[14 years ago]
The first thing Ronan registered was the light—blinding and featureless, white searing through his barely formed eyes. Then came the noise: muffled cries, voices like echoes underwater, and the distant beeping of a monitor.
He couldn't move. Not properly. His limbs were short and weak. His body… unfamiliar.
'This isn't right.'
'I died, didn't I?'
He had all his memories. His thoughts were sharp, but they didn't help him much in a situation where he couldn't move his body properly.
He was reborn, that much was certain. Reincarnated, with everything from his old life intact—memories of school, soccer, strategy, pain, anime, and quiet regrets.
But most of all, he remembered Inazuma Eleven.
'Not just the matches. The world. The energy. The chaos.'
'The rules it broke, and the ones it created.'
He wasn't afraid. He wasn't excited, either. Just… focused.
A blurry figure leaned over him—white coat, messy brown hair, some kind of name tag swaying into view. The man smiled.
"He's healthy. Good lungs on him already."
Another shape entered his vision—smaller hands, trembling slightly, cradling him. A woman's voice.
"He's beautiful… Aidan, he's really here."
"He looks like you," said the man—his father, presumably. "But I think he's giving me the evil eye."
They laughed. Ronan didn't.
'So this is how it starts.'
A name followed, softly spoken like a blessing.
"Ronan. Ronan Gallagher."
He was sure to remember this name since it was how he would be called in this life from now on.
—
By the time he was two, Ronan could walk without stumbling, balance better than most kids his age, and sit still for hours when something caught his attention.
But he rarely said words. Rarely smiled. Not because he was miserable—he just had too much to think about.
He remembered another life.
He remembered classrooms. Frustration. Soccer. Loneliness.
And Inazuma Eleven.
Not just the show—the world. The fire trails behind shots, the elemental passes, the ridiculous yet glorious spectacle of it all. He used to love it.
Still did.
His mother, Sophie Gallagher, was a force of nature compressed into a five-foot-four body and fueled by tea, grit, and stubborn Irish pride. She came from Donegal, and she brought the wind of the cliffs in her voice—sharp, clear, and impossible to ignore when she raised it.
She didn't just speak. She declared.
A nurse by trade, Sophie spent her days patching up others, running on too little sleep and too much caffeine. Her shoulders always ached. Her feet always hurt. But she never let that show around Ronan. For him, she always had time. Even when exhausted, she'd kneel beside him, brush his curls back, and say:
"Yer lookin' too serious again, love. You're two. Smile before I make a fool of meself dancin'."
She was fierce, loving, and deeply Irish in every way that mattered—from the way she cursed under her breath during matches, to how she talked to the TV like the players could hear her.
"If you've got space, use it! Don't just stand there like a feckin' statue, lad!"
The walls of their apartment were a collage of her loyalty: team scarves, signed jerseys, torn ticket stubs from long-forgotten Emerald League matches. Her favorite player—Cathal Doyle, a former keeper from her hometown club Dunbarra FC—was practically a folk hero in her eyes.
"He once saved a penalty with a busted wrist, you know. Not a whimper from him. That's what I call heart."
She never said Ronan had to play.
But she didn't have to.
He soaked it in like sunlight.
His father, Aidan Gallagher, was the counterbalance. American-born, broad-shouldered, and built like someone who'd spent a lifetime lifting things heavier than excuses. His voice was deep and steady, the kind that didn't need to shout to be heard.
Aidan worked in construction—concrete, drywall, roofing—you name it. His hands were a roadmap of old scars, and his boots never quite lost the smell of dust and effort.
He wasn't as dramatic about soccer as Sophie, but he was no less committed. He watched the game like an analyst, slow and quiet, commenting only when he had something to say.
"That defender's leaning too much. Watch—he'll miss the tackle."
He was almost always right.
He didn't care for theatrics. He appreciated clean passes, smart transitions, and goalkeepers who didn't try to be heroes unless they had to.
And though Sophie joked about him having "all the passion of a turnip," Aidan's calm belief had its own kind of power.
When he said, "He's gonna be good at this" about Ronan, it wasn't a compliment. It was a fact.
They didn't know what Ronan really was—who he had been. They couldn't. But they made a home that breathed soccer, even if unintentionally.
And to Ronan, even in those early years, that mattered.
They were loud. They were grounded.
They were real.
—
It was a regional high school broadcast. Background noise while Sophie folded laundry and Aidan read the paper.
Ronan, perched on a blanket with a toy car in his hand, wasn't paying much attention—until the screen lit up.
The camera followed a striker sprinting down the field. The wind howled unnaturally, and the player launched into a spin. The ball ignited—actual flames curling off it—and tore across the field with a shockwave that bent the grass and left a trail of scorched turf behind it.
