"That's gotta hurt…"
The commentator's voice carried a wince of sympathy as the cameras zoomed in on Canalli, medical staff crouched around him on the pitch. Even without blood or a clear external injury, the impact radiated through his posture — the stiff shoulders, the unfocused blink, the delayed breath.
Whatever Isagi's strike had done, something inside had rattled.
"Isagi has got two people injured…"
The first commentator concluded, tone edging toward disbelief. But before the implication could hang in the air, the second commentator cut in sharply — almost protectively, as though shielding Isagi's name from needless blame.
"Well, it's not like that was intentional. Canalli jumped into the line of fire and got shot — that's how it works. And while Isagi was trying to avoid the strike, it ended up hurting Aryu Jyubei as well. That was just collateral damage."
A beat.
Then the first commentator snapped back, defensive now, hands practically thrown up.
"Hey, I'm not saying Isagi did it intentionally!"
Their voices escalated — a pointless squabble blooming inside the commentary box — but out on the field, another bickering had already begun.
The tension rippled through the players as sharply as the strike that caused it, emotions flaring, accusations ready to ignite.
The Ubers players drifted toward Isagi with intent. Their bodies angled forward, their expressions sharpened out of anger.
They wanted a reaction.
A shove. A spark. Anything that could bait Isagi into a foul and flip the game's momentum with a single whistle.
But before they could even get close enough to cast a shadow over him—
A sharp, authoritative blast of sound erupted from the stadium speakers.
"Ubers players, maintain distance immediately."
The warning snapped through the field, freezing their advance mid-step.
It wasn't a suggestion — it was a command laced with the threat of escalation.
The players turned instantly, fury rising, and began barking at the officials through the speakers. Their shouts echoed across the pitch, demanding justice that framed Isagi as the villain.
"Give him a red card!"
"He injured two players!"
"How is that not violent play!?"
Their voices overlapped in heated accusation, but the answer that came back wasn't the one they wanted — and it shut them down.
The referee's clarification rolled through the audio system, calm, authoritative, and absolute:
"Canalli had moved into Isagi's shooting stance — from a blind spot.
A blind spot Isagi only caught at the very last moment, too late to fully adjust, even though he did try to avoid the collision."
The explanation was airtight:
No intent.
No malicious action.
No reckless follow-through.
Just an unfortunate clash created by Canalli's misguided interception attempt.
And with that, the verdict fell.
"It was not an intentional assault.
No cards would be issued against anyone."
Normally there would be no need for explanation from the referee and officials, however since the collision was severe enough, they chose to be clear.
The Ubers players stood there, fury smoldering, their attempt to weaponize the moment shattered instantly.
The Ubers players gritted their teeth in unified frustration, their bodies tense and angled forward as if they might still try to press toward Isagi despite the referee's ruling. The urge to escalate hung in the air for a moment — a collective breath away from boiling over.
But before they could take even a single step further, a voice cut across the field like a clean, authoritative blade.
"Get back into position."
Snuffy's command stopped them immediately. His tone carried no anger, only finality — the kind of voice that expected obedience, not debate.
"Fukaku, you'll be going in for Canalli."
The former U20 goalkeeper looked over at Snuffy, meeting his eyes for a brief second before giving a firm, silent nod. From the instant Canalli took that brutal hit and his face crumpled under the force of Isagi's shot, Fukaku had already understood what was coming.
His role was predetermined in Snuffy's system — and now it was time to step in.
There was nothing for anyone to argue with the referee. The ruling had been clear, logical, and absolute: Canalli had entered Isagi's shooting stance from a blind angle, and the collision was on him, not Isagi.
In Ubers, Snuffy's designs weren't suggestions — they were blueprints to success. Deviating from them, as Canalli did, meant the structure failed before it even began.
If Canalli had followed the design correctly, their counter-attack would have triggered instantly. Sendou and Barou were already positioned at the front, practically vibrating with anticipation, ready to tear into open space the moment the play unlocked.
A goal was within reach — until Canalli's misread shattered all of it.
As Fukaku jogged onto the field, Snuffy stepped off it, walking toward the sideline with a steady, unhurried pace. Behind him, the medical team lifted Canalli onto a stretcher and began carrying him away.
On the pitch, Aiku approached Aryu, who had already pushed himself back onto his feet.
"You alright?"
Aiku asked, eyeing him for any sign of lingering instability.
"Yeah. It was just a small bruise."
Aryu replied quickly.
