German Wing — Meeting Room
The air inside the German Wing's meeting room was dense with anticipation. Every player stood aligned in rows, posture straight yet hearts restless beneath their calm facades.
At the front of the room stood Noel Noa — unreadable yet effortlessly commanding. One hand rested loosely in his pocket, while the other held a sleek black tablet — its cold, bluish glow carving faint lines across the edges of his face.
"Now,"
He began, his voice low.
"I'll announce the eleven starting players who will be taking on Italy's Ubers team."
A subtle ripple passed through the players — a chain reaction of quickened pulses and shifting stances. Some inhaled deeply, others clenched their fists behind their backs, hiding nerves behind perfectly neutral expressions. Confidence and dread mixed in equal measure.
Noa's eyes flicked downward. With a swipe of his thumb, the first name appeared on the massive digital display behind him.
"First… our goalkeeper — Gin Gagamaru."
The screen pulsed to life with Gagamaru's image and rank.
Gagamaru Gin — 87 | A
Gagamaru nodded once.
Noa didn't pause and continued.
"Our defenders will be Mensah and Birkenstock."
Two more names illuminated the display.
Mensah — 86 | A
Birkenstock — 84 | A
"Now… for our wing-backs."
The subtle swipe of his thumb echoed — or maybe it only felt that way to the players waiting for their names.
"Our left wing-back will be…
Yukimiya Kenyu."
The name hit like a spark.
Yukimiya Kenyu — 84 | A
Flashed on the screen behind Noa, its glow painted Yukimiya's stunned expression in faint blue light. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. The words settled into him — disbelief giving way to a surge of burning resolve.
He hadn't expected this.
Not after his last match.
But Noa's voice broke through his thoughts before he could even process the feeling.
"Your last performance was... chaotic."
Noa said, eyes fixed on Yukimiya like cold steel.
"But you've shown growth in training, rising up the ranks. So you'll be in the lineup."
He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in.
"However… if you still haven't made your 'decision', I'll sub you out immediately."
The words hung heavy — not loud, but absolute with Noa's authority.
Yukimiya's throat tightened. His gaze drifted forward — toward Isagi.
Isagi stood still, his back straight, the blue light catching the edges of his short hair.
Yukimiya clenched his teeth and lowered his head, a single nod breaking his stillness — acknowledgment, determination, and silent defiance all in one.
Noa's eyes lingered on him for a beat longer — assessing — before sliding back to the tablet in his hand.
The soft sound of another swipe echoed once more, marking the next judgment.
"Moving on,"
Noa said, his voice steady as stone.
"Our defensive midfielder… Jingo Raichi."
Jingo Raichi — 81 | A
The moment his name left Noa's lips, Raichi flinched — a split-second of disbelief flickering across his expression before it hardened into alert excitement.
Noa didn't pause for long. His gaze was sharp, analytical as ever, dissecting the team before him.
"When it comes to this team's 'duel training', you've proven yourself the second most effective at stealing the ball in one-on-ones. You've also shown explosive growth in physical contact strength.
You'll be the defensive heart of this team."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then, a grin spread across Raichi's face — wide, sharkish, unrestrained.
The fire that always burned in his chest ignited in full.
"…It's finally my time."
The words slipped out under his breath at first, but then his excitement erupted like a match struck against gasoline. His voice rang out, cracking through the quiet tension with raw, contagious energy.
"It's about damn time for my sexy football!"
He roared, fists clenched, veins standing out along his arms as if his body could barely contain the adrenaline surging through him.
"I'll show the sexiest duels you'll have ever seen!"
A Isagi and Naruhaya couldn't help but smirk; others shook their heads, but even they couldn't deny it — Raichi's energy was infectious.
And now, with Noa's words still lingering in the air, this fighter will finally be unleashed on the playground.
Noa continued.
"Our right wing-back will be Kurona Ranze.
With your logical offensive plays and a direct goal contribution, you'll continue in the lineup."
The screen behind him pulsed alive again.
Kurona Ranze — 86 | A
The display cast soft shadows across Kurona's face — his calm, measured eyes reflecting the data that defined his worth.
He gave a quiet nod.
Noa didn't linger.
"Same with Hiori Yo,"
He continued.
"Your goal contribution and offensive synergy within Isagi central tactics have been effective. You'll be our right midfielder up front."
Hiori Yo — 87 | A
Hiori lifted his chin slightly. His expression remained serene, but the corner of his mouth hinted at something softer — a contentment.
He had known this was coming. After that last match, after that play with Isagi, he was confident.
