The referee brought the whistle to his mouth and blew three times, the sharp sound echoing through the entire stadium and officially ending the first half.
The atmosphere, which had previously been vibrating like an engine running at maximum, briefly dimmed.
Zantetsu stood still at the center circle, completely drenched in sweat, his chest rising and falling uncontrollably. His hands were planted on his knees, his breathing burning in his throat, his heart pounding violently—far too violently for someone who, theoretically, was used to running like a human missile.
He looked up.
And there he was.
Isagi Yoichi.
Walking calmly toward the Ichinan bench, head lowered, steps unhurried, expression… normal. He didn't even look tired. The uniform jacket one of his teammates had handed him swayed slightly as he pulled his hair back, exposing his neck where a bead of sweat slid down slowly—just enough to prove that yes, he had been playing.
But he wasn't sweating.
The way he looked in that moment, he seemed like someone who had just gone for a light jog in the park.
He hadn't even tried to "crush" their team!
He looked up at the enormous electronic scoreboard above the stands, the glowing numbers exposing the massacre.
4–0.
The first two goals had been his: chips, dribbles, perfect shots.
The other two?
A backheel pass for one of Ichinan's players to finish. A long trivela through-ball for another to break down the left and score with ease.
That was it.
Isagi had simply gotten tired of scoring and started playing as if he were training the entire team, not competing.
Zantetsu clenched his teeth so hard his jaw throbbed.
He remembered with perfect clarity every second of the first half: his inability to catch Isagi even with his explosive speed, the sensation of being passed like he was nothing more than a training cone, the ease with which Isagi "dribbled" him with every change of direction. The frustration burned deeper than the acid building in his muscles.
Trying to control his breathing, he narrowed his eyes—his body was trembling and his vision was blurred. Even though he was exhausted, he was also angry at himself for not being able to keep up. Angry at Isagi for treating it like a joke. And angry at the scoreboard, shining shamelessly, as if it were mocking his effort.
The Kashiko High coach shouted in the background, ordering everyone to the sideline, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Zantetsu cast one last look at Japan's new genius. Isagi sat on the bench, received a bottle of water, took a small sip, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand… and smiled faintly at something one of his teammates said.
Haruto approached, breathing deeply, trying to keep his composure, but clearly shaken as well. He placed a hand on Zantetsu's shoulder, pressing firmly.
"Come on. Halftime."
Zantetsu didn't answer.
He heard Haruto sigh before adding:
"We'll need to change everything if we want even one goal."
Zantetsu slowly lifted his face.
He didn't know exactly what expression he was wearing.
But Haruto understood.
"…You're not thinking of giving up, are you?"
Zantetsu snorted, raising his chin even though his breath came out uneven.
"Give up? Me?" He gave a crooked half-smile. "I'm Zantetsu Tsurugi. I never give up. I'm just… recalculating the route."
Haruto blinked.
"…That doesn't even make sense."
"Of course it does!" Zantetsu snapped irritably. "The GPS does that all the time!"
Haruto rubbed his face, exasperated.
"My God…"
Finally, Zantetsu left the field—legs shaky, but determination burning in his eyes. . . . . .
Isagi spun the bottle between his fingers, taking another slow sip as he let his body relax on the bench. He felt only a light warmth in his muscles, almost nothing. The rest of the team, however, looked like they'd come out of a war.
The coach stopped in front of them, clipboard tucked under his arm. His face was red from excitement—or maybe sheer disbelief.
He took a deep breath, clapped once.
"Listen up, everyone. Excellent first half! Excellent!"
The players murmured among themselves, exhausted but excited.
"But what impressed me the most wasn't just the goals or Isagi's ridiculous dribbles…"
Everyone automatically looked at him.
The coach pointed with his pen.
"…it was Isagi's team spirit—one for all and all for one. It looks like he finally understood true football! The mature decision to involve the entire team in the final plays, to create opportunities for—"
Isagi interrupted without raising his voice much.
"It wasn't because of collective vision."
The coach blinked.
"What?"
Isagi closed the bottle, rested his elbows on his knees, and spoke with absolute calm:
"I was just bored."
An immediate silence fell over the circle.
"If I kept playing striker the whole time, it would get boring. They're a very lukewarm team… so I decided to mess around a bit. Pass the ball, build plays, see what would happen…." He lifted his gaze, completely sincere. "But now in the second half, I'm not doing that. I don't feel like it."
A few Ichinan players laughed, far too used to that side of him.
Tada gave Isagi a light slap on the shoulder.
"There goes ego mode again, huh?"
Another added:
"Normal, normal. Four–zero is when he starts having fun."
A third joked:
"So maybe I'll touch the ball this time, captain?"
Isagi smirked.
"Depends on the play."
The coach froze for a moment, torn between ripping his hair out or thanking the gods for having a monster like that on his team.
"Isagi…" he began, trying to use his authoritative voice. "I understand you're confident—and with good reason. But think about the group, alright? You're the captain. You need to inspire your teammates."
Isagi tilted his head.
"That's why I'm going to score a hat-trick in the second half. You can also relax about the defense—I'll defend all the dangerous balls. Obviously I won't do your job for you, but I'll provide support..."
The coach stood still for a second as if he'd been kicked invisibly in the stomach.
He opened his mouth… closed it… opened it again.
And then let out a long sigh—one that seemed to come from deep inside his soul.
"…You're hopeless."
Isagi didn't deny it.
The silence that followed was short, but heavy.
"…Alright." The coach finally said, giving up control. "Do whatever you want, Isagi. Just—"
He pointed the pen as if that were his last attempt to keep authority.
"—take it a little easy. This championship is very important for many young people who dream of professional football. If you show such a huge difference in talent and skill, most of them will end up giving up on their dreams because of it."
