Madrid, December 2014.
It should have been the happiest period of Sae Itoshi's second life.
He had just broken into the first team. His La Liga cameo against Granada was still being replayed in highlight reels across Europe. Football pundits had begun mentioning his name beside words like prodigy, natural heir, midfield architect. Even the Santiago Bernabéu, usually indifferent to newcomers, now rippled with electricity every time his name appeared on the bench list.
But inside Sae's mind, it wasn't celebration. It was static.
Every new article. Every camera. Every flash. It felt like his own genius was being dissected—repackaged by people who couldn't understand it.
> "Is he the next Zidane?"
"Is this the Japanese Xavi?"
"A player made for the modern game—analytics confirm he sees 2.8x more passing lanes than average."
"A Blue Lock graduate? Is this a new Japanese project?"
Even the Blue Lock whispers had started. Some fringe Japanese outlets claimed he was part of a secret experiment. Most dismissed it as fiction. But Sae's eyes narrowed the first time he saw the words printed on a Spanish blog.
They had no idea how close they were to the truth.
---
The Burden of Genius
"Smile a bit," Marcelo told him one afternoon after training. "You look like you're at a funeral."
Sae didn't respond. What was there to smile about?
He wasn't chasing dreams anymore. He was the dream—reshaped in the image of a reincarnated prodigy with knowledge 10 years ahead of everyone on the pitch.
But in this new world, surrounded by stars, Sae found no peers. No equals. Only obstacles and audiences.
Even during drills, he would catch Modrić watching him—not with envy, but concern.
---
Pressure Breeds Isolation
In the locker room, laughter would echo. Sae would sit in silence, replaying touches in his head, recalculating angles from the previous session.
At home, his phone buzzed constantly. Sponsorship offers. Journalists. Old youth coaches from Japan trying to "reconnect." Even former classmates claiming to be friends.
He ignored them all.
His only refuge was the pitch. And even that was starting to blur.
---
The Call to Europe
It was on a foggy Tuesday morning when Ancelotti pulled him aside.
"Champions League. Final group stage match. Basel away."
Real Madrid had already qualified top of the group. The match was low-stakes.
But for Sae, it would be everything.
"You'll be starting," the coach added. "Earn your anthem."
The words sank into Sae's skin like cold steel.
---
Switzerland – Game Day
St. Jakob-Park, Basel.
A stadium draped in Champions League banners, the night sky glowing with continental tension. It wasn't the Bernabéu, but it had magic of its own. For many, just hearing the anthem from the bench was a career moment.
Sae walked out as a starter. No handshake nerves. No trembling legs. He'd already played this match in his mind a thousand times.
But then the anthem began.
And he froze.
Not in fear.
But in realization.
> This is the stage I was born for—twice.
The cameras caught the faintest flicker of a smirk on his lips.
---
Kickoff
From the first whistle, Basel pressed hard, hoping to take advantage of Madrid's rotated lineup.
But Sae adapted instantly. Like he always did.
He dropped between the lines, offering himself as a release valve under pressure. He flicked passes around corners, opened triangles that hadn't existed a second earlier. Within 15 minutes, Madrid were in control.
In the 22nd minute, he executed a blind switch to Jesé running the wing—one touch, no look, perfectly weighted.
In the 34th minute, he orchestrated a six-pass buildup that ended with Chicharito finishing coolly.
1–0. Assist by Sae.
The Bernabéu might have been far away, but his performance made it feel like the spotlight was still on him.
---
Moments of Doubt
At halftime, Ancelotti said nothing to him. Just nodded.
But Sae felt it creeping in—the doubt.
Why did it still feel… hollow?
He was winning. Dominating. Fulfilling every expectation.
And yet, a part of him kept whispering:
> They don't understand what you are. They cheer for what they can't comprehend.
He looked around at his teammates. Nacho. Illarra. Chicharito. Good players. Honest professionals.
But not artists.
Not architects of football chaos like him.
---
The Second Half – Isolation
Basel grew frustrated. Their tackles got harder. Their fans louder.
But Sae was untouchable. He glided through zones, drawing fouls, manipulating tempo. At one point, he sat down a defender with a feint so subtle it barely registered in real time.
Commentators gasped.
> "He's painting the pitch in grayscale, then adding his own color."
In the 78th minute, he nearly scored—a curled effort from outside the box that kissed the bar and bounced out.
Ancelotti subbed him off in the 80th to protect his legs.
The stadium gave him a standing ovation.
Even Basel's manager clapped.
---
After the Match
Reporters flooded Ancelotti.
> "Is this Madrid's next world-class midfielder?"
"Will he start in the knockout stages?"
"Is it true Barcelona scouted him at 14?"
"Is he eligible for Spain?"
Carlo smiled. "He's 17. He doesn't need labels yet. He just needs the ball."
In the locker room, no one joked this time. No teasing.
Even Ronaldo approached him, offering a quick fist bump. "Now I see why Zidane won't shut up about you."
Sae didn't smile.
Because in his heart, he knew:
> This was only the beginning.
---
Global Reverberations
Clips of the match exploded online.
Japanese Twitter lit up with hashtags:
#SaeInEurope
#BlueLockTheory
#JapanMissedOut
Spanish media crowned him El Cerebro Japonés.
English tabloids speculated Premier League clubs had already inquired.
In Barcelona, La Masia players rewatched his Basel performance three times in training the next day.
Even Luka Modrić, in a post-match interview, said:
> "He's the closest thing I've seen to a player who already knows the future."
---
But Inside Sae...
The world praised him.
But he still felt distant.
Alone.
No rival had pushed him. No teammate had challenged him. No match had completed him.
In Blue Lock, he had fought monsters. Egoists. Mavericks.
Here? It was all applause. All admiration. Too soft.
> I need someone who will make me bleed for every inch.
> I need a mirror worthy of being shattered.
And so, as Sae sat alone in his apartment that night, watching his own highlights on mute, one name crept into his thoughts:
> Itoshi Rin.
Somewhere out there, the other him was playing. Training. Growing.
And one day, they'd meet.
Whether in La Liga, in the Champions League, or in the blue jersey he'd long left behind.
When they did...
Only one of them would walk away standing.
---
End of Chapter 7