Mizu's eyes snapped open as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.
He jolted upright in his own bed.
The familiar cracked ceiling stared back at him, the same cheap apartment smell filling his nose, a mix of dust, old wood, and the faint scent of detergent he only used when he remembered.
"What… the hell?"
He blinked rapidly.
His blanket was half on the floor. His tiny fan hummed lazily in the corner. His phone was still charging beside his pillow. Everything was the same as when he last remembered falling asleep after… after—
His breath caught.
"Wait. Didn't I… die?"
He looked around again, slower this time, heart pounding harder with each detail that proved he wasn't dreaming.
"This is… my room. My bed. My apartment. How am I—"
A sharp spike of pain lanced through his skull.
"GHH—!"
He clutched his head, teeth grinding as a terrifying wave of memories crashed over him all at once.
The blinding truck headlights.
"You have been chosen."
His body dissolved into light.
Become the world's greatest striker.
The memories slammed into him one after the other, rapid, vivid, merciless.
"Agh—! S-stop—!"
His vision blurred.
The pain peaked, sharp and electric.
His breathing came in shaky gulps as he lowered his hands, sweat running down his temple.
"…Guess it wasn't a dream."
He stared at his trembling fingers, the faint ghost of golden warmth flickering under his skin before fading completely.
Mizu pushed the blanket aside and swung his legs off the bed. His feet touched the cold floor, the same uneven wooden boards, the same spot where the varnish had chipped.
At least that felt normal.
He stood up slowly, still shaky from the surge of memory. His head was clearing, but his chest felt tight with confusion.
"Okay… okay. Just breathe," he muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead. "You're alive. Or… something like that."
He took one step toward the door.
-BEEP-
A soft digital chime rang out in the air, from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"…Huh?"
Then it appeared.
A semi-transparent blue window blinked into existence right in front of his face, floating in the air like a hologram from a sci-fi movie.
Mizu nearly fell backward.
"WHAT THE—?!"
Letters formed across the translucent screen in clean, glowing text:
[WELCOME,
MIZU MIZUKI
NOTICE:
This is no longer Tokyo.
You have been transferred to the parallel world designated:"BLUE LOCK REALITY."]
Mizu stared, mouth open.
"…You're kidding me."
He waved a hand through the screen. His fingers passed right through it, as if it were made of light.
The text didn't vanish.
If anything, it pulsed brighter, continuing:
The blue window pulsed once.
New text appeared beneath the previous message, concise and blunt.
[TEMPLATE: NEYMAR JR.
SYNCHRONIZATION RATE: 0%]
Mizu stared at the number.
"Zero, for real?" he muttered.
Another line followed immediately, almost as if anticipating his reaction.
[STATUS:
Template dormant.]
His jaw tightened slightly.
So that was it.
No instant godlike dribbling. That would be boring anyway.
The system continued.
[Explanation:
The Neymar Jr. Template exists as potential only.
Your current body and football proficiency are insufficient to express it.]
A small pause.
Then the final line appeared.
[Training is required to increase synchronization.]
Mizu exhaled slowly, rubbing his face.
"…Figures," he said quietly.
"Nothing is free. Gotta earn it."
The blue window flickered once, as if acknowledging the statement, then remained silently floating in front of him.
[0%.]
Another soft chime echoed through the room.
The blue window shifted, the previous text dissolving as a new panel slid into place.
[TASK ASSIGNED.]
Mizu squinted.
"Task?"
The words filled in beneath it.
[PHYSICAL CONDITIONING — BASIC
Objective: Perform 50 push-ups]
His eyes dropped to the next line.
[Reward:
+0.2% Neymar Jr. Template Synchronization
— Decent Dribbling (Unlocked)]
Mizu froze.
"Dawg, what?"
He read it again.
Once more, slowly.
Then he let out a short laugh.
"Push-ups," he repeated, disbelief dripping from his voice. "Aint no way push-ups are gonna make me dribble better?"
He glanced down at his arms, then at the empty space in front of him as if the system were physically standing there.
