"Hhng… damn it…"
On Bastard München's bench, Yukimiya Kenyu sat slumped, his body heavy with defeat. A towel hung over his face, half shielding the tremor in his expression, while his forearm pressed against his forehead as if he could cage in the storm rising inside him. His shoulders shook—barely, subtly. The tears were there, burning at the corners of his eyes.
He had failed.
From the very start, he had been marching forward with a single vision—to carve his name into the match with a goal of his own. Every touch, every sprint, every clash had been fueled by that burning desire. Yet, in the end, it all shattered the moment Chigiri cut across his path and denied him. That block hadn't just stopped his play; it had stolen the air from his lungs.
Afterthat… everything blurred.
The match moved without him, the flow slipping further and further from his grasp. By the time he forced himself to focus again, the scene that greeted him was one that both humbled and crushed him.
High above the chaos, Isagi Yoichi emerged.
The moment burned into Yukimiya's vision—the sight of Isagi soaring into the frame, as if drawn by fate itself, while Kaiser and Reo surged toward the ball with equal hunger. And yet, somehow, impossibly, Isagi appeared in the air right between them.
In that split second, surrounded by predators, Isagi had stolen everything.
The ball. The moment. The stage.
And then, in that impossible cluster of pressure, he created brilliance. Another audacious move. Another dagger through the heart of every rival who thought they could stand beside him.
A shot that was precise, ruthless, and beautiful in equal measure. A strike so fast, so destructive, that it seemed to carve the air itself.
And in that instant, Yukimiya felt the ground beneath him crumble. Shame rose like bile in his throat. Because while his own moment had been crushed, his dream shattered before it could take form, his eyes betrayed him.
He was in awe.
Awestruck by the sheer artistry of Isagi's finish. The elegance hidden within destruction. The beauty wrapped inside something so lethal. His body tensed, his lips trembled beneath the towel pressed against his face, but his heart couldn't deny it.
For one fleeting moment—one unforgivable heartbeat—Yukimiya forgot his own failure. He forgot the pain, the broken dream, the humiliation.
All he could do was admire.
Admire Isagi Yoichi, the very man who had stolen the spotlight he so desperately craved.
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"What's the meaning of all this?"
Hiori's voice came, as his eyes searched Isagi's face.
Isagi turned, blinking as though pulled from his own current of thoughts.
"Hmm…? Oh. You mean Noa?"
Hiori gave a quick nod.
Isagi's lips curled faintly, not quite a smile, more like a challenge flashing in his own mind.
"Well… I kind of challenged Noa. Told him I could beat him. So this—"
He gestured lightly toward the bench where Bastard München's master sat unmoving.
"—this is his way of putting me to the test. Telling me to beat the No.2 first…"
His voice trailed for half a beat before returning, firmer, as though the words themselves fueled him.
"…before setting my sights on the top."
'…before setting my sights on the top.'
And as those words left his mouth, Noel Noa's own thoughts overlapped in perfect unison—silent, yet carrying the exact same sentiment. Two players, locked in a line of thought only one could fulfill.
Hiori's eyes widened. For a second, he was stunned speechless.
Here he was, just like the rest of Blue Lock, clawing and struggling for survival. Fighting tooth and nail against U-20 players. Just to prove they belonged. Just to stay.
And yet… Isagi was already waging a private war with the world's best. A battlefield above their battlefield.
"So… it's up to us to handle Chris."
Hiori forced the words out, steadying himself as his chest tightened.
"What's the plan?"
Isagi's gaze had already shifted forward, his expression alight with the sharp clarity of someone who saw a different map than everyone else.
"Yeah… I've got a plan."
His steps carried him forward, unhurried, yet brimming with intent. A smile touched his face—not arrogance, but the electric confidence of a player who could already see the path.
"You've observed enough to improvise, right?"
He said over his shoulder, voice calm but carrying that hidden edge that always cut deeper than it seemed.
"So let's kick it."
With that, he kept walking, leaving Hiori standing behind for a moment.
Hiori's heart thudded. His lips parted, and slowly, his own smile crept through. Excitement sparked in his veins—not just to play, but to stand beside Isagi in this fight.