Unlike Canalli, who had taken the strike head-on, Aryu had been folded inward by the impact — a blow that looked far worse than it actually was. The ball had crushed into his midsection with enough force to send him stumbling, but the damage was mostly superficial.
After the initial stinging shock that knocked the wind out of him, the pain settled into a dull, manageable ache.
Now, he felt only a faint lingering discomfort in his gut — nothing serious, nothing that would pull him out of the match. He rolled his shoulders once, took a steadying breath, and prepared to continue, already locking back into Ubers' formation.
At the sideline, Snuffy finally lowered himself onto the bench, shoulders sinking as he slumped back into the seat.
The match had slipped into a brief state of chaos — broken tempo.
His gaze lingered on the pitch, following the shifting patterns with a quiet exhale that suggested annoyance more than exhaustion.
Right beside him, on the Bastard München area, Noa seated on the bench, arms crossed, posture immaculate, eyes narrowed with focus. Without looking away from the field, he spoke.
"It seems you are lacking as a mentor."
The words landed cleanly, almost too casually, but Snuffy still tilted his head slightly, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He didn't bristle at the jab — he'd heard far harsher things from far less qualified mouths.
"Well,"
Snuffy replied, voice low, almost resigned.
"individual drive isn't something you can have complete control over…"
He paused, then added with a tone sharpened by irony,
"And above all, you should be the last one throwing around that 'lacking as a mentor' crap."
He shifted just enough to look at Noa directly, his expression calm but edged with pointed curiosity.
"Why haven't you fixed him?"
Noa's answer came without hesitation, delivered with the same matter-of-fact precision that defined his entire philosophy.
Like he already knew what and who Snuffy was talking about.
"There's no visible issue to fix."
He let the words breathe for a moment before elaborating, gaze still locked onto the field.
"His emotion-driven style… is his peak."
Those words — quietly devastating, quietly absolute — drifted across the sideline.
Naruhaya, seated a few meters away, stiffened almost instantly. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but the conversation between two Masters sliced through the noise, impossible not to hear.
The idea that Isagi's ceiling was already visible… that this wild, instinctive version of him was the highest he could ever go… it sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.
Noa continued, tone still level but devoid of softness:
"The possibility of him climbing higher than this is slim to none."
The verdict fell like a stone. Snuffy listened without pushing back, his expression shifting into something contemplative. Then he nodded — slow, thoughtful, accepting the assessment for what it was.
"That may be true…"
His voice trailed off, not defeated, but reflective — the gears in his mind already turning, adjusting, recalibrating as the match was about to continue on before them.
However, their exchange didn't remain confined to the technical area. Their words, picked up by BLTV's microphones, stirred immediate unrest among viewers. The audience burst into debates across streams and chats, confused and unsettled by what the Masters were implying.
What did they mean by 'peak'? Who were they talking about? Why did it sound like criticism rather than praise? Speculation spread like wildfire.
Back on the field, the match prepared to resume.
The ball was now in Fukaku's hands, the former U-20 goalkeeper standing by the goalpost with a focused calm. He waited, poised, ready to restart play.
The play had frozen earlier the instant Isagi's foot collided with Canalli—suspending the game.
Many fans still insisted Isagi had been robbed of a spectacular goal, some arguing he deserved a penalty since the incident occurred inside the box. But the ruling was clear: Canalli had chased only the ball, not the player, and held no malicious intent.
The collision was unfortunate, not illegal.
Therefore, possession belonged to Ubers.
Fukaku remained still until the referee's whistle pierced the air.
The signal came.
And with a clean, decisive motion, Fukaku launched the restart, throwing the ball back into play.
Fukaku launched the throw straight toward Niko in a clean arc.
"Time for the next design — Pincer Movement Variation 2."
Niko muttered as he absorbed the ball, cushioning it against his foot before pushing forward into open space with his usual quiet precision.
The restart flowed smoothly for Ubers—at least until Ness stepped into his path.
Ness moved with a tight, irritable stiffness, his expression pulled into a scowl that barely hid how agitated he truly was.
The annoyance in his eyes wasn't just competitive—there was a deeper sting twisting underneath, something prideful and desperate.
He had wanted Isagi punished. He had needed it. A red card would've changed everything: the momentum, the pressure, the hierarchy. It would've given Kaiser a clean opening to reclaim the spotlight that Isagi kept ripping away from him.
But instead, Isagi walked away unscathed. No card. No blame. No consequence.