Still, hearing it now — hearing Noa say it aloud — struck differently.
Because more than validation, it meant continuity.
Another game standing beside Isagi, the one player who had given him something he always craved.
The one who made him love football.
The one who gave him freedom.
Noa continued to announce the rest of the line-up.
"For the left midfielder position… Ness."
Alexis Ness — 93 | S
The word hung in the air, and almost immediately, a ripple of surprise passed through the players. Eyes flicked to Ness, who now looked oddly small at the edge of the formation, shoved into a corner that had never been his.
Center had been his command post, the vantage from which he orchestrated attacks, and created openings for Kaiser.
To see him sidelined like this—an afterthought—felt like a jolt.
Kaiser's gaze, however, didn't move. Noa's next words landed squarely on him.
"On the left side, striker… Kaiser."
Kaiser — 98 | S
Kaiser's face remained stoic, but inside, a storm raged. Every carefully constructed piece of his career—every position meticulously earned since passing Bastard Munchen's tryouts—was crumbling around him.
The hierarchy he had built, the control he had believed untouchable, was slipping through his fingers like sand.
He wasn't at the top anymore. Salary meant nothing in the face of reality. Not here. Not now. He was trailing by goals, by influence, by the sheer momentum of someone else's power.
Isagi.
He had faced the best before. But every opponent he had crushed in his career shared one critical flaw: their limitations paled against him.
Their skills were impressive, their instincts sharp—but they had been predictable in ways he could exploit, mistakes he could manipulate.
Kaiser's plays, his mind, and his reign were always superior.
And now… Isagi.
Kaiser had planned on using him as a tool, a stepping stone, a perfectly timed clown to be toppled.
After all, Isagi had made a name for himself by defeating Japan's U-20 team.
He had seemed perfect—an ideal opponent to be bested and discarded, to elevate Kaiser's brand, secure a higher salary, and finally leave Bastard Münchenon his own terms, undefeated and untouchable.
But Isagi hadn't just refused to be used.
He had toppled Kaiser instead.
Thrusting him off the cliff, claiming the throne of Kaiser for himself.
The realization hit harder than any physical blow: Isagi's abilities weren't just exceptional—they were overwhelming.
Since the last match, Kaiser had poured every ounce of himself into training and ended up increasing his overall by 1. He had pushed his body, sharpened his mind, sought ways—any way—to claw back the top spot, to beat Isagi, to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his. But every time, it was the same. Every attempt collided with the same unyielding barrier.
A wall.
A wall so immense, so absolute, that even the thought of scaling it left him breathless.
He could imagine it, Isagi towering over him, unmoving, impossible.
Every step forward, every strategy, every ounce of skill—diminished against its sheer magnitude.
There was no path visible, no crack to exploit, no shadow of vulnerability.
There were only a few theoretical scenarios where victory was possible, but they were so pristine, so unlikely, that the moment they collided with reality, they dissolved.
The room's air felt heavier now, the reality settling in: he was no longer the apex predator. He was a contender dethroned, standing before the summit of a new king's domain—and the climb, if it was even possible, would be nothing short of monumental.
"And on the right will be… Kunigami."
Kunigami — 90 | S
The name echoed across the room like a spark in dry air.
Even Kunigami, who rarely showed surprise, stiffened. His brows lifted ever so slightly.
The lineup displayed on the tactical screen burned with clarity: Kaiser on the left. Kunigami on the right.
Two strikers.
The reaction was immediate and silent. Every player's gaze gradually turned toward one figure standing near the front, the one whose back seemed to hold the gravity of the entire room.
Isagi.
He didn't move. Yet the air around him felt different, charged. They all knew what this meant — the highest-ranked player in this wing, the one who had turned Bastard Münchens' system on its head, was being placed behind the front line since there was only one position left to be taken now.
The irony wasn't lost on anyone.
Isagi — rankedthird overall in the Neo Egoist League Auction.
The man who had nearly eclipsed the top with a valuation of 250 million yen in only 2 matches, just shy of Kaiser's 300 million and Don Lorenzo's 280 million.
By contrast, Kunigami — whose market value hovered at 40 million — was being thrust forward into the striker's spotlight.
It made no sense.
Mainly because there's a clear way of doing things in Bastard München.
But Noa didn't care for their doubts or their silent questions. His expression unreadable, his tone unwavering as he spoke again — crisp, final, like the click of a blade locking into place.
"And finally, for our central midfielder…"
A pause, deliberate, enough to draw every heartbeat.
"…Isagi Yoichi."