As Isagi strode toward the center, Hiori jogged back into position, his eyes burning with the same fire.
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"Now with the new additions,"
The commentator's voice rang out, brimming with urgency,
"we've got Chris Prince stepping in as a striker—slotting in right alongside Agi. The rest of Manshine City's formation remains unchanged."
A ripple of energy coursed through the stadium as the cameras panned across the field, capturing the sudden shift in balance. Chris, radiant and sharp-eyed, stood at the front like a showman taking center stage, his presence alone altering the rhythm of the pitch.
"And on the Bastard München side"
The commentator continued.
"Hiori Yo is stepping in to replace Yukimiya Kenyu… and he'll be taking up the Left Back position.
And with that… Manshine City has the kickoff!"
The commentator's voice echoed as the referee's whistle sliced through the air.
Chris Prince was the first to move, his strike sending the ball into Agi's path.
Agi received the pass cleanly, his body tilting into motion. His eyes gleamed—not with distraction, but with singular focus.
His obsession had circled around Nagi's brilliance, shadowing every step he took. But the instant Reo had awakened, something shifted. Nagi's movements, once radiant and commanding, had dulled. The shine was still there, but dimmer—slower. Almost meaningless.
Agi clicked his tongue, dismissing the thought before it could fester further.
'Tch. Doesn't matter.'
Because now, with Chris Prince on the pitch, the goal wasn't Nagi anymore. The goal was victory.
Every muscle in his body screamed for it as he pressed forward—until his path was abruptly cut short.
Kunigami Rensuke.
The dark-horse striker surged in, his tall frame crashing down in front of Agi like a wall of steel. His press was sharp, deliberate, forcing Agi to halt his advance.
The clash sparked instantly, their eyes locking, each reading the other's intent.
Agi shifted his stance, bracing himself for the inevitable clash. His body coiled like a spring, ready to burst forward—
—but what came at him was not a cautious standoff.
Kunigami charged.
His frame barreled down like a force of nature, his eyes ablaze with raw intent. There was no hesitation, no probing feints—only a straight, violent press that made the turf quake under his boots. For a fleeting second, Agi felt his breath catch.
Kunigami looked terrifying.
'Argh…! this guy…'
Reacting on instinct, Agi dragged the ball back, intending to reset his angle—but then his vision snapped right. Movement. A window.
Without a second thought, he lofted the ball, his pass arcing into space.
It bounced perfectly ahead of the runner—Nagi Seishiro.
Nagi's long strides carried him forward, his eyes locked on the ball's path. Just as it descended, however, another figure tore into view.
Kaiser.
The urgency in Kaiser's stride was different from everyone else's—violent, desperate. His run was sharp, shoulders tight, every movement screaming that the ball belonged to him. Both he and Nagi surged for it.
Nagi had started his run first. That half-second advantage gave him control. His foot slid beneath the ball, popping it up and cushioning it back toward himself.
Kaiser was already lunging in, his frame like a crashing wave. His intention was written all over his body—slam into Nagi, push him aside, and snatch the ball away through sheer force. The ball hung at chest height, perfectly vulnerable, a heartbeat away from collision.
But Nagi didn't flinch. His eyes, normally lazy and detached, lit up with a spark—sharp and alive.
In that instant, he tilted his torso, arched his right shoulder back, and with surgical timing, flicked it forward.
The ball leapt from the curve of his shoulder, sailing past the narrow space beside Kaiser's head. A single dazzling touch—so casual in execution, so lethal in effect.
Kaiser's body barreled forward, but the play slipped past him as if he were nothing more than an obstacle to be played around.
Nagi flowed past with the same motion, gliding into space as though gravity itself bent to his artistry.
As Nagi slipped free from Kaiser's charge, his chest rose with a quiet exhilaration. That single flick—clean, effortless, devastating—had reignited something inside him. The fire which seemed to be slipping away now burned hotter, sharper. He surged forward, eyes locked on the ball descending in front of him.
This was his moment to reclaim the stage.
But before his foot could meet it, a new force entered the scene.
The freshest arrival on the pitch, the one who had spent the entire match observing from the sidelines—absorbing, analyzing, calculating. Now, brimming with restless energy, Hiori Yo was already moving.