Isagi nodded without ceremony.
"Yes, I know..."
And that was it.
The Ichinan bench exploded into giggles and light comments, as if the massacre on the scoreboard were something natural—part of the Saturday menu.
Tada stretched his arms above his head, letting out a relieved sound.
"Hat-trick in the second half, huh? Man, you say that like you're going to buy bread."
"Because it's easy." Isagi replied without malice.
"Holy shit…" Takeshi murmured, laughing. "He said that without even realizing it."
"Someone record that," Tada joked. "To show it when he gets famous and pretends to be humble in an interview."
Isagi rolled his neck once, releasing the tension.
Halftime continued in that pleasant chaos: water being passed from hand to hand, towels tossed over shoulders, someone complaining their sock was slipping, someone else laughing nervously because they'd missed an easy control.
On the other side, at the Kashiko bench, the atmosphere was nearly the opposite.
The coach tried to keep morale up.
But it was like trying to plug a hole with paper.
The referee's whistle called everyone back.
The second half was about to begin. . . . . .
The sky remained clear.
The sun rose a little higher, and the grass looked brighter.
The players began returning to the field.
Isagi stood up from the bench and stretched with genuine laziness, arms lifting above his head, joints cracking discreetly.
He walked to the sideline and crossed it as if he were walking into his own home.
The stadium reacted instantly.
The noise swelled in waves.
As if the entire match were a show—and the protagonist had just returned to the stage.
Isagi didn't look at the stands; he was too focused on at least scoring a few more goals, because he knew his girlfriend and his parents were watching, as well as his love interests too....
Kashiko positioned themselves for kickoff.
Possession started with them.
Isagi stayed in his striker position, leaning slightly forward, hands relaxed at his sides, his gaze calm, lazy… almost uninterested.
Zantetsu stood a few meters ahead, staring at Isagi like he was trying to crush him mentally.
His uniform was still wet from the first half, and his messy hair made his glasses look even more ridiculous… but his eyes were burning.
He wanted this.
He wanted to prove he wasn't an extra.
That he wasn't just "the fast guy."
That he existed as a player.
Isagi noticed the stare and… ignored it.
Not with disdain.
But like someone ignoring the hum of a fan.
Zantetsu clenched his teeth.
"Look at me, bastard…" he muttered.
Haruto placed a hand on Zantetsu's chest and pushed lightly, signaling for him to focus on the restart.
"Focus," Haruto said quietly.
Zantetsu nodded.
The referee raised his arm.
And blew the whistle.
Piiii!
The ball rolled.
Kashiko played it short, trying to start calmly—as if calm were possible in that situation.
The ball moved slowly between Haruto's feet, who tried a short pass into midfield, but Zantetsu was already moving, calling for the ball urgently, his body leaning forward as if every second were an opportunity for redemption.
Three Kashiko players—two defensive midfielders and a fullback—immediately converged on Isagi. It wasn't normal marking. It was off-the-ball marking: one stayed in front, one on the left diagonal, the third on the right, forming a triangle that blocked every obvious passing lane. They weren't watching the ball; they were watching him. As if they knew that if they gave him even a centimeter of space, they'd concede a goal.
Isagi didn't even blink, using his [Misdirection] skill to escape the situation. He tilted his torso slightly to the right, eyes fixed on the ball still rolling between Haruto and another teammate. The movement was minimal, but enough for the three markers to shift their focus toward the ball—which was always the strongest "presence" on the field.
And in that exact instant, he vanished.
He didn't physically disappear—his body was still there. But to the three of them, he ceased to exist as a priority.
How he loved that skill!
He burst forward in a straight sprint, cutting across the field like an invisible blade, appearing out of nowhere beside Zantetsu exactly as the ball reached the speedster's feet.
Zantetsu felt the air shift before he even saw Isagi. He turned his body in a desperate reflex, trying to shield the ball with his shoulder, but it was too late. Isagi was already there—his right foot extended with surgical precision, stealing the ball with a clean touch, no physical contact, no apparent effort. The ball stuck to his foot as if it were an extension of his body.
And then it began.
What came next wasn't a normal dribble—it was simply him destroying his enemies beautifully.
A marker came from the side, trying to block the line. Isagi simply lowered his center of gravity, let his body fall to the opposite side, and slipped beneath the opponent's outstretched arm, the ball brushing his shin without him being able to touch it. The third tried to intercept from the front; Isagi lifted his left foot as if he were going to shoot from distance, but instead let the ball roll beneath the sole, turning his body and leaving the marker hugging air.
It was fluid. Elegant. Implacable. Each movement flowed into the next—no pauses, no waste.
Kashiko's defenders tried to regroup, but he was already two steps ahead, always one thought beyond what they could predict.
Zantetsu chased after him, legs burning, lungs on fire, but it was like pursuing smoke.
Isagi was already at the edge of the box.
Kashiko's goalkeeper rushed out in desperation, trying to cut down the angle. He misjudged badly. Isagi saw the space. With a delicate toe poke, he lifted the ball over the keeper's head—a perfect chip, the ball rising in a gentle arc, the keeper stretching his arms toward nothing.
And then, in the same motion, Isagi leapt.
His body arched in the air, legs crossing in a perfect scissor kick. The ball dropped exactly where he wanted it. His right foot met the sphere at the highest point of the jump, the sole striking with controlled force, sending it toward the far corner.
Gooooooal!
The sound of the net bulging was almost silent compared to the roar that exploded in the stands.
5–0.
The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath for half a second before erupting into applause mixed with disbelief. Some Ichinan supporters were already on their feet, screaming his name. Others, from Kashiko, simply stared at the ground, as if the scoreboard were a sentence.
Isagi landed on his feet, light, almost casual.
The match restarted.
And the score kept rising.