Three days.
It had been seventy-two hours since the heavy steel doors of Blue Lock slammed shut, sealing them inside this concrete sarcophagus. Seventy-two hours since the "entrance exam" that had sent Kenji Sato screaming into the void.
For the survivors of Team V, life had reduced itself to a simple, brutal cycle: Eat. Sleep. Train. Repeat.
The facility didn't care about their feelings. It didn't care about their fatigue. The Blue Lock philosophy was a grinder, designed to pulverize the weak and polish the strong.
"Pick up the pace! Your heart rate is dropping! Are you resting? If you rest, you die!"
The holographic trainer — a jagged, blue digital avatar projected onto the walls of the training room — screamed at them relentlessly.
Renzo was drowning in sweat. His lungs burned as if he had inhaled broken glass. He was currently on his twentieth lap of the high-intensity interval run, his legs moving like pistons fueled by pure willpower.
Left. Right. Breathe. Left. Right. Breathe.
On the first day, Renzo had been… average.
When it came to the initial physical fitness tests, he hadn't topped the charts. In the 50-meter dash, Zantetsu had smoked everyone, his explosive acceleration leaving sonic booms in his wake. In the vertical jump, Nagi Seishiro — despite looking like he wanted to be asleep — had launched himself into the air with frightening ease. In endurance and overall balance, Reo Mikage was a machine, his body honed by elite personal trainers and perfect nutrition.
Renzo had hovered in the middle. His rank of 241 seemed accurate on paper.
But that was Day One.
Now, on Day Three, something was shifting.
Renzo wasn't just completing the drills; he was devouring them. His body, waking up from the slumber of his "safe" high school football life, was remembering what it was like to be pushed. His recovery time was shortening. His sprints were becoming sharper. His muscles were adapting with a terrifying speed that defied the standard physiology of a teenager.
He rounded the corner of the track, his teal eyes locked on the back of Reo Mikage, who was currently leading the pack.
I can catch him, Renzo thought, the instinct flaring up. Ten more strides.
He pushed. His quads screamed, but he forced them to obey. He closed the gap, moving past Retsu Nerima and Rikiya Hohai, who were gasping for air. He pulled level with Zantetsu. And then, he finished the lap just a half-step behind Reo.
Reo stopped, hands on his knees, heaving for breath. He looked up, sweat dripping from his purple hair, and glared at Renzo.
"You're… persistent," Reo spat out, wiping his face.
Renzo didn't gasp. He focused on deep, controlled exhales, bringing his heart rate down manually. He offered a small, lazy smile.
"Just trying to keep up with the elites," Renzo said, his voice surprisingly steady.
Reo narrowed his eyes. He wasn't fooled. None of Team V was.
Looking at the digital leaderboard displayed on the wall, the hierarchy was clear physically:
Reo Mikage
Zantetsu Tsurugi
Seishiro Nagi
Renzo Takamine
But looking at the room, the hierarchy was different.
When Renzo walked to the water station, the other players — Sota Nemoto, Shuhei Ebina, Masumi Atatame, Kisaburo Hijikata, and Hirakazu Midorikawa — subconsciously parted ways to let him through. They didn't move for Reo. They moved for Renzo.
They remembered the sound of the ball hitting Kenji's face. They remembered the laughter. They knew who the real predator in the room was.
Later that afternoon, while the rest of the team collapsed onto the benches to recover from core training, Renzo moved to the corner of the gym.
He wasn't done.
He grabbed a Bosu ball and placed it on the floor.
He stepped onto the unstable rubber dome with one foot.
"What is he doing now?" Retsu Nerima whispered to Shuhei Ebina. "Is he a masochist?"
Renzo ignored them. He closed his eyes.
He wasn't trying to build muscle mass. He wasn't trying to look like the Hulk. He was chasing a specific sensation. He was chasing the ghost of the man in his dreams.
Leo-san isn't the tallest, Renzo analyzed internally, replaying the 1v1 from his dream. He isn't the fastest in a straight line. But he never falls. Even when defenders twice his size slam into him, he stays upright. Why? Center of gravity.
Renzo bent his knee slightly, holding a 10kg medicine ball in his hands. He shifted his weight, mimicking a body feint. The Bosu ball wobbled violently, threatening to throw him off.