To him, this was expected.
As the ball dropped, Hiori closed in with perfect timing. His run was decisive, and then—he leapt.
His left leg extended, body twisting mid-air. A sharp, clean strike.
Thwack!
The ball was booted away before Nagi's foot could ever reach it, ricocheting out of danger with ruthless efficiency.
Nagi's eyes widened, the fire in his chest stuttering as the play was ripped away. Kaiser, still recovering from being bypassed, could only glance sideways, the frustration etched across his face.
Hiori landed lightly, his expression calm but his pulse alive with purpose. His eyes flicked across the field, already charting the next path.
He had seen this coming.
Kaiser's duels—flashy, but unreliable. His win percentage in one-on-ones on defence was low, far lower than his bravado suggested. And so Hiori had gambled, betting on Kaiser's failure.
The gamble paid off.
With that single, calculated intervention, Hiori didn't just break Nagi's rhythm—he halted Manshine City's attack before it could even begin to breathe.
Nagi's body stiffened, his momentum stalling as Hiori's intervention cut his play apart. The ball spun free, its path already chosen, skipping away from the duel and rolling sharply toward the center of the pitch.
And there—like a shadow that had been waiting for this very cue—Isagi Yoichi came sprinting forward.
His eyes had already caught the trajectory, his instincts locking onto the ball with absolute precision. He had seen what Hiori saw, trusted in that gamble, and now he was there to seize the payoff. Every line of his body screamed readiness, each stride carrying inevitability.
"Hold the backline!"
Reo's voice tore through the pitch, commanding, frantic. His body shifted instantly into position, bracing himself against the comingstorm.
"It's over if he scores!"
Chigiri's cry followed as he streaked back.
But even their voices, sharp as they were, could not drown out the deeper truth gripping everyone on the field—and everyone watching beyond the stadium.
Isagi Yoichi's attacks rarely failed.
If he was running with that look in his eyes, if he had chosen to bite down on an opportunity, then there was a terrifying certainty that followed: the defense's chances of stopping him were slim to none.
To the viewers, it was Isagi sprinting toward the ball.
But to Manshine City's defense, it wasn't just a player anymore.
It was a monster on the loose. A creature born of hunger and obsession, charging to tear the game apart and leave havoc in his wake.
The defenders of Manshine City felt the weight pressing down on them, their collective breath hitching as Isagi closed in like a beast unchained. Each step he took pulled them deeper into despair—until suddenly, a new voice cut through the suffocating air.
"What's the rush?"
The words carried a playful sharpness, a tone laced with arrogance.
Then, closer, right beside Isagi's left—
"We're just getting started here."
The voice struck like a lifeline to the drowning. Relief surged through Manshine City's ranks, an invisible weight lifting off their shoulders.
Because the one stepping in, was none other than—
Chris Prince.
Their Master.
The World's No. 2.
In an instant, the predator's shadow over Manshine was eclipsed by something greater. Their despair flipped into belief, a surge of confidence erupting in their chests. With Chris on the field, with him personally stepping into the path of Isagi Yoichi, there was no need for fear.
The stadium itself seemed to buzz at the collision of fates about to unfold.
And then—impact.
Chris's frame slammed into Isagi's shoulder, the collision resonating through the turf like two forces of nature colliding.
Chris had arrived, and he wasn't about to let this upstart from Blue Lock carve his name into the stage without going through him first.
The moment their shoulders collided, Isagi felt it—not just the impact, but the raw weight behind it. His body jolted as if struck by a tidal wave, his balance wavering despite the way he instinctively planted his foot and pulled his frame back into line.
But no matter how quickly he adjusted, the truth was undeniable.
That hit rattled him.
'Am I… seriously getting overwhelmed in terms of strength!?'
The thought gnawed at him, sharp and disbelieving. His frame might be smaller than Chris's, but it wasn't frail. Far from it.
Ever since that duel with Adam Blake during the World Five match, Isagi had been confident in what he had forged. His [Perfect Physique] had granted him definition that most players his age couldn't dream of—muscle tuned to precision, built for endurance, agility, and raw strength alike.
He had believed, no—known—that he wouldn't lose in a battle of bodies again.