Ronan's car dropped from his hand.
His mouth opened.
And for the first time in this life, he laughed—short, stunned, disbelieving.
That's—That's real?
He scrambled toward the TV on unsteady legs, bracing against the coffee table for balance.
That was a Hissatsu! A real one!
His mother blinked. "What's he on about?"
His father just raised an eyebrow. "Looks like someone liked the goal."
But Ronan didn't hear them. His heart was pounding. His eyes were wide.
The technique—he didn't know the name, not yet—but he knew what it was.
They can use Hissatsu techniques. That means I can too.
Excitement bloomed through his whole body—pure and electrifying. This wasn't just reincarnation. This wasn't just a second life.
This was his chance to live inside the sport he'd loved most.
He didn't know which player that was. Didn't know the team. Didn't care.
All he knew was: it was possible.
The absurd. The impossible. The beautiful chaos of Inazuma Eleven—it was here.
It was real, even if it wasn't the world he loved; it was something similar enough to it.
And it was waiting for him.
—
By the time Ronan was four, the excitement had cooled—but not faded. The realization that Hissatsu techniques were real had ignited something in him, but now, that fire had a shape.
He no longer watched the world like a child. He studied it.
Other kids ran, shouted, and climbed things just to jump off them again. Ronan sat, listened, and memorized patterns. Adults praised his "focus." Some kids called him strange. He didn't care either way.
He wasn't here to impress anyone.
He started paying attention to matches—local tournaments, schoolyard scrimmages, highlight clips that showed more spark than substance, and of course, pro matches as well.
And slowly, he began to notice things that didn't line up.
'Too many young players were too explosive.'
'Some kicks bent the ball in ways that shouldn't be physically possible.'
'And the crowd? They just cheered like it was normal.'
The first time he saw a middle-schooler leap and strike a flaming ball with a twisting heel, no one around him questioned it.
"This isn't ordinary soccer. Not even close."
It felt like something he'd seen before. Not quite Inazuma Eleven, but close enough to feel familiar.
"Maybe it's a parallel, or a prelude, or even something completely different."
He didn't jump to conclusions. Not yet. But the similarities kept stacking up.
—
Ronan didn't look like the other kids.
He had ash grey hair that always seemed too neat, even when the wind blew. His posture was calm and deliberate—never twitchy or restless like other five-year-olds. He moved with a quiet purpose that made teachers pause and other kids avoid eye contact.
His eyes—deep red and unnervingly still—stood out most of all. Not glowing, not angry. Just focused. Like he was measuring things no one else could see.
No one thought the way he looked was strange. Not here, in a world where soccer could bend air and light.
By five, he began playing regularly.
Not to compete. Not for fun. To observe and adjust.
He used recess and after-school time to test basic movements—reaction drills, first-touch redirection, and defensive positioning. Most kids didn't notice, but the ones who did thought he was trying to win.
He wasn't.
'They lack awareness.'
'They don't anticipate. They react. They stop moving when the ball leaves their feet.'
'They don't train to understand the game. They just run.'
He didn't feel superior. Just... separate.
Different aim. Different understanding. Different game.
Then she showed up.
Her name was Tracy Lin. She didn't stand out much at first. Shorter than average. Always had grass stains on her sleeves and scraped knees. A typical tomboy. But she didn't leave.
Day after day, she showed up—late sometimes, muddy often—but always ready to play. She wasn't skilled. Her passes were too soft, her aim shaky. But she tried. She adjusted. She cared.
She'd stick her tongue out when she concentrated too hard. Grumble under her breath when she missed a shot. She'd trip over the ball, laugh at herself, and keep going like nothing. One afternoon, while others sat under the trees slurping juice boxes, Tracy stayed behind to chase stray balls and realign the cones the coach forgot.
She caught Ronan watching her. Walked over. Squinted.
"You're weird," she said.
He didn't blink. "Says the one talking to herself while kicking a ball."
She crossed her arms. "I'm five! That's normal."
He tilted his head slightly. "Still weird."
"You're five too!"
He looked at her, deadpan. "Idiot."
That stopped her. She froze, then puffed up like a startled cat.
"What did you just—!?"
Her fists clenched at her sides. She looked like she was about to explode—then stopped herself. Her lips pursed into a squiggly line, and she let out a long, wounded-sounding "Tch."
Then she stomped away—not crying, not laughing, just furious in the most five-year-old way possible.
The next day, she was back. She didn't speak to him.
He passed her the ball.
She kicked it harder than necessary, right at his shin, and grinned right at him when she did that, fully knowing what she did.
That was the start of it.