Isagi Yoichi — 99 | S
The screen flickered as his stats blazed across it — bold, dominant, monstrous.
Noa's announcement concluded there, sharp and absolute. But the atmosphere it left behind was heavy.
Kaiser in silence, jaw set. Kunigami stood uncertain, a mixture of pride and pressure weighing on his shoulders.
And Isagi…
He had a faint glint in his eyes that betrayed the truth — that this arrangement wasn't a demotion.
It was the beginning of something far more dangerous.
"This concludes the starting lineup."
Noa announced, his tone decisive, final.
"We'll use this formation."
The display screen behind him flickered as the formation appeared:
ST — Kaiser
ST — Kunigami
CM — Isagi
LM — Ness
RM — Hiori
DM — Raichi
LWB — Yukimiya
RWB — Kurona
DF — Birkenstock
DF — Mensah
GK — Gagamaru
At the back, Naruhaya stood motionless, staring at the screen. His reflection wavered faintly on the glass, staring back at him with clenched fists.
"damn… still didn't get picked up…"
He muttered under his breath, the bitterness twisting his tone before he exhaled sharply through his nose.
He had been grinding relentlessly. Every training session had been a battlefield for him — especially the ones with Isagi.
Their chemistry had been improving rapidly, their coordination, their offensive link plays.
He'd built his rhythm to match Isagi's ever-evolving style.
He had been rising.
He remembered his last recorded rank before being summoned here.
'...13th'
Just two ranks away from breaking into the starting eleven.
He had believed, just maybe, that his growing synergy with Isagi would earn him a chance — a shot to stand on the pitch, to prove that his weapon had evolved.
But now, staring at the names on that display, the truth cut deep.
He was out.
The best he could hope for now was to be called as a substitute. But even that hope felt fragile — because directly ahead of him in rank was Grim, sitting at 12th.
If a sub was called in, logic dictated that it would be Grim, not him.
The thought twisted in his chest, frustration boiling into a silent ache he swallowed down.
While Naruhaya stood locked in thought, Grim was already in his own peculiar world, dramatizing the moment in true Grim fashion.
He clutched his chest with both hands, shoulders trembling, his voice rising.
"Ohh… I'm being thrown away… such sadness~…"
The melodramatic tone echoed across the room like a tragedy no one cared to see.
No one even turned toward him. The players either ignored it outright or sighed quietly — all too accustomed to Grim's bizarre masochistic fits.
Noa didn't so much as glance at Grim's melodrama. He simply continued.
"Our opponent this time is Italy's Ubers. With their legendary defense… and their master, Snuffy."
Noa continued, eyes sweeping over the team.
"This is a team of tactical nerds — a team known for their intelligence. Their entire structure is built on calculation and discipline."
He paused then, gaze snapping toward one player in particular.
Isagi.
For a moment, the two locked eyes.
"Basically, our offensive pattern relies on you, Isagi."
The room stilled.
"So you can bet,"
Noa went on, his tone sharpened with quiet weight.
"That they'll thoroughly try to crush you. You're the axis of this team."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering.
"If you can overcome that in this match… then you'll truly be the king of this team."
A murmur of tension rippled through the room. Noa's declaration wasn't praise — it was a challenge.
A crown offered, but only if Isagi had the strength to seize it under the crushing weight of Ubers' discipline.
Straightening, Noa continued.
"Individual control over the ball will be essential for disrupting their organization. They move like clockwork — break their rhythm, and the rest will follow."
His gaze hardened.
"The key to this match lies in duels."
The word seemed to resonate — each player instinctively feeling its weight.
Against Ubers, it wouldn't just be about teamwork. It would be about the individual abilities.
One-on-one supremacy.
Then, Noa turned sharply toward Kaiser.
"Don't get fixated, Kaiser."
He said, his tone slicing through the air.
"I won't allow any more irrational plays."
Eyes turned toward the blonde striker.
Kaiser didn't respond. He stood there motionless, staring somewhere past Noa — not at him, not at the screen, but into some distant point in space.
Whether he was thinking, resisting, or quietly burning inside — no one could tell.
Noa gave him a final, brief look before turning again.
Then his focus returned to Isagi.
"You asked to be in the central midfielder position, Isagi."
Noa said.
"Our offense revolves around you. Don't mess it up."
His voice was stern — but beneath it, faintly, was the undertone of expectation.
Isagi's answer came not in words, but in a quiet, confident smile. He met Noa's gaze directly and nodded once.
In that moment, the contrast between the two players couldn't have been clearer.
Kaiser stood silent in shadow, pride fractured and unsteady.
