Two years had passed. Rikuo was now 20.
Since arriving, he had alternated between odd jobs and periods of unemployment.
He tried to live normally… to forget the pitch, the ball, and the roar of the stadiums.
One day, Takeshi suggested some father–son time.
"Tomorrow, total rest. We're going to see Japan vs. South Korea. The national team's playing in Tokyo. It'll do you good."
Rikuo agreed without much thought.
The stadium the next day was an ocean of shouts, chants, and waving flags, bathed in light.
A raw, living energy impossible to ignore.
When the Japanese players entered the pitch, the crowd rose as one.
Flashes. Colours. The anthem.
Everything hit Rikuo straight in the heart.
For the first time in years, he wondered:
"If I had kept playing… could these lights have been for me?"
For a moment, his gaze drifted across the pitch.
His fingers, unconsciously, mimicked an invisible ball control.
Takeshi noticed, but said nothing.
The match was intense, tight, passionate.
As the crowd dispersed like a flowing river afterward, Rikuo remained silent.
Something inside him had shifted.
But he didn't speak of it.