The second half rolled like an avalanche that no one could stop. The ball seemed to have a life of its own whenever it touched Isagi's feet, dancing between defenders who looked more like statues than players. Zantetsu ran like a madman, his muscles screaming in protest, but every attempt to steal the ball was like trying to catch the wind with bare hands. He saw Isagi there, smiling faintly, not in mockery, but in that lazy way that said "ah, this is fun," and that only made the anger bubble deeper.
Haruto shouted orders from midfield, trying to reorganize the line, but it was useless. Isagi scored another, then another, completing the promised hat-trick with a volley that seemed straight out of a dream. The Kashiko goalkeeper didn't even blink; the ball was already in the net before he could react. 6-0. 7-0.
The stadium vibrated, but now with a tone of disbelief, as if everyone knew they were watching something beyond the normal.
Isagi defended when needed, cutting counterattacks with precise touches, but without stealing the show from his teammates. He provided support, as he said, but the focus was on him. Deep down, it was as if the entire field revolved around him, and the others were just there to complete the picture.
The clock ticked toward the end of the second half, the sun already beginning to dip on the horizon, painting the grass in orange tones.
The referee looked at the stopwatch, the whistle ready in his mouth.
The scoreboard flashed mercilessly: 8-0.
Up there, in the highest stands, a group of boys finally appeared, carrying sports backpacks and half-empty water bottles. They came straight from the Inter High basketball gym, where Teikou had just crushed another opponent in the middle school tournament. Their game had been delayed due to a ridiculous overtime, and now they were running here, trying not to miss what was left of their friend's soccer match.
Kuroko Tetsuya was the first to sit down, discreet as always, his light blue hair stuck to his forehead from the sweat of the game. He adjusted his bag on his lap, his clear eyes scanning the field without fanfare.
"We arrived at the very end..." He murmured, his voice low, almost blending into the noise of the crowd.
Next to him, Akashi Seijuro crossed his arms, his basketball uniform still damp, his sharp gaze analyzing everything as if it were a chess strategy.
"At least we didn't miss the essentials. Isagi must be having fun..."
The confidence in his voice was absolute, as if the entire world had to bow to the facts.
Kise Ryota, with his disheveled blond hair and a huge smile despite the fatigue, threw himself onto the bench beside him, stretching his legs. "Phew, what a rush! Hey, look at the score! 8-0? Seriously? Isagicchi is a monster, huh? I copied some of his dribbles in last week's practice, but this... wow!"
Aomine Daiki snorted, leaning against the railing lazily, his dark eyes fixed on the field. He chewed gum he had grabbed on the way, his body relaxed as if the Inter High had been nothing.
"Tch, 8-0? Is he kidding or what? If I were in soccer, I'd do the same. But basketball is cooler. Hey, look at that guy running like an idiot. Poor thing."
Midorima Shintaro adjusted his glasses, quickly checking the horoscope on his phone that he had pulled from his pocket.
"According to today's Oha Asa, Cancer is rising for crushing victories. Isagi must have followed my advice on the lucky item—a green bracelet. But 8-0... that's excessive even for the stars."
His voice was serious, as always, carrying the tape on his pinky finger like a talisman.
Murasakibara Atsushi squeezed onto the bench, his gigantic body taking up space for two, munching on a bag of snacks he had brought.
"Mmm... so hungry. Isagi-chin is winning easy, huh? I want to play basketball with him again, but soccer seems boring. Run, run... I prefer sweets."
He offered the bag to the group, distracted, his purple eyes blinking lazily at the scoreboard.
Momoi Satsuki was the last to sit down, her pink hair tied in a messy ponytail from the game, her cheeks still flushed from the effort as Teikou's manager. She clasped her hands in her lap, her eyes shining as she spotted Isagi on the field.
"Wow, 8-0? Isagi-kun is amazing! He must be having so much fun... Ah, I wish I'd arrived earlier to cheer properly..."
Her voice was soft, with a tone of admiration that went beyond friendship, her heart beating a little faster just seeing him there, dominating everything with that irritatingly charming calm.
Aomine noticed his childhood friend's focus. He nudged her shoulder with his elbow, a mischievous smile spreading across his face.
"Hey, Momoi, stop drooling there. Just go confess to Isagi already. He's single, right? Or are you going to wait until he goes pro and has a bigger fan club than ours?"
Momoi blinked, her face turning red as a ripe tomato. She turned her head slowly, her big eyes narrowing in pure fury.
"What?! Dai-chan, shut up! I'm not... I'm not drooling! And that's none of your business!"
Aomine's laughter echoed louder. He leaned back, hands behind his head, feigning innocence.