Isagi stood calm in the light of responsibility, eyes gleaming with unshakable intent.
"Alright."
Noa's voice echoed through the tunnel, low but commanding.
"Time to duel, Bastard Münchens."
That was the signal.
The players surged forward, boots striking against the metallic floor of the tunnel in unison — a rhythmic, thunderous march toward the light.
They emerged from the shadows toward the battleground where Italy's Ubers awaited.
Walking near the front, Isagi led the group with Kurona and Hiori at his side. The glow from the pitch flickered across their faces, outlining their focus in cold hues of blue and white.
Kurona tilted his head slightly, eyes still fixed ahead.
"Is the plan still on?"
He asked quietly, his tone calm but brimming with anticipation.
Without looking back, Isagi and Hiori exchanged a knowing glance. The corners of their mouths curved into the same confident grin.
"Totally."
They replied in perfect sync.
The tunnel opened before them, and the world exploded into light.
The grass gleamed under the floodlights, ready to be torn apart. And standing across the field—their black and white uniforms gleaming like steel under the lights—were the Ubers.
A familiar voice broke the tension first.
"Oh, if it isn't the Bastards. It's been a while."
Aiku.
He stood with his hands in his pocket, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Then another voice, firmer, laced with restrained fire.
"I'm gonna have my revenge… Isagi."
Niko.
His head was tilted just slightly, his bangs falling over his eyes.
And before Isagi could respond, a third voice — flamboyant and unmistakable — sliced through the air.
"I'm… styl as always."
Aryu spun into view, his hair shimmering under the stadium lights as he ran a hand through it with elegance. The gesture was more performance than habit.
Kurona sighed under his breath.
"Still the same as ever…"
Aryu smiled.
"Of course. True beauty is unchanging."
Isagi chuckled lightly, amused. He stepped forward, his expression composed but sharp, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the familiar faces.
"You all haven't changed, I see."
He said evenly, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips.
"Yo… Isagi."
A voice came rough — like a growl dressed in words.
Isagi turned his head slightly, that faint, knowing grin already tugging at his lips. He didn't even need to see who it was.
"How's it going, Princess Barou?"
He replied smoothly, his tone light.
Barou's eyes twitched.
"Haa…?"
The low snarl that left his throat was pure instinct. His jaw flexed, lips pulling into a half-snarl, half-smirk as he squared his shoulders — ready to bark back with that usual feral pride.
But before he could, a hand landed on his shoulder.
"Easy there, Majesty."
Aiku interrupted, his teasing grin wide and wicked as he slung an arm around Barou's neck like an older brother catching a friend mid-tantrum.
"See this? He got it done yesterday."
Aiku tilted his chin toward Barou's head, smirking as he gestured at the fresh, vivid red streaks now running through his hair — catching the floodlights with every slight movement.
"He said he wanted to get pumpedup before going against Isagi."
Barou froze, his expression a perfect storm of irritation.
Aiku, sensing the opening, grinned wider and began patting Barou's shoulder — hard, deliberately pushing his luck.
"You got all dolled up for him, huh, Barou-chan?"
"It ain't like that!"
Barou exploded, grabbing Aiku by the collar in a comic fury, his veins bulging at his temple as his voice thundered across the pitch.
"I'm just celebrating my 100 million yearly salary!"
His shout drew a few chuckles.
"Ohh?"
Aiku teased, unfazed by Barou's grip.
"So you did get all dressed up to celebrate with him? How romantic~"
"Like a maiden about to be deflowe—"
Aryu's voice cut in from the side, his tone melodic and theatrical as always, but he didn't even get to finish.
"Shut up! It ain't like that!"
Barou roared again, cutting him off before he could finish the sentence, face flushed with a mix of fury and embarrassment.
Isagi wasn't letting it slide as he joined in on the tease right away.
"Such passion… red truly suits you, Barou. The color of love and rage — how poetic."
"Keep talkin' and I'll paint your face red too!"
Barou snapped back, pointing at Isagi furiously.
The brief commotion drew an amused smirk from spectators.
Isagi's grin deepened as he met Barou's glare.
"Looks like the 'King' is still as dramatic as ever."
Barou clicked his tongue, eyes narrowing, the corner of his mouth twitching in a half-smirk, half-snarl.
"Tch. Don't get too cocky, Isagi. Today, I'm the one taking your crown."
The tension between them crackled like static. The noise around them seemed to fade for just a moment — two rival kings, standing once again at the edge of their battlefield.
Isagi smirked as he stepped forward.
"Bring it on, Princess."
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