explanation.
No more warnings.
Everyone hesitated for a single breath—and then someone moved.
The boy nearest to the ball lunged forward and scooped it up like it was a grenade. Panic flashed in his eyes. Then he spun and launched it at the closest person.
Thwack!
The hit connected—solid and fast.
The boy who got struck grunted, stumbling slightly. The ball bounced off him, skidding across the floor.
Now he was it.
The rules were clear.
Whoever had the ball when the clock ran out… was done. Gone. Eliminated.
No second chances.
---
Itsuki didn't move yet. He wasn't the type to panic. His heartbeat stayed even.
He took in the scene:
One tall guy immediately backed into the corner, scanning for escape routes.
Another was already sprinting around like it was a playground game.
A third had brute-force written all over him, roaring and throwing his shoulder into anyone who got close.
And a small, wide-eyed kid was already screaming.
It was raw chaos.
Perfect.
Don't run from it, he thought. Use it.
He stayed in the cluster—not because it was safe, but because it was noisy. Loud movement. Loud people. Loud choices.
That made it easier to blend in.
Another strike—clean hit to the thigh. A growl of frustration. Someone slammed a wall.
The ball changed hands again.
01:46… 01:45…
Itsuki watched as the new "it" immediately panicked and flung the ball without aiming. It bounced off a wall. No hit.
The boy chasing it tripped. Someone else swooped in—low, smooth, precise—and flicked the ball up with his foot.
That guy didn't yell. Didn't hesitate.
He just struck. The kick was surgical.
Whump. It hit the back of someone's shoulder.
Cold. Efficient. Scary good.
Itsuki's eyes narrowed. He's calm. Like me. But there was something colder in the way that boy moved. Like he wasn't even playing the same game as the rest of them.
Itsuki filed it away.
01:11… 01:10…
The timer was dying.
And the field was thinning out. People were running in circles now. Some were slowing. One kid tried to throw the ball underhand and got tackled. It was primal now—fighting for survival.
Itsuki edged along the wall. Someone was barreling toward him, but he pivoted, using the momentum to slip behind them.
The ball passed inches from his ribs.
That kid missed.
And now he had it.
Wide eyes. Desperate breathing.
Itsuki saw it.
He's going to throw blindly.
He faked left.
The boy took the bait.
The ball sailed past him and slammed against the far wall.
Itsuki caught it on the rebound.
00:43
Silence.
All eyes were on him now.
He didn't feel fear. Just pressure.
The good kind.
The kind that made his vision narrow and his muscles coil like wires.
His target was already turning away—thought he'd gotten clear.
That was his mistake.
Itsuki struck low and fast.
The ball skidded across the floor—and nailed the runner's calf.
Direct.
00:30
The room exhaled.
Itsuki stepped back again.
His face was calm.
But inside?
His brain was burning.
Not enough. I need more. Cleaner aim. Less wasted movement. If that ball had bounced wrong, it wouldn't have landed. That's not perfection.
The tag game kept going.
But Itsuki Amano was no longer just trying to survive.
He was measuring.
Tracking.
Hunting.
00:29… 00:28…
The room had become a storm of bodies, wild breath, and slamming footsteps. The ball was fire now—no one held it for long, and no one wanted to be holding it when the timer hit zero.
Itsuki kept moving.
He hadn't touched the ball in minutes.
He didn't need to.
He just watched.
And that boy—the calm one with the steady aura and cool, composed look—he was doing the same.
Too smooth, Itsuki thought. Like he's done this a thousand times.
00:15
A fast break. The ball smacked off someone's shoulder. Another player dove for it, slipped, and nearly got stomped. Panic was swallowing the entire room.
Except for him.
That quiet one with messy dark hair.
He picked up the ball with stiff hands, like he didn't know what to do with it.
Then everything changed.
00:10
He ran.
Straight through the chaos.
No hesitation. He twisted past one, sidestepped another. Bodies flew. The air rippled.
