The Nevada sun was merciless. 100 degrees in the shade, but there was no shade.
On one side: **The Veterans**. Eleven hardened professionals. Captain America Rogers in the midfield. Big defenders. Experienced wingers who knew every trick in the book.
On the other side: **Blue Lock 5**. Five teenagers.
Zero (GK).
Silas (CDM - theoretically).
Soccer, Vincent, Kai (Attack - chaos formation).
Coach Steele stood on a tower overlooking the pitch. He chewed a toothpick (copying Coach Cross? No, it's a coach thing).
"Show me," Steele whispered. "Show me if the hype is real."
**KICKOFF.**
The Veterans moved the ball well. Clean passing. Organized structure.
"Stay tight!" Rogers commanded. "Spread them out! Make them run!"
They passed wide. A Veteran winger dribbled down the flank. No defender faced him. The U-18 squad had no fullbacks.
"Open lane!"
The winger crossed it high.
Zero stood on his line. He yawned.
A Veteran striker—big guy, plays in the MLS—jumped for the header.
Zero didn't jump.
He just extended a hand.
He caught the ball *before* it reached the striker's head. He didn't even leave the ground. His arm simply moved faster than human reflex speed.
"Too slow," Zero muttered.
He threw the ball to Silas.
Silas caught it on his chest.
"Calculations initiated," Silas announced. "Opposition density: High. Weak point detected: Sector 4."
"Where is Sector 4?" Soccer asked, running circles around a confused veteran midfielder.
"Right behind the loud captain," Silas pointed.
Soccer accelerated.
He sprinted at Rogers.
Rogers stepped up. "Come here, rookie!"
Rogers went for a tactical foul. A hip check. Hard enough to knock the wind out of a pro, deadly to a kid.
Soccer saw the hip coming.
*I survived the Alps. I survived Vincent.*
Soccer didn't dodge.
He leaned *into* the hit.
**Titanium Counter-Weight.**
He slammed his metallic ankle into the turf, grounding himself like a lightning rod. He stiffened his entire left side.
Rogers hit Soccer.
*THUD.*
Rogers bounced off.
Soccer didn't move an inch. He absorbed the kinetic energy and converted it into forward momentum.
"What is he made of?" Rogers gasped, stumbling back.
Soccer broke through.
"Vincent!"
He chipped the ball to the Dragon.
Vincent was marked by two center backs. Veterans. Strong guys.
Vincent laughed.
"Bowling pins!"
He trapped the ball with his back to the goal.
He didn't turn. He just leaned backward, pushing both defenders with his sheer mass. They groaned, digging their heels into the turf, but they were sliding backward.
Vincent powered through them like a bulldozer pushing dirt.
He spun.
Volley.
**GOAL.**
**Blue Lock: 1 - Veterans: 0**
"One," Vincent held up a finger. "Do we stop for a water break, old men? Or do you need naps?"
Rogers' face turned purple.
"Press them!" Rogers screamed. "Break their legs!"
***
**Minute 15.**
The Veterans abandoned honor. They started playing dirty.
Shirt pulls. Elbows. Late tackles.
Kai Rivers had the ball on the wing. A Veteran slid, studs up, aiming for Kai's ankles.
Kai didn't panic. He did a **Royal Lift**.
He pinched the ball between his ankles and hopped over the tackle, taking the ball with him.
He landed elegantly.
"My ankles cost more than your house," Kai informed the sliding defender.
He passed a laser beam to Soccer.
Soccer was surrounded. Three Veterans.
"Kill the play!"
They tackled simultaneously. A triangle of destruction.
Soccer smiled.
"Chaos theory!"
He stepped on the ball. He let his body go limp.
He fell *between* the tackles.
As he fell, he flicked the ball up with his toe.
It popped into the air.
Soccer, lying on his back, bicycled kicked it blindly over his head.
**The Dead-Drop Lob.**
The ball floated over the defensive line.
Silas Vance was running onto it.
"Probability of volley success: 88%."
Silas adjusted his stride. Perfect timing.
He struck it.
Top corner.
**GOAL.**
**Blue Lock: 2 - Veterans: 0**
The Veterans were silent. They weren't just losing. They were being dismantled by cartoons.
***
**Minute 25.**
Steele watched from the tower. He scribbled notes.
*Skills: Off the chart.*
*Cohesion: surprisingly decent.*
*Respect: Zero.*
"One more goal," Steele murmured.
Rogers was panting. His pride was shattered.
"We can't let them blank us," Rogers huffed to his striker. "Attack! All out!"
The Veterans poured forward. 11 vs 5.
They overloaded the box. They got a shot off.
Zero punched it.
Rebound.
Rogers hit it. A scream.
Zero saved it again—kick save.
Rebound again.
It fell to the veteran striker, three yards out.
"GOAL!" he yelled.
He kicked.
But a foot appeared.
Not a defender.
**Soccer.**
He had sprinted back. 60 yards in 5 seconds.
He blocked the shot with the sole of his titanium boot.
*CLANG.*
The sound of leather hitting metal.
The ball deformed. It shot backward, out of the box.
Soccer stood on the goal line, smoking slightly.
"You guys really want that nap," Soccer grinned.
He kicked the ball long.
To the only player left up field.
Kai Rivers.
Kai trapped it. Alone.
The veteran keeper came out.
Kai didn't chip. He didn't smash.
He did a **Panenka** from 20 yards out.
The slowest, most disrespectful chip in history.
The keeper dove early. He watched helpless as the ball floated... floated... and gently kissed the net.
**GOAL.**
**Blue Lock: 3 - Veterans: 0.**
Game over.
***
**The Handover.**
Rogers sat on the grass. He pulled off his captain's armband. It was sweaty and old.
He looked at Soccer.
"You aren't kids," Rogers said hoarsely. "You're aliens."
Soccer walked over. He squatted down.
"We aren't aliens, Cap. We just grew up on a different planet."
"Europe," Rogers nodded. "It changed you."
"Yeah. The food is better."
Soccer stood up. He offered a hand.
Rogers took it.
Coach Steele blew the whistle.
"Evaluation complete. Get water."
Steele climbed down. He walked to the center circle.
"Impressive," Steele admitted. "But beating old men is easy. Do you know who we play in the World Cup Group Stage?"
"No clue," Soccer said. "I don't look at maps."
Steele pulled out a tablet.
**GROUP F.**
**1. UNITED STATES.**
**2. ARGENTINA.**
**3. PORTUGAL.**
**4. NETHERLANDS.**
"Argentina," Steele said. "Defending Champions."
The team went quiet.
Argentina meant one name.
**LIONEL.** (Or **Leo**, the King of the previous era).
He was 38 now. Old. But still magic.
And his protege... **Julian**. The Spider.
"Also Portugal," Kai hissed. "That means..."
**CR7's Heir**. A cyborg named **Ronaldo Jr.** (No relation? Maybe relation. He jumped 3 meters in the air).
"And the Dutch," Silas adjusted his glasses nervously. "Total Football. They reinvent the game every 20 years. Their new striker is a 6'7" giant called The Windmill."
"Windmill?" Soccer blinked. "Windmills are for grinding grain."
Steele grinned. A wolfish grin.
"Exactly. And you, my little seedlings... you are the grain."
Soccer looked at the tablet. Argentina. Portugal. Netherlands.
Three titans.
He touched his titanium leg.
"Grain gets ground into flour," Soccer said thoughtfully. "And flour makes bread."
He bounced. *Boing.*
"I like bread."
Steele frowned. "What?"
"Let them try to grind us," Soccer's grey eyes flashed. "They might just break their teeth."