And the injustice of that burned in Ness like acid.
'Why him!?'
The thought tore through his head with a furious sharpness, almost loud enough to drown out the game itself.
'Why is it always him who gets everything? Why does he keep rising no matter what happens? Why!'
His frustration erupted into physical movement as he lunged toward Niko, trying to cut him off, force an error, something that would bleed off the anger simmering in his chest.
But Niko didn't bite.
Reading Ness instantly, he simply nudged the ball sideways with a crisp, efficient tap—no risk, no engagement.
He let Ness's momentum carry him past, letting the frustration burn itself out in empty air.
The ball rolled cleanly to Lorenzo, who stepped forward to receive it with a lazy confidence, his mismatched grin widening.
Lorenzo surged forward with the ball at his feet, carving through the advancing defensive line with that unnerving, slippery elegance unique to him.
His steps loose, his posture slack, yet every touch was precise. Kaiser stepped directly into his path, planting himself with a focus sharp enough to cut.
Lorenzo halted just before him, raising his head with that wide, unsettling grin.
"Micha. You done with your beauty sleep?"
The taunt rolled out lightly, almost playful, but aimed with intent—Lorenzo teasing him for drifting through the match without influence.
Kaiser, however, didn't bite. He didn't even spare the insult a full glance. His attention stayed locked on Lorenzo's feet, calculating the angles, the dribble patterns. His silence alone made the moment feel heavier.
Lorenzo shifted his weight and slipped into his signature Zombie-Step, his legs wobbling and swaying like joints barely attached, his upper body rolling with exaggerated looseness.
He tried to slither around Kaiser with the same eerie unpredictability that baffled defenders worldwide—but Kaiser stayed latched onto him, mirroring him with suffocating proximity, refusing to give Lorenzo a single clean lane.
So Lorenzo adjusted instantly.
A sharp flick.
He nudged the ball to Drago on his left while darting right. Drago returned it without hesitation, a crisp one-two sequence executed with ruthless efficiency.
Kaiser reached for the lane too late; Lorenzo was already past him, reclaiming the ball in stride.
And before Kunigami could crash into him from the side, Lorenzo released another quick pass—this time toward Niko, who had stepped into space at the perfect moment.
What followed was the unmistakable rhythm of Ubers' machine-like short-pass progression.
Niko → Perone → Drago → Sendou → back to Niko…
Fast touches, tight angles, passes measured down to the smallest timing window. The four attackers weaved the ball among themselves with calm precision, advancing the formation without taking unnecessary risks or forcing a reckless breakthrough. Each pass pulled a Bastard München defender one step out of place, subtly reshaping the pitch to their advantage.
The tempo wasn't frantic—it was controlled.
A steady suffocation meant to push forward without exposing even a sliver of weakness.
Their movement looked less like improvisation and more like a pre-constructed pattern snapping into motion, the Ubers attackers operating with the seamless flow of a well-oiled machine.
The quick succession of passes kept slicing through Bastard München's defensive attempts, each touch accelerating the rhythm.
Raichi lunged in first, trying to cut off the lane, but the ball slipped away before he even planted his weight.
Kunigami followed next, stepping in hard with a wide stance meant to block the angle, yet the pass arced neatly around him.
Kurona tried to anticipate the next move, eyes darting between bodies, but Ubers' tempo remained just one beat ahead of him.
Even Yukimiya found himself chasing shadows as the ball flickered from one foot to another.
Every press, every attempt to slow the advance, fell short by half a second.
Perone's earlier touch had shifted the momentum. Drago's follow-through kept it alive. Niko's positioning refined it further. And now, with the entire structure tilting upward, the final pass landed cleanly at the feet of Sendou — Ubers' attacking midfielder and Barou's designated shadow.
Sendou steadied himself, the ball rolling under his sole for a brief heartbeat as he lifted his head. There was no panic in his posture, his body settled naturally into the posture of a distributor ready to choose the ideal course.
Ahead of him, Barou had already begun his run — slow at first, then sharper, angling toward the box like a predator slipping into its killing lane. His shoulders lowered, his stride lengthened, and the defenders immediately felt the pull of his gravitational force.
Even before he touched the ball, Barou's presence alone warped the defensive shape, dragging eyes, dragging attention, dragging panic into Bastard München's back line.
The moment Sendou shaped his body for the pass, angling his hips and shifting his weight to open a clean lane toward Barou's advance, a sudden blur cut across his left side. A foot — fast, precise, and perfectly timed — stabbed into the passing line.