Renzo's core tightened. He fought the instability, forcing his body to find its equilibrium.
Lower. Anchor yourself to the ground.
He did it again. And again. And again. While the others rested, Renzo was rewiring his nervous system to thrive in chaos. This was the weapon he needed. If he couldn't overpower them with size, he would slip through them like water.
"Time up! Training session concluded!" the hologram announced.
Renzo hopped off the balance ball, his legs trembling slightly from the exertion. He wiped his face with a towel and turned around.
And in a few seconds, he was surrounded.
Excluding Reo and Nagi, who were sitting on a bench on the far side of the room, the rest of Team V had formed a semi-circle around him.
Renzo raised an eyebrow, draping the towel over his head. "Uh. Can I help you guys?"
Sota Nemoto, a boy with freckles and a nervous disposition, stepped forward. "Um… Takamine-kun?"
"Just Renzo is fine."
"Right. Renzo-kun. That kick… the one from the first day," Nemoto stammered. "How did you do that? The way you waited until the last second… weren't you scared?"
Renzo looked at them. They weren't looking at him with fear anymore. It was awe.
Renzo blinked, the intense, predatory aura he wore during training vanishing instantly. His shoulders dropped. His sharp eyes softened into a relaxed, almost goofy expression.
"Scared?" Renzo chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Nah. I just figured the ball would hurt less if I kicked it than if I got hit by it. Plus, the rhythm was kinda catchy, right?"
The group blinked.
"That's it?" Masumi Atatame asked, confused. "You looked like a demon."
"Did I?" Renzo laughed, a genuine, warm sound. "My bad. I get a little focused. But seriously, if you guys want to get better at volleys, you just gotta relax your hips. You're all too tense. Like, you, Hijikata-kun, right? I saw you on the treadmill. You run like you're holding a coin between your butt cheeks. Relax a little."
Kisaburo Hijikata turned bright red. "I-I do not!"
The group erupted into laughter. The tension broke.
Within minutes, Renzo was chatting with them about favorite foods, complaining about the stiff mattresses, and giving casual tips on form. It was a complete 180-degree turn.
From the other side of the room, Reo watched this spectacle with a frown.
"Look at him," Reo muttered, taking a sip of his sports drink. "He's acting like he's their best friend. It's sickening."
"He's popular," Nagi murmured, resting his chin on his knees. "He's weird. When he plays, he feels like a monster. But now… he looks like a normal high schooler."
"Don't be fooled, Nagi," Reo warned, his eyes dark. "That's how he gets you. He lulls you into thinking he's harmless, and then he snaps your neck. He's a psychopath with a split personality."
Zantetsu walked by, adjusting his glasses. "It is called 'duality.' It is a common trait among high-functioning sociopaths. Or Gemini."
"Shut up, Zantetsu," Reo sighed.
The Cafeteria
If the training room was a torture chamber, the cafeteria was a sterile white void.
It was a massive hall filled with long, rectangular tables. There were no windows, only artificial light that hummed with a low frequency. The smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint aroma of boiled vegetables.
Renzo walked through the line, tray in hand. The "standard" meal was depressing. A bowl of white rice. A cup of miso soup with barely any tofu. A side of natto (fermented soybeans) and a single pickled plum.
It was fuel, not food.
"This is tragic," Renzo muttered, looking at his tray. "I'm going to wither away."
He walked past the serving counter and stopped at a vending machine located near the water dispenser. It was sleek, black, and had a touchscreen interface.
Renzo tapped the screen.
[MENU]
Premium Steak (200g) - 2 Points
Gyoza (Plate of 6) - 1 Point
Fried Chicken Set - 1 Point
Fresh Salad - 1 Point
Pudding - 1 Point
Renzo's eyes widened. "Points?"
He looked down at the bottom of the screen.
[CURRENT BALANCE - RANK 241: 0 POINTS]
"I see," Renzo whispered, a grin tugging at his lips. "So that's how it works. You want the good life? You have to earn it."
He made a mental note to ask 'Glasses' (Ego) about how to earn points later. Probably goals. It had to be goals.
He grabbed his sad tray of natto and rice and found an empty table near the back. He sat down, broke his chopsticks, and began to eat. The natto was sticky and pungent, but he forced it down. Muscle needed protein, even if it tasted like old socks.