Itsuki blinked.
This was different.
This wasn't instinct.
This was desperation, sharpened into something terrifyingly clear.
The calm boy—Kira—saw him too late.
He turned, mouth half-open to call something—
00:01
The ball fired off that dark-haired kid's foot like a missile.
It struck Kira clean in the side.
00:00
Buzz.
Silence.
The ball bounced away.
Kira stumbled, looking more confused than hurt.
Everyone froze.
Even Itsuki.
That didn't feel like a victory.
It felt like someone had just pulled the floor out from under them.
Then the door opened.
And Ego Jinpachi walked in, clapping slowly.
> "So. You just eliminated Japan's U-18 ace, huh?"
Kira stood up slowly. He tried to smile.
Tried to reason.
Tried to protest.
Ego didn't care.
> "Blue Lock doesn't need someone who can't win. Out."
Itsuki didn't move. His heart wasn't even racing.
Kira was one of the best. Polished. Calm. Confident.
And he was gone.
Just like that.
That was the cost of one second.
That was the weight of Blue Lock.
Itsuki clenched his fists at his sides.
Perfection isn't a goal here.
It's survival.
The dorm room was wide, sterile, and far too clean to feel like home. Twin rows of bunk beds stretched across the floor like prison cells with blankets. No doors. No privacy. Just twenty young strikers crammed into one concrete box.
Itsuki Amano stepped inside, glancing around with practiced ease. He spotted his bed—#271, bottom bunk, near the back—and made his way over.
As the others shuffled in, he sat down and exhaled slowly. The adrenaline from the tag match still hummed under his skin.
Someone let out a low whistle.
"This place is a joke, man."
A guy with short brown hair and sturdy build tossed his duffel onto a bed. "Kuon Wataru. Guess we're roommates now."
"Imamura Yudai," added a boy with a bald head. "Midfield... usually."
"Gagamaru Gin," a lanky guy with shaggy blond hair muttered while stretching. "Striker. Or... maybe a ninja, depends how I feel."
The laughter that followed was genuine, if brief.
A red-haired boy leaned back against the wall. "Chigiri Hyoma."
"Raichi Jingo. Don't get in my way," came a louder voice from a kid with sharp eyes and too much energy.
Itsuki smiled lightly at the mix of introductions, then stood up and cleared his throat.
"Itsuki Amano," he said, one hand casually tucked in his pocket. "Let's all try not to kill each other before the first elimination."
That got a few chuckles. The atmosphere loosened slightly.
"Where'd you play before?" Imamura asked.
"Tokyo. Public school team," Itsuki replied. "Not exactly top-tier, but I made it work."
"Damn," Raichi said. "You were clean with that tag, though. That feint before the kick?"
Itsuki smiled a little wider, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks. I just imagined what I'd do if my life depended on it."
That made a few people shift uncomfortably. Gagamaru raised an eyebrow.
"Bit intense, man."
"Only on the field," Itsuki said cheerfully.
And somehow, that made it worse.
A boy with messy dark hair stepped forward—the one who'd tagged Kira.
"Yoichi Isagi," he said. "That pass… was kind of nuts. You knew he'd miss it?"
"Not knew," Itsuki replied. "Just trusted the math in my head. And maybe a little luck."
Isagi looked confused, then smiled. "I guess that's what this place is for, huh?"
"Yeah," Itsuki said, eyes glinting as he looked around the room full of strangers. "To see who's willing to bet everything to win."
Somewhere in the back, someone muttered, "Creepy…"
But the conversation kept flowing. Jokes, name swaps, small talk about hometowns and high school leagues.
Itsuki talked. He listened. He laughed a little too easily—but not in a way anyone could quite criticize. He fit in. Almost too well.
And as night settled over Blue Lock's iron shell, Itsuki sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Not because he couldn't sleep.
Because he was already planning tomorrow's kill.