—
Tracy Lin was the kind of kid most adults overlooked at first. She wasn't loud. She didn't cling to teachers or dominate playgrounds. But she moved like she had somewhere to be—even if it was just the next kick of the ball.
She had short, slightly messy black hair that stuck out at odd angles from a ponytail she tied herself. Her knees were almost always bandaged or scraped, and her elbows had permanent smudges of dirt from too many dives on the grass. Her socks rarely matched. She didn't seem to notice or care.
What made her different wasn't talent—it was focus. She took soccer seriously in a way that most five-year-olds didn't. She didn't giggle through drills or abandon games halfway through to go look for bugs. If she missed a pass, she frowned and tried again. If she got knocked over, she got up with a frustrated huff, not tears.
She still had all the energy and quirks of a child—she made weird sound effects when she passed the ball, stuck her tongue out when she was thinking, and pouted dramatically when she didn't get her way—but there was a stubbornness in her that didn't go away when the match ended.
She didn't ask Ronan why he was so serious. She didn't ask why he didn't talk much.
She just matched his pace. That was enough.
They never talked about being friends. They didn't need to.
But when Ronan started drawing imaginary team sheets on napkins and planning how to win with nothing but grit and precision, her name was always the first he wrote down.
—
They'd been in the same class all along.
Ronan realized it only after they started passing the ball during recess. He'd seen Tracy before—dozens of times, probably. She always wore the same faded hoodie that dragged past her wrists, and her ponytail was never quite straight. She was one of the quiet ones. Not shy, just… distracted.
She got in trouble occasionally. Not for misbehaving—more like forgetting she was supposed to pay attention. She stared out the window a lot. Doodled little shapes and arrows in the corners of her worksheets. Half the time, her math problems had tiny stick-figure soccer players running over the margins.
At first, Ronan had thought she was wasting time.
Then he noticed the formations she drew matched the ones he'd been studying himself.
She wasn't just spacing out. She was planning.
He watched her more after that. Not obviously. Just enough to notice patterns.
She squinted a lot when she was thinking. Chewed on the end of her pencil. Tilted her head at weird angles while reading—as if trying to look at the page sideways might make the answer clearer.
She rarely asked questions in class, but sometimes glanced sideways at him during lessons. Not to cheat—just to check. As if confirming her confusion was justified if he wasn't writing either.
He never offered help. But once, during a writing exercise, her pencil broke. She stared at it like she expected it to fix itself.
He passed her one of his without looking.
She took it. No smile. No words.
The next day, when his red crayon snapped in art class, she quietly handed him hers under the table.
That was their conversation.
At recess, she didn't follow him. She didn't linger near him like the clingy ones did. But somehow, they ended up in the same part of the field more often than not.
She was awkward with the ball. Too rough when she was excited, too soft when unsure. But she never stopped. Never slowed down. Even when her kicks went wide or she tripped over a root, she'd just get up, dust herself off, and try again—tongue out, brows furrowed like she was fighting the Earth itself.
He didn't tell her what she was doing wrong.
She figured it out anyway.
That, more than anything, made him keep passing to her.
—
It was a Saturday afternoon. The air was crisp, the sky overcast, and the open-air market buzzed with the kind of chaotic energy Ronan didn't care for.
He walked beside the cart, arms folded, as Sophie Gallagher finished grilling a potato vendor with her usual mix of sarcasm and tactical aggression.
"Four dollars a pound? Are ye mad, or are these enchanted tubers that peel themselves?"
The vendor gave a nervous laugh. Sophie didn't.
She dropped the potatoes into her bag with a huff and muttered something about daylight robbery.
Ronan didn't react. He was used to it.
Then he saw her.
A few stalls down stood Tracy Lin, hunched over a bin of apples, eyes narrowed like she was conducting an interrogation. Her hoodie was the same oversized one she always wore, sleeves swallowing her hands. Her panda backpack sagged from one shoulder. Her mother, tall and calm, stood beside her, reviewing a crumpled grocery list.
Tracy looked up and spotted him.
Their eyes met across baskets of fruit.
She grinned, held up an apple, and said loudly, "Bet I could shoot this straight through a goal."
Ronan didn't miss a beat. "Not with your aim."
Her face immediately scrunched up. "I do have aim!"
He tilted his head. "Are you sure?"
She puffed her cheeks. "You're the worst."
He didn't answer.
She dropped the apple. It rolled against her mother's foot.
That's when Mei Lin looked up, just as Sophie approached from behind with her arms full of vegetables.
The two women locked eyes. Mei gave a polite nod.
Sophie, of course, went straight in with a handshake.
"Sophie Gallagher. That little stormcloud's mine."
