"Block his path!"
The roar came from one of the Manshine City defenders, their voice cracking under pressure, laced with panic as Yukimiya tore down the left wing.
Their formation was still skewed—still caught in the expectation of a pass from Grim to Kaiser. In that split second, when everyone's eyes had been locked on that decisive link-up, no one had accounted for Yukimiya.
Not even his own teammates.
The interception hadn't just interrupted the play—it had fractured it. Grim was still stumbling, disoriented, the ghost of the ball flickering in his vision, while Kaiser, meters ahead, seethed in frozen momentum. The golden-haired forward had broken past Isagi with everything he had, carved a line of dominance into the pitch—and yet, in the wake of Yukimiya's intervention, all that effort had been seized and repurposed.
By another ego.
By another dream.
And Yukimiya wasn't stopping.
His boots pounded the earth, each step hammering a declaration:This chance is mine.A defender from Manshine City—Young—charged straight toward him, teeth gritted, arms spread in anticipation. He wasn't giving Yukimiya any space. His posture was textbook, legs wide to block, body low and bracing for impact.
But Yukimiya didn't hesitate.
He didn't slow.
There was no stutter, no shift in rhythm.
He charged.
A purebred dribbler's heart, beating like a war drum in his chest.
He fainted right—Young bit, committing hard. That was all the opening Yukimiya needed.
In one seamless, instinct-driven motion, he swung his right leg behind his standing leg, twisting his hips with deceptive grace. The ball clipped off the inside of his boot, threading cleanly between Young's legs—a perfect rabona nutmeg.
Young twisted too late, left grasping at air as Yukimiya stormed past, his body already realigning to carry that momentum forward.
'God only gives you trials…'
The words rang through Yukimiya's head—not as comfort, but as a mantra. A battle cry forged through pain.
His eyes burned with determination as he kept moving forward.
Another defender—Damon—came running to block his path.
His body coiled as he stepped into Yukimiya's path—not for containment like Young, but to crush the charge altogether. He was already sliding in—cleats low, body dropping into a front slide tackle meant to sweep Yukimiya's legs and kill the advance.
But Yukimiya didn't slow.
Instead, he let it roll.
And just before Damon's tackle arrived—
Yukimiya planted both feet, clamping the ball between his heels.
Then—with perfect timing—he flicks his dominant foot upward behind, latching the ball from underneath and launching it high into the air. The ball arcs over his own head, sailing cleanly over Damon's head—the ball drawing a tight arc in the air like a blade's curved slash.
A rainbow flick.
He lunged forward into the leap, chasing his own airborne creation. Damon's eyes followed the ball above him in disbelief as Yukimiya—mid-stride, airborne—vaulted over his sliding body and landed with the ball already at his feet on the other side.
"Gah—is he for real?!"
Damon shouted, sprawled across the turf, eyes wide as Yukimiya vanished past him like a comet breaking atmosphere.
'...you can overcome.'
The mantra rang louder now. Not whispered—roared in his mind, synchronized with every breath, every heartbeat.
Yukimiya's run was relentless, sharpened like a blade drawn only at the moment of necessity.
Because he had learned.
From his last failure he gained clarity. Charging blindly wasn't the path to victory.
Not when time was his enemy.
Not when his own body was the battlefield.
So this time, he waited.
He waited for the field to bend.
Waited for the moment when defenders committed just a second too early, when their weight shifted in the wrong direction, when their eyes left him to look at Kaiser or Isagi.
Then—and only then—he moved.
And when he did, he moved like a man with nothing to lose.
Yukimiya could feel it in the edges of his vision—those creeping shadows that grew whenever fatigue took hold. His right eye pulsed with a subtle sting, a reminder of the optic neuropathy that haunted him like a slow, silent storm.
Blind spots.
They weren't always there. Not in the beginning. But now, they came when he was tired—flashes of nothing, places where light should be, where defenders should be, but weren't.
He didn't have time.
There would come a day when he couldn't see the field the way he used to. When those blank patches would become permanent. When his vision, his career, his dream—
Would be gone.
'Before that day comes…'
His jaw clenched as he ducked past another defender's retreating shadow.
'I'll make it to the top.'
Yukimiya's lungs burned, but his resolve burned hotter.
His thoughts—the pressure, the countdown, the shadow clawing at the edge of his vision—only fueled his charge. Every step forward was a rebellion against surrender. A declaration that he would not be denied.
And just as he neared the final approach, another figure emerged from his right.
Nagi Seishiro.
But Yukimiya didn't flinch.
Didn't acknowledge him as anything more than another obstacle on the path to destiny.