Clatter.
A tray was placed on the table opposite him.
Renzo didn't look up immediately. He continued chewing.
A figure sat down.
Renzo finally looked up.
And to his surprise, Nagi was sitting there. The white-haired genius looked exhausted, his posture slumped over his own bowl of rice. He held his chopsticks lazily, barely lifting the food to his mouth.
Renzo raised an eyebrow. "Lost, genius?"
Nagi didn't respond for a long time. He just chewed slowly, staring at Renzo with those dull, grey eyes. The noise of the cafeteria seemed to fade away, leaving a bubble of silence around their table.
Reo wasn't with him. That was a first.
Finally, Nagi swallowed.
"Reo is angry," Nagi said. His voice was flat, but there was an undercurrent of something else. Curiosity?
"Reo is always angry," Renzo replied, taking a sip of his soup. "He's got a stick up his ass about losing. He needs to let it go."
"He hates losing," Nagi corrected. "He wants the World Cup."
"And you?" Renzo asked. "What do you want, Nagi? You look like you'd rather be sleeping."
Nagi poked at his pickled plum. "I do. Football is tiring. Running is a hassle. This place… is a hassle."
"Then quit."
Nagi stopped poking the food. He looked up, locking eyes with Renzo.
"I can't."
Renzo put his bowl down. "Why not?"
"Because," Nagi said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I remember."
"Remember what?"
"Tokyo," Nagi said. "That game. Against you."
Renzo leaned back, crossing his arms.
"Before that game," Nagi continued, "I never cared. I just won because I could. It was easy. But when we played you… I couldn't do anything. You stopped me. You took the ball. You laughed."
Nagi's hand clenched around his chopsticks.
"I felt… small. It was annoying. It was frustrating. My chest felt tight."
Renzo watched him. He saw the spark. It was faint, buried under layers of apathy, but it was there. The ego was waking up.
Nagi looked at Renzo, his expression serious for the first time since they had arrived.
"I don't want to feel that again," Nagi said. "I don't want to be the one who can't move."
Nagi pushed his tray slightly forward, as if making an offering.
"Let's win together, Renzo."
Renzo stared at him. The genius was asking for a truce. Or maybe an alliance.
Renzo smiled. "You want to ride my bus, huh?" Renzo teased.
"It's less effort than walking alone," Nagi muttered, returning to his usual drowsy state.
Renzo chuckled. He picked up his chopsticks again.
"Alright, sleepyhead. But try to keep up. I'm not waiting for you."
Nagi nodded once. "Okay."
"You got it."
They finished their meal in silence, an unspoken pact formed over sticky beans and cold rice.
Night fell over Blue Lock. The lights in the dorms dimmed.
Renzo lay on his thin mattress, staring at the concrete ceiling. To his left, he could hear the soft snoring of Zantetsu. To his right, Nagi was already in his coma. Further down, Reo was tossing and turning, probably plotting Renzo's demise.
Renzo closed his eyes. He regulated his breathing.
In. Out. Deep.
The concrete ceiling dissolved. The sounds of snoring faded into the roar of a phantom crowd, then settled into the heavy silence of a massive stadium.
He was back.
The grass was perfectly cut. The floodlights were blinding.
And there he was.
Standing at the center circle, juggling a ball with effortless grace, was the man in the FC Barcha kit.
Renzo walked onto the pitch, stretching his arms.
"What's up, kid?" Messi called out, catching the ball on his feet.
"Just surviving, old man," Renzo replied, cracking his knuckles.
Leo smiled. "I saw you today. The balance exercises, that's new."
"Yeah," Renzo said, stepping into the circle. "You're impossible to knock over. I figured if I want to beat you, I need to improve my balance too."
"Smart," Leo nodded approvingly. "Physical strength is good. But balance… balance is what lets you play freely. If you aren't worried about falling, you can focus on flying."
Leo dropped the ball at his feet. He looked at Renzo with that familiar, challenging glint in his eyes.
"Nice," Leo said. "Then… you ready for the daily routine?"
Renzo lowered his stance, his aura flaring up in the dream world — a jagged, blue electricity that crackled around him. He felt the hunger return, sharp and immediate.
"Hell yeah," Renzo grinned. "Let's dance, Leo."
He charged forward.