The Kitonohara players were still doing loose stretches when the other team walked in through the side gate — two neat lines, uniforms already on, bags carried in the same hand. About fifteen of them. Loud where Kitonohara was quiet, confident where Kitonohara was unsure.
Their coach — an older man in a windbreaker — stepped forward with a calm, practiced stride. Hina and Gen went out to meet him.
Gen bowed.
"Thank you very much for agreeing to the match."
The old coach let out a short laugh.
"Raise your head, boy. It's only a practice match — no need to be that formal."
"Yes, sir," Gen said, straightening.
Behind him, their players were already setting cones and stacking bibs, moving like they'd done this hundreds of times. Kitonohara's own squad looked smaller by contrast — thinner voices, fewer bodies, no real presence yet.
The coach looked toward the empty sideline.
"If you don't have a referee prepared, my assistant can take it. He's certified for youth friendlies."
Gen nodded quickly. "We would appreciate that. Thank you again."
The assistant coach — younger, whistle already around his neck — stepped forward and gave Gen a short nod. He wasn't smiling. Just professional.
Akira leaned toward Jirō behind Gen and whispered,
"…they even have a proper assistant ref. Great."
"Quiet," Jirō muttered back, though he looked just as stiff.
Gen and Haruki walk up to the halfway line for the coin toss.
Gen glances toward Kasugano's bench. Two empty spots where the wingers should have been.
> "So they're not here today?" he asks quietly.
Haruki gives a polite smile.
> "We asked them to. They said they're busy. You still get us, though."
Gen nods. He reads the subtext — not an excuse, just a fact. This isn't their full strength. He doesn't relax.
They step closer to the referee.
Before the coin goes up, Gen speaks again, a little lower:
> "Thanks for accepting the match on short notice."
Haruki nods back.
> "Your manager sounded desperate. Figured we'd help."
The referee flicks the coin. Haruki calls it. Kasugano wins.
> "Kickoff."
Gen gives a short bow in acknowledgment. No more words.
Both captains turn and walk back to their teams.
Kasugano's seven stepped into formation on the far side, wearing the crest everyone already knew by reputation.
Their final 7 were:
1 — Takigawa Shun (3rd, GK)
sweeper-keeper type
4 — Nagasawa Rei (2nd, CB)
line leader, organizer
5 — Sugihara Kota (3rd, CB)
stopper, covers duels
8 — Iseri Kento (3rd, CMF)
pivot / playmaker
11 — Tsubaki Ren (2nd, RMF/WF)
rapid wide dribbler
7 — Fujimori Riku (3rd, LMF)
high work-rate, crosses
9 — Minato Haruki (C) (3rd, CF)
target / finisher
✔ 1 GK
✔ 2 CB
✔ 1 CM
✔ 2 wide mids
✔ 1 CF
= 7 total
When they settled into shape, it looked exactly like the scouting notes — mirrored across from Kitonohara:
Nothing flashy. Just disciplined structure, the kind that already carried its own threat before the whistle ever blew.
This was the version people feared across the region —
a wing-driven counterattacking team, famous for tearing apart loose shape.
If you press too high, they cut straight through you.
Three… maybe four passes… goal.
That reputation was still thick in the air.
But today — the reality was different.
Their two real wingers weren't here.
Kasugano couldn't play their trademark breakneck transitions.
No wide overloads.
No instant vertical explosion.
The shape was tighter. More central. Conservative.
Kitonohara didn't know that yet.
All they felt was the name Kasugano… and the fear that came with it.