He kept charging.
Nagi, recognizing the intent, accelerated in.
Yukimiya saw it.
In one fluid motion, he nudged the ball to the left with the outside of his left foot, his body leaning just slightly to sell the movement. Nagi responded instantly—his right foot outstretched, primed to intercept the ball and strip Yukimiya clean.
But Yukimiya wasn't done.
With great timing and control, he kept the ball tethered to his foot, dragging it further left with the same outer edge of his left boot—a second layer to the same move. The bait had worked. Nagi's foot came forward to meet air.
Then—the pivot.
Yukimiya twisted his upper body to the left, hips coiling like a spring. His right foot came over, pressing down softly on the top of the ball. For a half-second, time froze—the ball stopped just centimeters from Nagi's reach.
Nagi's foot sliced through empty space.
And in that suspended moment, Yukimiya nudged the ball back to the right, shifting direction in a sudden, snapping motion.
And broke free.
He exploded out of the feint, dust kicking up from beneath his boots, momentum screaming back to full throttle. Nagi was already turning, but too late—Yukimiya was past him.
He tore down the last few meters toward the left edge of the penalty box.
His mind was on fire from belief.
He had held his footing, his control, his clarity—despite the blackness dancing at the edge of his sight. Despite the mounting fatigue that tugged at his muscles. Despite the shadow of his own body turning against him.
And now, standing just outside the box with the goal yawning in front of him—this was it."This is it!"The thought wasn't quiet anymore. It screamed through his skull.
His body coiled tight, right leg cocked—
And then he unleashed.
Yukimiya's right foot swept forward, arcing clean through the ball. The contact was sweet, the sound of the strike crisp—a clean spiral, struck not flat, but off-axis. The ball launched upward and to the right, spinning midair, slicing through the air with that signature curve.
A Gyro Shot.
The ball spun tight, its axis tilting in flight, moving toward the top right corner of the goal—and for a fleeting instant, it looked unstoppable.
The goalkeeper's eyes widened.
"Damn... he got me."
He leapt instinctively to left right, arms outstretched, eyes tracking the arc.
But the ball was dropping.
Mid-flight, the gyro effect kicked in—the spin taking hold, sucking the shot downward like gravity had clenched its fist around it.
The keeper's momentum carried him over it.
"Go…"
Yukimiya whispered, breathless, eyes wide with the shimmer of impending triumph.
All the weight of his injuries.
His fear.
The hospital ceilings.
The diagnosis.
The blind spots.
All of it would be washed away by this moment.
The ball spun downward, inches from the net—
And then—
CRACK.
A blur of red flashed in from the right like a blade of crimson lightning.
In one explosive leap, a figure cut across the line of fate, cleats slashing through the air with surgical precision.
Chigiri Hyoma.
He soared like a bolt fired from the earth, his full sprint transferred into vertical power. And just before the ball could cross the threshold of salvation, his foot met it.
A Denial.
The ball spun away violently, blasted out of the penalty area, away from Yukimiya's desperate reach—his sure goal, snatched from him in the final breath.
Yukimiya's heart collapsed inward.
His eyes, wide with belief a second ago, now trembled with devastation.
While Yukimiya stood frozen in the aftermath of his crushed dream, the rest of the world hadn't even caught its breath.
Because the play wasn't over.
The ball, deflected with force and precision, hadn't gone far. It had been launched just a few meters outside the penalty area.
While the world reeled from the breathtaking denial and Yukimiya struggled to process the heartbreak of his goal, two figures had already sprung into motion. Not after the fact. Not a beat late. They moved the instant Yukimiya shot the ball.
Because they had both seen it.
They had already anticipated Chigiri's trajectory.
They had already predicted the block.
And they had already calculated where the ball would end up.
It was the optimal position—a sweet zone just outside the box where chaos and fortune often converged. A place where, if one were lucky—or cunning enough—they could cash in on someone else's failed attempt and make it their own glory.
Their eyes locked mid-sprint.
Kaiser and
...Reo.
Kaiser's teeth ground together as he ran from the right. Rage flared behind those icy blue eyes. His carefully orchestrated play—set up through Grim—was supposed to humiliate Isagi, crush his momentum, and put Kaiser back at the top. But Yukimiya's selfish interference had dismantled all of it.
And now, here this chance was.
Served like a divine consolation.
A loose ball in the exact place he needed to score.
But Reo Mikage wasn't a bystander in this equation either as he ran from the left.
With sharp, analytical eyes, Reo had read the flow as well. He wasn't there to admire the moment—he was there to kill Bastard München's rhythm before it could fully form again. This was the moment to end the attack and ignite a counter.