"Will I nutmeg people with my triceps?" he scoffed. "Maybe if I start doing squats, I'll unlock rainbow flick too?"
The blue screen remained completely unfazed.
No reaction. No explanation.
Just the task.
[0 / 50 PUSH-UPS]
Mizu clicked his tongue.
"Yeah, yeah. I get it."
He scratched the back of his head, then sighed, the sarcasm fading as reality settled in.
"Decent dribbling for two-tenths of a percent," he muttered. "That's still better than zero."
He dropped to the floor, palms pressing against the cold wooden boards.
"Alright, system," he said, positioning himself. "Let's see what fifty miracles look like."
The counter flickered.
[1 / 50]
Mizu lowered himself with a grunt.
By the time he pushed himself up from the floor for the fiftieth time, sweat was dripping from his chin onto the wooden boards.
"Fifty…" he breathed, collapsing flat on his back.
His chest rose and fell heavily.
Then-
A gentle warmth spread through his body, starting from his core and flowing outward, like heat seeping into cold limbs. The exhaustion vanished almost instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch. His muscles relaxed, the burning in his arms fading away completely.
"Hah."
He flexed his fingers. No soreness. No heaviness.
He sat up and swung his legs slightly.
"…Feels the same," he muttered, brow furrowing. His calves, his knees, nothing felt different. No sudden lightness, no itch to move.
The blue window chimed.
[TASK COMPLETE.]
[+0.2% TEMPLATE SYNCHRONIZATION ACHIEVED.]
[CURRENT SYNCHRONIZATION: 0.2%]
Mizu stared at the number.
"So that's it?" he said. "This System is pretty boring..."
The system, once again, ignored him.
Mizu clicked his tongue and rolled onto his knees. "Guess I'll just have to check."
He dropped to the floor and reached under his bed, fingers brushing against dust before closing around something familiar. He pulled it out, a worn football, scuffed and faded, the same one he'd used since forever.
Holding it, he stood up.
"Alright," he said quietly.
He slipped on his shoes, tucked the ball under his arm, and stepped out of his apartment, locking the door behind him.
Mizu made his way toward a small, quiet park a few blocks away from his apartment, the football tucked under his arm.
The city looked… normal.
If the system hadn't popped up in his face earlier, he would've sworn nothing had changed at all.
"Blue Lock world is basically the same Japan I'm used to," he muttered, glancing around. "Kinda disappointing."
As he walked, he pulled out his phone, curiosity itching at him.
"Alright," he said, tapping the screen. "Let's confirm one thing."
He typed:
FC Barcelona
The results loaded.
Mizu stopped walking.
"Ah fuck no."
He blinked and scrolled.
FC Barcha Official Site
FC Barcha Highlights
FC Barcha — Spain's Pride
"FC Barcha?"
He stared at the screen like it had personally insulted him.
"An off-brand version?" he muttered. "When did Barca get a deal with Temu?"
He tapped into an article.
Same colors. Same stadium. Same history, almost.
"They really took Barca," he said, deadpan, "and went 'yeah, just change one letter, no one will notice.'"
He sighed dramatically and put his phone away.
"…I die, get isekai'd, and my reward is Barcha. I should've probably finished Blue Lock back in my old world..."
Shaking his head, he finally reached the park. It was empty, quiet, just a stretch of worn grass and a small concrete area perfect for kicking a ball around.
Mizu dropped the ball to the ground and rolled it under his foot.
He nudged the ball lightly.
"…football's still football."
He flicked the ball up and started juggling.
One touch. Two. Three.
His eyes widened.
The ball stayed glued to him, each touch clean, effortless, perfectly weighted. His body moved on instinct, correcting itself without thought.
"Hold on."
Ten touches passed.
Then twenty.
Then more.
Before the 0.2%, he could barely reach ten.
Now it felt like he could keep going forever.
Mizu let the ball drop and stared at his foot.
"…Okay," he said slowly. "Maybe push-ups do help with Ball Control."
---
To Be Continued.