Mei smiled softly and accepted it. "Mei Lin. The one kicking apples is mine."
They both glanced at their kids—Ronan still standing like a statue, arms folded, and Tracy sulking dramatically beside a pile of suspicious apples.
Sophie chuckled. "They friends or just tolerating each other?"
Mei shrugged. "Bit of both, I think."
Sophie leaned in, smirking. "Mine's always like this. Acts like he's forty years old and workin' in finance."
Mei gave a light laugh. "Tracy said he reads in class instead of coloring."
Ronan's eyes narrowed slightly. Tracy blinked like she'd just been betrayed.
"Mooom," she whispered in horror.
Sophie wasn't done. "Oh, you should've seen him as a toddler. Used to line up his blocks by color, shape, and height like he was designing a library."
Ronan sighed, quietly defeated. He turned slightly away from the conversation.
Mei added, "Tracy named a sandwich after herself last week and called it 'The Tactical Lunch Stack.'"
"Mooom!" Tracy practically yelped, hiding her face in her hoodie.
Sophie burst out laughing. "Brilliant."
The two mothers exchanged a look—mutual amusement, mutual exhaustion, mutual understanding.
No phone numbers were exchanged. No promises to set up playdates were made.
But for a brief moment, they both knew: my kid isn't the only strange one.
As they walked off in separate directions, Tracy shot one last death glare over her shoulder. Ronan stared back, completely unbothered.
The next day at school, she didn't talk to him. Didn't look at him.
But during recess, when the ball rolled too far and she hesitated to chase it down, he passed it back without a word.
And she smiled. Just a little.
Then missed the shot on purpose. Just so he'd have to do it again.
—
It had been raining all morning—thick, unrelenting rain that had turned the schoolyard into a swamp and turned recess into indoor chaos.
The classroom was louder than usual. Chairs scraped. Kids shouted across tables. Someone had started a tower out of math blocks, and someone else had decided to knock it down with a foam dart launcher. The teacher was already on her third attempt to get them to use "indoor voices," and the backup plan—a crackling nature documentary on a wheeled-in TV—wasn't helping.
Ronan sat in the far corner, back straight, legs crossed under the desk. A half-read book lay open in front of him—not because he was reading it, but because it gave him something to focus on. He'd finished it yesterday.
Twice.
He didn't mind the noise. He simply chose to ignore it.
A few desks over, Tracy Lin had set herself up with a stack of drawing paper and a pencil. While most kids were scribbling lopsided rainbows or stick figures with monster teeth, she was focused on something far more deliberate.
Circles. Arrows. Angles.
Her tongue stuck slightly out from the corner of her mouth as she leaned over the desk, sketching with all the intensity of someone building a secret plan. One of her sleeves was bunched up past her elbow, and her hoodie had a smudge of graphite across the front from resting her hand on the paper for too long.
Eventually, she stopped. Looked around. Then stood up and crossed the room—not toward the teacher, not toward her noisy friends. Toward Ronan.
She didn't ask for permission. She didn't say anything.
She just slid the paper onto his desk and stood there.
Ronan glanced down.
It was a field. A simplified one, drawn at a strange angle. Ten stick figures on each side. Tiny arrows weaving between them in a web of confusion. It was messy. Inconsistent. Sloppy in execution—but not in thought.
She was trying to build a formation.
Not for pretend. Not to be cute.
She was actually trying.
Ronan narrowed his eyes. He studied the lines, the spacing. Then, without a word, he reached into his backpack and pulled out his notebook.
Flipped to a blank page. Recreated her formation with cleaner spacing. Adjusted two of the movement paths. Simplified one sequence into a triangle press.
Then he turned the notebook around and slid it back to her.
Tracy leaned in, examining it closely. Her fingers smudged the corner of the page. Then, with a grin, she reached for his pencil and drew a tiny goalie at the bottom of the field—big gloves, jagged hair, arms stretched wide across the goal line.
"That's the Wall," she said. "Unstoppable."
Ronan raised one eyebrow.
"You know it's just a drawing, right?"
She leaned back, crossed her arms, and smirked—very pleased with herself.
"It's symbolic. You wouldn't get it, old man."
She waited.
Nothing.
He blinked once, silent.
Her smirk flattened into a frown. She huffed and muttered under her breath.
"You're no fun."
He looked back at the notebook.
But he didn't erase the drawing.
And when the teacher walked over and asked what they were working on, he said, "Planning."
Tracy added, "Tactics."
The teacher blinked. Then, just nodded and walked away.
By the time recess ended, their desks were still pushed a little too close together. Neither of them fixed that.
—
The science project was simple on paper.
Build a ramp. Roll a ball down it. Measure how far it travels. Draw a graph.