With the outside of his right foot, Isagi caught the ball cleanly, halting it with a sharp touch that sliced the momentum away from Ubers' flow.
Snatching possession the very next heartbeat, Isagi pushed forward, body coiling for the next movement—
But he stopped.
A sudden brake, smooth but jarring, dragging the ball back with the outside of that same right foot. His studs scraped the turf softly as he shifted his center of gravity backward.
Because from behind Sendou's shoulder, Niko lunged in — emerging like a shadow peeling off the defender's back. He'd been hiding, waiting, watching Isagi's habits… and now he threw himself into the trap they'd used on Isagi all game long.
But this time, Isagi was ready.
He kept his eyes on them and predicted their pressure before it even reached him — Niko closing in from the front-right of Sendou, Sendou collapsing from the side, the pattern of their pincer movement clicking in his mind. His body tensed, prepared to slide between them, to twist out and counter their ambush in the way only he could—
Or so he thought.
"Mr. 250 Mil. Gobbled up~"
A voice purred mockingly from behind him — followed by another foot stabbing into the fray.
Lorenzo.
Arriving with that playful cruelty he always carried, his movement impossibly smooth for someone who defended like a beast.
His leg extended around Isagi with a serpentine angle, aiming not for a tackle but a clean theft.
Isagi tried to react — hips tightening, body snapping to pivot — but Niko was already chest-to-shoulder with him, pressure closing from multiple angles in a heartbeat. Before Isagi could attempt the escape he'd prepared, before he could chain the next touch—
The ball was gone.
Lorenzo swept it cleanly out of his reach, flicking it away with the precision of someone who had eaten Isagi's rhythm whole.
Niko sealed off the recovery angle instantly, forcing Isagi into empty space while Ubers reclaimed the initiative with suffocating efficiency.
The ambush had been perfect.
A three-man clamp — Sendou's bait, Niko's shadow pressure, Lorenzo's finishing bite — devouring Isagi just as he began to move.
Successfully executing Pincer Movement — Variation 2
"Isagi attempts to steal the ball — but Lorenzo saves the day!"
The commentator's voice spiked with excitement as the play flashed across the screen.
"Ubers offense continues!"
And just like that, the Ubers attack surged onward again, uninterrupted, their rhythm restored as if Isagi's intervention had been nothing more than a brief tremor in their machine-like advance.
Isagi was taken aback once more — that sharp jolt of realization hitting him even harder because, this time, he had been watching everything.
His gaze had swept across every piece on the board, every shifting body, every approaching shadow. Even Lorenzo, who had remained motionless near the midfield after passing the ball to Niko like some strange, lurking sentinel, had been accounted for in Isagi's calculations.
He had assumed Lorenzo was simply stationed there as a safety net — a defensive anchor in case the Ubers attack collapsed and Bastard München suddenly launched a counter.
With Niko having joined the offensive line, it made sense for Lorenzo to hold his ground. That was the conclusion Isagi reached… and at the time, it felt airtight.
But the moment just before he intercepted Sendou — that crucial, thin slice of time where he turned his head to take in more data — memory struck him with unsettling clarity.
Lorenzo had been staring directly at him.
He wasn't waiting for the ball.
He wasn't waiting for a pass.
He was waiting for Isagi — waiting for the exact moment Isagi would gather information, decide, commit — and then pounce as the unpredictable variable in the equation.
Lorenzo had positioned himself not as a stationary defender, but as an anomaly designed to disrupt Isagi's thought process the moment it stabilized.
Isagi had prepared himself for their blind-spot interceptions — the signature Ubers weapon which had got him twice in this match.
He had mapped out the angles, remembered their pressure patterns, and braced for the traps they had sprung on him earlier. But Ubers' design didn't rely on a single method. They were layered, modular, constantly adjusting.
And looking back through the chain of plays, Isagi could see the structure now:
During the first tackle, Niko had been right on his heels, ready to steal the ball if Isagi hadn't fallen into Aryu's trap.
During the second, Aiku was prepared to clean up the moment Canalli failed to secure possession.
And this time, it was Lorenzo — lying in wait, disguising his timing, ready to devour the play the instant Isagi believed he had found the right answer.
Ubers weren't just reading him.
They were building countermeasures around the shape of his decisions.
And Lorenzo…was the final piece crashing down on him.
.
.
.
.
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