Both players surged toward the same spot, their legs pumping with raw force, breaths syncing to their quickening heartbeat.
One ball. Two wills. One second.
And as the ball began to descend, the outcome rested in the hands of whoever arrived first.
Kaiser could feel it—he had the advantage.
Reo was close, but he was closer.
All he needed now was to reach the dropping ball and bring it under control.
His eyes never left it.
Reo was closing in, just a step behind, mirroring every movement with deadly intent. Neither men blinked. Neither gave an inch. Their eyes burned with the fire, ready to clash in the purest kind of duel: a fight for possession.
But just as they were about to converge—
They felt it.
A presence.
Both of them.
Kaiser, with his sharpened instincts, felt the shadow press in from his left.
Reo, hyper-focused on the descending ball, caught the blur from his right.
And then—
They turned their heads.
Their pupils dilated in disbelief.
'For real!?'
Because they had accounted for every variable.
Except this one.
He shouldn't have been there.
Not this fast. Not this soon.
But he was.
In mid-air.
Isagi Yoichi.
With a manic glint in his eye and a wild, smile carved into his face, Isagi launched himself forward—right between them—like a missile detonating the moment.
His leap was violent, explosive.
His boots rose to shoulder-level as he sliced the space between Kaiser and Reo, bursting through the narrow corridor of their closing bodies.
His chest struck the ball mid-air with controlled impact.
A perfect trap.
Right from under their noses.
However, both Reo and Kaiser had grown accustomed to Isagi's chaos—his explosive interventions, his ability to tear through expectations like a predator.
So instead of freezing in awe as he soared between them, they adapted.
They moved.
Pivoting without hesitation, both of them turned and accelerated toward the penalty box in unison—hunting him.
They weren't going to give him another moment of unchecked glory.
If they couldn't stop him mid-air, they would rip the ball away the instant he landed.
Because Isagi was airborne. Vulnerable.
This was still their chance to fight for possession.
And so, with the tension rising like a drumbeat in a war march, the next seconds detonated into a blur.
The ball—having been thumped by Isagi's chest—dropped onto the pitch, bouncing with a dull thud just ahead of him.
And almost simultaneously, Isagi landed.
Boots hitting the ground with uncanny poise, his legs coiled into motion like they never left the turf at all.
But he wasn't alone.
Kaiser—cloaked in cold fury—appeared at Isagi's right, his hand lunging out to clamp down on his shoulder, reaching with all his might to shove Isagi off balance, to reclaim what he felt was rightfully his.
Reo closed in from the left, just a breath behind, his hand gripping Isagi's opposite shoulder with a fencer's precision, body tense, ready to twist and dispossess.
They surrounded him.
Two elite predators, locking fangs around a single kill.
And still—Isagi smiled.
It wasn't mocking.
It wasn't for them.
There was no bravado.
It was the raw, unfiltered smile of someone drenched in adrenaline, submerged in the kind of pressure that most would crack under—yet he thrived in it.
No spectators existed. No stadium. No cameras.
Just the thrill of difficulty—the purity of war against impossible odds.
And those odds were only getting worse.
Because Chigiri, having bounced back after blocking Yukimiya's shot, was already closing in from the front—determined to block the shooting angle and deny yet another miracle.
And from the left, Nagi surged across the box like a ghost, eyes narrowing, already prepared to cut off any line to the goal.
Four players—Kaiser. Reo. Chigiri. Nagi.
Each one a master in their own right.
All bearing down on a single man.
But Isagi?
He didn't flinch.
He smiled deeper.
A stillness—almost serene—flashed across his face, the kind of calm that came not from control, but from pure faith in the chaos.
"Darlin..."
He whispered as he began to move.
With a sudden contraction of his core, both of Isagi's feet left the ground, just a few inches—but enough.
His legs coiled mid-air, knees bending, feet arching back like a spring preparing to snap.
It was an unconventional motion.
Unorthodox.
And it terrified both Reo and Kaiser.
Their eyes widened—not in fear, but in confused urgency.
'What is he doing?'
'Why now?'
Their instincts screamed at them to steal the ball—now—before Isagi could do something insane.
And they lunged.
But they were already a second too late.
"...lay your eyes on this!"
Because Isagi made his move as he spoke in a euphoric tone.
In the narrow window of motion granted by that half-jump, his right leg—already tensed from the arch—snapped forward like a guillotine, slicing through the air with a velocity that sounded like thunder.
It wasn't a kick—it was a detonation.
His right foot struck the ball just inches before both Kaiser and Reo's boots reached it, the sheer violence of the contact sending a tremor up through their bones.