Simple didn't mean easy.
The teacher had split them into groups of five. Ronan ended up with Tracy, two boys who immediately started arguing about whose idea was better, and a girl who only cared about decorating the poster with glittery stars.
Ronan didn't look up when the assignment was explained. He already knew what to do. He collected the materials—a protractor, tape, and a handful of foam balls—and started working. Quiet. Efficient.
Tracy moved too. Silently at first. She helped tape the ramp in place, held the meter stick steady, and didn't try to take control like the others. She just... supported.
The two boys were still arguing over which angle looked "cooler."
"Forty-five degrees is faster," said the first.
"Yeah, but thirty looks better on paper."
Tracy narrowed her eyes. "It's not a fashion show. It's a distance test."
They blinked at her. Then continued arguing.
Ronan ignored them. He set the ramp at 15 degrees, rolled the ball, measured, and logged the result in his notebook. He repeated it at 30 and then at 45.
Tracy watched without needing instruction. She reset the ball after each test and recorded times while he measured.
No wasted words. No missteps.
The girl with the glitter glue returned with a paper labeled "Team Galaxy."
Tracy stared at it. "That's not the experiment."
"It's the theme," she replied proudly.
"The theme is angles and motion," Tracy deadpanned.
The girl frowned and went to find more stickers.
When the teacher made her rounds, she stopped at their table and glanced over the data. Everyone looked at Ronan.
He didn't speak.
He didn't mind talking—he just didn't see the point.
After a long moment of silence, Tracy sighed and stepped forward.
"We tested the ramp at 15, 30, and 45 degrees. Thirty gave the most consistent distance with the least bounce. We measured five trials each.
Ronan plotted the graph."
The teacher smiled. "Very thorough. Good teamwork."
As she walked away, Tracy turned to Ronan.
"You're welcome."
He blinked. "I was going to say that."
She raised an eyebrow. "When? Next year?"
He didn't respond.
She smirked. "You're lucky I get how your brain works."
"You were close."
"Close?" she repeated, faking offense. "I was right. Admit it."
He shrugged.
That only made her more smug. Not because she needed praise, but because she knew he wasn't disagreeing.
As they packed up, one of the loud boys muttered to the other:
"They're both weird."
Neither of them reacted.
But Tracy leaned over to Ronan and whispered,
"They used the glue bottle upside-down for ten minutes."
He nodded slightly and smirked, finding it humorous. "I saw."
—
Recess was nearly over.
The sky had cleared after the morning rain, but the grass was still damp, and the dirt under the slope near the field was slick in spots. Most of the kids were sticking to the blacktop or the dry patches closer to the school building.
Not Tracy.
She was chasing down a rogue soccer ball that had rolled too far. No one else followed. She dashed up the slope full speed, hoodie flapping, shoes slipping slightly with every stride.
She caught the ball, then planted her foot wrong.
Her ankle twisted, and she went down hard, rolling once before landing in a heap at the base of the slope.
The noise wasn't loud, but Ronan saw it. He always watched.
He was the first to reach her.
Not because he panicked. He didn't run. He just moved with purpose.
Tracy pushed herself up on her elbows, hissing through clenched teeth. Her right ankle was already swelling, and her shoe had slipped halfway off.
"Don't try to stand," Ronan said.
"I'm fine."
She wasn't.
When she tried to move, her face twisted in pain, and she bit down a sharp sound—half groan, half growl.
"It's just a twist," she muttered, glaring at the grass like it had betrayed her.
Ronan crouched beside her. Looked at her ankle. Quiet. Measured.
Then, without a word, he turned sideways and slipped one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. A clean, efficient two-arm carry—the kind paramedics used, not fairy tales.
"What are you—wait—!"
He lifted her with zero hesitation.
Tracy went stiff.
"You're carrying me?!"
"You can't walk."
"I can hobble! I have dignity!"
"It's inefficient," he said, already walking.
She gawked at him, flustered.
"You could've given me a piggyback! This is—this is so—"
"Stable."
"Embarrassing!"
Her voice cracked at the end.
She tried to cross her arms but gave up halfway and just clung to the collar of his shirt with one hand, cheeks burning.
"You're the worst."
He didn't react.
She sulked in silence the rest of the way.
The other kids stared as he brought her across the field. The teacher rushed over, eyes wide.
"What happened?"
Ronan answered before Tracy could.
"She fell. Twisted her ankle."
The teacher crouched to look, already calling for someone to fetch the nurse.
Tracy refused to look at anyone.
"I'm fine," she muttered. "I just landed weird."
She wasn't crying. But she wasn't joking either.