And yet here, now, Chris Prince was proving him wrong.
The man's strength wasn't just physical. It was suffocating, almost majestic in its dominance. Every ounce of pressure in that collision told Isagi that this wasn't someone he could overpower, no matter how much training or how refined his body had become.
But instead of frustration… something else stirred inside him.
Admiration.
That a person could push their physique to such heights that even his [Perfect Physique]—a mysterious gift, one that had elevated him far beyond ordinary limits—could only compete and not dominate.
That realization didn't humiliate Isagi. It electrified him.
Chris Prince wasn't just strong. He was a monster who had carved his body into the second-best weapon in the world.
And for Isagi Yoichi, that only meant one thing—
He had just found the next wall he had to climb.
Isagi gritted his teeth and pushed back with his shoulder, muscles straining as he threw his weight into Chris. For a moment, there was resistance—Chris's frame budged, if only slightly. But almost immediately, the counterforce came, a surge of raw power driving into him as Chris pressed back with ease.
"Ohh…"
Chris's voice rumbled low, laced with a spark of interest as his grin widened.
"You're not scrawny like the rest here. This just might be fun."
There was no mockery in his tone—only genuine recognition. From a man like Chris Prince, who measured the world through physical idealism, this was an acknowledgement.
But he didn't linger.
In one seamless motion, Chris shifted his weight, leaping off the turf. His body rotated mid-air, every muscle working in perfect harmony as he turned to meet the path of the incoming ball from Hiori's clearance.
The ball descended, sharp and fast. Chris's chest absorbed it with flawless control, his torso cushioning the impact before he deadened it at his feet.
Manshine's heartbeat steadied. Their Master had stopped the attack.
But while Chris was in the air, Isagi had already moved.
Still in mid-run, he forced his body into a violent shift, halting and re-accelerating in the opposite direction. His legs carved against the pitch with precision, muscles screaming, but he didn't falter. The turn was sharp, unnatural, the kind of maneuver only someone with his physique and vision could execute.
By the time Chris landed, Isagi was already there—cutting off the lane, his presence standing like a wall directly in front of him.
For an instant, Chris's eyes flicked to the ball at his feet. He could see it—the narrow opening where Isagi could've lunged in and stolen it away.
But Isagi didn't bite.
Instead, he planted himself firm, arms loose but posture coiled, a smile breaking across his face.
He wasn't rushing for the steal. He wasn't playing reckless.
He was inviting.
A duel.
One-on-one.
Isagi Yoichi versus Chris Prince.
The air between them tightened, heavy with anticipation, as though the pitch itself understood what was about to unfold.
"What a cheeky brat…"
Chris let out a low chuckle, the kind that came not from annoyance, but from genuine amusement. The audacity Isagi was showing—it was reckless, it was bold, and it was exactly the kind of thing that made this entertaining.
"Fine then."
His voice sharpened, cutting through the field as his eyes locked with Isagi's.
"Let's have it your way!"
And then, with a smooth, deliberate motion, Chris used his right foot to flick the ball upward.
The world reacted instantly. A wave of gasps and shouts surged through the atmosphere.
Because the world knew what this meant.
Chris Prince had just declared it. A straight, head-to-head contest. Just him and Isagi, and the ball suspended in the thin space between them.
The move carried weight far beyond the pitch. It was the move—the kind Isagi Yoichi himself had used to provoke and humiliate rivals, dragging them into his pace, his terms. And now, the World's No.2 had thrown it right back at him.
The flick sent the ball spinning perfectly in the air, settling right in the no man's land between them. Whoever claimed it would seize not just possession, but the moment itself.
For a heartbeat, Isagi faltered—not in body, but in thought. Chris had stolen his signature arrogance and weaponized it.
But hesitation was fleeting. His lips curled into a grin, eyes blazing with the same hunger that had carried him this far.
Chris mirrored it, a predator's smile etched across his face.
Two different worlds. Two different stages. And yet here, they collided at the same point.
Then—like twin springs uncoiling—they launched.
Bodies low, muscles tensed, eyes locked on the spinning ball. The turf tore beneath their cleats as both players surged forward at the exact same instant.
The duel had been drawn.
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