They had no time to react—just the realization that they'd been beaten to the trigger.
In that suffocating, clustered storm of limbs, Isagi had the audacity to attempt something this reckless.
And he pulled it off flawlessly.
The ball exploded forward, a white blur rocketing through the gap with a path that screamed intent—not just power, but precision sharpened into cruelty.
Nagi, darting in from the left, threw his body into the path in desperation.
He barely had time to adjust—but it didn't matter.
The ball blasted past him, slicing through the air faster than his reflex.
Chigiri, springing in front of the goal line, tried to angle himself into the shot's trajectory.
The goalkeeper, too, lunged, stretching every muscle into a diving parry.
But the shot wasn't just powerful—it was programmed.
It was a missile that already accounted for their every move.
And nothing could stop it.
The ball tore past Chigiri. Past the keeper.
Straight into the back of the net.
Goal.
The stadium seemed to pause for half a breath—almost in disbelief.
Then the Bastard München bench erupted.
The net shook violently.
A shot that tore through the air with such ruthless precision. It had already chosen its destination the moment it left his foot.
And he had done it—
With the move of his self-proclaimed rival.
Kaiser's move—Kaiser Impact.
From the commentary box, voices soared, amplified across BLTV's global broadcast.
"GOOOOOAAAALLL!!! ISAGI YOICHI DOES IT AGAIN!!"
First commentator's voice cracked with disbelief.
"THAT'S KAISER IMPACT!!"
Another came in, nearly shouting.
"BUT IT'S ISAGI WHO SCORED! HE STOLE THE MOVE!!"
And beneath all the noise, in the heart of the field—Isagi stood still.
He simply smiled.
Around him, Kaiser stood frozen, his hand still half-extended from when he'd tried to steal the ball. Reo mirrored him on the other side, stunned into stillness.
"Just watch the replay!"
The commentator's voice continued.
"He was mid-air! He had no footing! And yet, somehow—he struck faster than Kaiser, faster than Reo! Inches before they could even touch the ball!"
The camera feeds across the world locked in on Isagi.
Zooming in on that unshakable smile.
Children pointed at their screens. Veterans of the game stood from their seats.
Isagi Yoichi had done it again.
He had surpassed everyone's expectations and delivered in the perfect moment.
Just when it seemed like the spotlight couldn't burn any brighter, the camera suddenly panned—
To the Manshine City bench.
A loud, theatrical laugh erupted—sharp and radiant, slicing through the tension like a stage cue in a grand play.
"HAHA… This is just great!!"
Heads turned.
The world watched.
From his seat rose a man not shaken by the goal but energized by it. That dazzling grin, that radiant charisma—there was no mistaking it.
"Ladies and gentlemen! The score is 2–1!"
He declared, spreading his arms like a performer announcing the second act.
"…this calls for an appearance by this generation's football superstar…"
His hands gripped the lapels of his pristine track jacket—and in one swift, showman-like motion, he stripped it off, revealing the Manshine City uniform gleaming beneath.
"Chris Prince!"
He finished, striking a confident pose that sent the world into a frenzy.
The World No. 2 had risen from the bench not in panic, but in a glorious declaration.
He threw the jacket aside, the fabric fluttering like a cape discarded before a duel.
With eyes lit and a smirk that mirrored stardom itself, Chris Prince began his strut forward—toward the sidelines, toward the spotlight—toward the match.
And then came the unmistakable call:
"STAR CHANGE SYSTEM—ENGAGED!"
The announcement roared through the stadium like the summoning of a champion.
From the sidelines, the reactions were immediate.
Naruhaya's eyes widened, his jaw slack as he stood up in shock.
"Chris is swapping in?!"
Beside him, Raichi flinched, practically shouting in disbelief.
"For real?! Now?!"
Just a few steps away from Chris, Niou, the former U-20 Team's center back, rose from his seat—an amused, almost reverent smile forming as he locked his eyes on the man walking ahead of him.
"Now that the team's behind!"
Niou said, half in awe.
"You're gonna save the day yourself to make our team win?!"
Niou kept speaking as his smile broadened.
"For the team?"
Chris let that hang in the air for a beat—just long enough to crush the idea.
"Nah… that's bullshit."
Chris smiled broader, eyes locked on the pitch ahead.
"Now that the team is behind…"
He paused, basking in the weight of the moment.
"…the one to save the day will be a hero."
He stretched his arms slightly, his tone bright and unapologetic.
"This is so I can score… and look good."
And with that, Chris Prince—the World No.2—walked forward to claim the spotlight.
.
.
.
.
.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------