When the teacher asked what happened exactly, both kids said the same thing at the same time:
"Tripped."
No more, no less.
Later, after she was seated on the bench near the nurse's station with a cold pack strapped to her ankle, Tracy stared at him for a long moment.
"I could've walked."
"Not without limping."
She folded her arms. "Still."
He shrugged.
She looked away. Then, after a pause, quietly muttered, "Thanks."
He didn't reply immediately.
Then he gave a small nod.
"Next time, pick a better angle."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You are an old man."
He smirked. "And you are welcome."
She scowled at him, but she didn't look away.
—
The town library had a children's section full of beanbags, plastic bins stuffed with alphabet books, and cartoon animals in hats. It was loud, colorful, and—to Ronan—completely useless.
He walked right past it without pause.
Instead, he sat cross-legged on the floor between two tall shelves on the second floor—Section 796: Sports and Recreation. The carpet was scratchy. The light buzzed faintly overhead. None of it bothered him.
Three books sat around him, carefully chosen:
"Soccer Tactics Simplified," "Goalkeeping Fundamentals," and "Rotational Power in Athletic Kinetics."
He'd flipped through a dozen others. These had structure. Diagrams. Terminology. No filler.
The first book lay open across his knees. Page 42: a top-down illustration of a goalkeeper diving toward the far post. Bracing foot. Shoulder angle. Recovery line.
'Left foot braces. Right pushes. Dive arc should match expected shot width.'
He studied the diagram. He could see the error before the book even mentioned it—an overly aggressive lean forward that exposed the near post.
'Common in overcorrecting keepers. Happens under high pressure.'
He turned the page, now deep into the section on reading strikers' plant feet and shoulder angles. Freeze-frame photos broke down pre-kick indicators and foot placement.
He didn't struggle with the terms.
Words like "anticipatory positioning," "center-of-mass deviation," and "torque generation" weren't too advanced. He didn't even slow down. He just read, translated them into motion in his head, and filed them away.
The second book covered formations. Midfield rotations. Compact lines under pressure.
He paused at a full-page spread of a 4–3–3 with overlaid press patterns.
'Vulnerable if wide wingers pull too far forward, he thought. Counter starts through the central pivot.'
He nodded to himself and flipped to the next section.
"Rotational Power in Athletic Kinetics" focused more on mechanics than tactics. A diagram showed angular velocity and strike force broken into four frames:
Wind-up. Plant. Unwind. Follow-through.
One paragraph referenced a "theoretical optimal power zone."
'No such thing.
Too many variables—defender proximity, ball elevation, fatigue. Situational control always trumps perfect form.'
He traced the diagram with one finger. Not in awe, with scrutiny.
A librarian peeked around the shelf. She spotted him hunched over a book twice his size, expression calm, eyes sharp.
"You sure those are the right books for you, hon?"
Ronan looked up. His ash grey hair was too neat for someone his age. His red eyes didn't blink.
"They're about soccer."
"Right, but… those aren't picture books."
"I know."
The librarian hesitated, then smiled awkwardly and walked off.
Ronan turned the page. He was already past theory. He was preparing.
That evening, in the backyard, the sky was burnt orange. His cones—old yogurt cups—sat in a triangle near the grass's edge. A scuffed ball rested in the center.
Ronan dropped into a keeper's stance. Center of gravity low. Eyes sharp.
He replayed the diagrams in his head—shoulder drop, knee angle, distance from the line.
He imagined the striker's kick.
Then he dove.
The ball wasn't moving, but he hit the grass hard, arms extended like he was catching the shot anyway.
Got up. Reset.
Again.
Again.
Each time, the motion sharpened. More controlled. More instinctive. Less about theory. More about the feel.
He wasn't playing.
He was replicating.
—
The microwave clock blinked 10:47 p.m. in soft green digits.
The house was quiet. Lights off. Everyone is asleep.
Except Ronan.
In the living room, curled up on the floor with a blanket around his shoulders, he sat barely a meter from the old CRT television. The volume was barely a whisper. The notebook resting on his lap was half-covered in smudged diagrams, player names, and shorthand notes only he could understand.
The screen flickered with the tail end of an international league highlight. A forward sprinted across the wing, planted mid-step, and launched into a corkscrew shot that turned into a flaming spiral midair. The ball slammed into the top-right corner.
"Flash Spiral – Renado M. (#9, Dragos FC)" blinked briefly on screen.
Ronan rewound. Watched again. Slower.
'Foot turns mid-lift. He waits until the twist loads his entire body. That's why it doesn't break his form.'
He jotted down a clean breakdown on the page:
Double pivot — delayed coil → fire angle. Call at max load.
It wasn't that he was unimpressed.
He just wanted to understand it. So he could do it.
The next clip showed a midfielder intercepting a long pass, flipping in mid-air, and slamming it down with a glowing stomp.
Ronan paused it.
'I can do that. Not now. Not yet. But eventually.'
He didn't wonder if Hissatsu techniques could be copied. Of course, they could. That was the whole point of studying them. Every one of them followed mechanics—even the flashy ones. Timing, power, control, intent, and most importantly…
A name.
Every single one of them shouted their technique at the moment of release.
'The name isn't just flair. It's the focus. It's the point where all the buildup gets locked into the move. No name, no technique. Just a big, flashy mess.'
He clicked rewind and watched again—shoulders square, eyes narrow.
As he watched the video, the floor creaked softly behind him.
Ronan didn't react.
Sophie Gallagher appeared in the hallway, wrapped in a worn bathrobe and one slipper, holding a half-finished mug of tea like she'd gotten out of bed purely on instinct.
She squinted toward the screen, then let out a sigh.
"That striker again? The fireball one?"
"Renado," Ronan replied.
"Aye. Always acts like he's shootin' comets at the goal. Bit much, if you ask me."
He shrugged. "It works."
She stepped closer, looking at his notes. Small arrows, terminology, frame-by-frame shorthand.
"You're taking this awfully seriously for someone who still needs a stool to reach the cereal."
"I need to learn how it works if I'm going to do it."
"Do what, exactly? Set your feet on fire?"
"No," Ronan said plainly. "Use it properly."
She snorted but said nothing. Instead, she looked back at the screen, where another player had just started a charge-up.
"Still... at this hour?" she asked, softer now. "You're barely six."
"Five and a half."
"That's not helpin' your case."
Sophie sighed. Not exasperated. Just resigned.
She crouched behind him, wrapped the blanket around him tighter, and in one smooth motion, lifted him off the floor.
He didn't resist.
"You know, you could've picked something easy. Like marbles. Or stamp collecting."
"It wouldn't be worth doing if there isn't a challenge."
"You sound just like your grandfather," she muttered, adjusting her grip.
As she carried him down the hallway, he rested his chin against her shoulder, not because he was sleepy, but because the footage was over.
For now.
"The shot's only as strong as the one making it," he said.
Sophie smiled faintly. "Then you'd better train hard to do it properly."
He didn't answer.
He already planned on doing that.
—
The school field was empty.
It was early—too early for recess. The dew still clung to the grass, and Ronan's shoes were damp from the walk over. No one else was out. Just him, the field, and a makeshift wall target drawn in chalk.
Four cones. A five-meter run-up.
A box marked on the brick wall to aim at.
Ronan stood alone, ball at his feet.
He took a breath, adjusted his footing, and sprinted forward. Three steps, plant, pivot—his hips twisted sharply as he drove his leg through the ball.
The shot slammed into the wall with a flat thud, slightly wide of the chalk box.
He didn't flinch. He walked calmly to retrieve the ball, reset the cones, and tried again.
'That wasn't good enough. The torque was wrong. Release came too early.'
He'd been doing this every morning for weeks. Not to show off. Not for drills. Just to feel what others didn't.
Control. Precision. Power.
He tried again.
This time, the ball struck harder. His foot stung on impact.
He didn't mind.
The grass behind him had shifted slightly. The air seemed to snap a half-second behind the shot—barely noticeable, but it was there.
He paused.
'That felt different.'
But still, the ball flew straight. No energy. No pressure. No echo.
He wasn't there yet.
No matter how sharp his form, how perfect his run-up—a true technique wouldn't happen without intent, identity, and a name.
And he hadn't earned one yet.
Ronan closed his eyes. Visualized it. The moment before contact. The tightening of the entire body. Not just striking the ball, but commanding it.
He whispered, just in his head:
'Iron Vale.'
Then kicked again.
The shot struck with force, sharper than before. A swirl of wind shifted the chalk dust at the base of the wall. But nothing else. No glow. No resonance.
He stared at the mark.
'Close. But not enough.'
Still too raw. Too conceptual. He wasn't doubting himself. He just understood the truth. Iron Vale wasn't the name of this technique. It was just a name that came up in Ronan's mind at random and tested if any name would do. It was a failure to create a hissatsu, but it wasn't a complete failure. He learned something new.
He retrieved the ball. Straightened the cones.
'I'll keep going. Until I see it. Until I know how.'
—
The tape wasn't labeled.
It was buried under the rest—half-forgotten in a shoebox of worn-out recordings, tucked behind the TV stand. Ronan had dug it out while searching for anything useful. Old formations, older tactics. Background noise at best.
Instead, he found this.
The footage was shaky, and the uniforms were outdated. A faint hum played under the audio, like the tape itself was tired, but the logo was unmistakable.
Raimon. Years before the team he recognized.
The corner of the screen read:
"Raimon vs. Unknown – Archive Footage – Coach Daisuke Era"
The midfield was messy. Out of sync. The game was rough around the edges.
But then—momentum.
An opposing striker broke through and fired a shot from distance. A good one. Real weight. Technique behind the curve.
The keeper—older, sharp-eyed, steady—raised his hand without taking any steps and a giant, blue, transparent and glowing hand appeared.
"GOD HAND!"
Massive and firm, projected in front of the goalkeeper. It snapped out like a summoned shield and stopped the shot dead. No rebound. No deflection. Just a full, final stop.
Ronan didn't breathe.
The light from the TV shimmered across his face. In that moment, his red eyes shifted.
Barely.
The pupils thinned. A ripple passed through each iris like glass catching the right angle of light. Subtle. Focused. Not magic—just clarity
sharpened into instinct.
He rewound.
Watched again.
Frame by frame.
Usually, he studied footage in layers—footwork first, then arm mechanics, then momentum. But this time?
He already knew.
Not emotionally. Not spiritually.
Technically.
The way the keeper's center of gravity sank, compressing into the ground to draw power upward.
The rotation of the wrists just before the push-off.
The spread of the fingers at peak extension.
The angle of the forearms during projection.
'This is structured.
It's trained. This isn't belief alone—it's muscle, control, and precision, channeled through conviction.'
Ronan didn't smile.
But something inside him had clicked.
He didn't reach for his notebook. Instead, he stood. Walked to the edge of the room—hands open, arms loose.
He mirrored the stance.
Feet shoulder-width apart.
Weight, centered.
Arms bent slightly, drawn inward like springs.
He didn't call the name—not yet. Not until the form felt right. But in his head, the command rang clear.
God Hand.
His hands tensed. Muscles engaged. Just for a second.
Nothing happened.
No glow. No projection.
But his body reacted, accepted the movement.
It wasn't a copy anymore. It was internalized. And for the first time, Ronan wasn't just watching.
He was beginning to replicate.
—
The sun had barely crested the school rooftops, and the air was crisp. The lot behind the gym—half fenced off and cracked with weeds—was still and quiet.
Except for the clatter of old car wheels being rolled into place.
Ronan stood in front of four, lined up like oversized bowling pins, each one braced on bricks to keep its shape. The plan wasn't elegant, but it was precise.
Tracy Lin stood nearby, hoodie sleeves pushed up, watching with suspicion.
"So just to recap—you want me to roll a literal car wheel at you, and you're gonna try to stop it... with an energy hand?"
"A calculated projection," Ronan replied calmly.
"Right. Totally not insane."
He dropped into position.
"Ready."
Tracy eyed the setup, hesitated, then shoved the nearest wheel with both hands.
It clattered, then rolled. Heavy. Gaining speed. Barreling straight for Ronan's chest.
He didn't flinch.
"GOD HAND!"
His voice cut through the still air. Sharp. Exact.
His arms snapped forward—and in that instant, it happened.
A shimmering emerald-green hand burst from the air in front of him—glowing, translucent, larger than life. Not the blue from the old footage. Something new. Something his.
The wheel hit the projection with a loud noise—
—and dropped as the impact was absorbed by God Hand.
Completely deadened. No bounce. No recoil. Just a hollow thud as it collapsed sideways at his feet.
Tracy froze.
"…That was…"
She didn't finish the sentence right away.
She walked forward, slowly, eyes locked on the space where the hand had been.
"That was real. You actually did it."
Ronan stood straight again. His breathing was even. Focus unbroken.
"God Hand."
Tracy crouched beside the wheel and touched it like she had expected a burn mark.
"You just used a Hissatsu. At eight."
"Seven and ten months."
"Don't be smug. I'm trying to be amazed here."
He shrugged, faintly.
She stood again, still looking at him differently. Not like he'd done something cool. Like he'd just proven something people twice his age couldn't.
"It was emerald," she added. "Not blue like the original."
"It's mine," he said. "Not his."
That made her smile.
"Okay, I'll give you that. That was incredible. Like—genuinely."
She paused, then smirked.
"...Still not rolling another one of those at you, though. If it'd gone wrong, I'd have to explain how you got flattened by junkyard equipment."
Ronan gave the faintest smirk.
"You wouldn't explain. You'd deny everything."
"Obviously."
They stood in silence, both of them staring at the wheel. The glow was gone. The moment had passed.
But something had shifted.
God Hand wasn't a theory anymore.
It was his.
—
END