"Ah, come on, everyone knows. You get that 'Isagi-kun is amazing' face every time he plays. If not now, when? He just humiliated an entire team, wait for the game to end and approach him—it's a perfect moment for an epic confession..."
Momoi huffed, crossing her arms and turning her face away, her cheeks burning.
"You're an idiot! As if you understood anything about feelings. Go tease someone else!"
The whole group held back laughter, with Kise covering his mouth to avoid bursting out. Murasakibara just kept munching his snacks, murmuring something about "fighting over nonsense... I want ice cream later."
Midorima adjusted his glasses again, serious as a statue.
"Aomine, stop teasing. According to the horoscope, Pisces like Momoi are sensitive today. It could bring bad luck..."
Aomine rolled his eyes.
"Bad luck? I'm helping! Maybe she'll thank me later..."
Momoi stood up suddenly, grabbing her bag forcefully, her face still flaming.
"You're all impossible! I'm going down alone and cheering for Isagi-kun to notice me without help from idiots like you!" She took a step forward, but the referee's whistle cut through the air like a sharp blade, echoing throughout the stadium.
Piiii! Piiii! Piiii!
The end of the game.
The momentary silence that followed was swallowed by a wave of applause that grew like a tide, transforming into something more: a rhythmic, unison chant that made the stands tremble. "I-sa-gi! I-sa-gi! I-sa-gi!" His name bounced from mouth to mouth, from Ichinan's fans to the neutrals who were just there for the show, even some from Kashiko who, despite the defeat, couldn't deny what they had seen.
The group stopped in the middle of the joke, their gazes turning to the field below. Isagi was at the center of it all, surrounded by his teammates who seemed extremely excited.
Aomine stopped laughing, the gum forgotten in his mouth, his eyes shining with a mix of envy and admiration.
"Dude... look at that. The whole stadium is going crazy for him..."
Kise whistled softly, his smile widening even more: "Isagicchi has become a total idol. We need to go down soon before the crowd takes him away!"
Momoi froze in place, her hands gripping the bag strap, her heart racing not just from the earlier teasing, but from the genuine pride of seeing Isagi there, at the top. She murmured something softly, like "he deserves this," but the noise swallowed the words.
Akashi uncrossed his arms, his serious tone returning.
"Let's go. It's time to congratulate him personally. And who knows, propose a basketball practice with him later—it's been a while since we've had a challenge..."
Murasakibara swallowed the last snack, crumpling the empty bag.
"Mmm... ice cream first? I'm starving."
Midorima put away his phone, adjusting the tape on his finger.
"The stars say victories like this attract good energies. Let's benefit from that..."
Kuroko stood up last, discreet, but with a subtle smile on his lips.
"He'll be happy to see us. Let's go."
And so, the group descended the stairs, blending into the crowd that still echoed Isagi's name...
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Isagi left the field with slow steps, his arms rising above his head in a lazy stretch, as if the entire game had been just a light warm-up.
Sweat ran down his neck, but his body still seemed full of energy, contrasting with his teammates who dragged their feet, panting and hunched over.
The roar of the crowd still echoed in his ears, "I-sa-gi! I-sa-gi!", but he barely registered it, his mind already wandering to various other things.
The more he played in this world, the more selfish pleasure took over his heart, he realized since the Inter High began...
And because he was selfish...
As he walked to the sideline, bits of conversation floated to him, low voices from his teammates who thought he wouldn't hear.
Tada murmured to Takeshi, his tone sour: "Again, he's taking all the glory... so damn selfish, huh? He could have passed more balls, given others a chance to shine..."
Takeshi nodded, wiping sweat with his shirt sleeve.
"Yeah, man. Every game is the Isagi show. Are we just here to clap? If it weren't for him, maybe we'd have more space..."
Isagi stopped for a second, his eyes half-closed, but without turning his face. He didn't particularly care; words like those were like buzzing mosquitoes, annoying but harmless. But deep down, a spark of contempt ignited. How his team was "fake" in terms of being two-faced—in the halftime they were flattering him and smiling, now when he turned his back they were talking bad about him...
That kind of person was what he despised the most...
These trash really thought they deserved the spotlight? With their mediocre talent, the half-hearted effort they put into practices? He was increasingly understanding why Itoshi Sae had completely discarded Japan...
He carried the team on his back, scored goals, defended, created plays... and still, envy. That was why, game after game, he distanced himself a little more. He preferred to play alone, devouring the entire field, even if it meant helping these ingrates win. Team? That was just a tool for him to shine...
He shook his head lightly, expelling the thought like dust, and continued walking. Before he could reach the tunnel, a TV crew appeared out of nowhere, microphones extended, cameras flashing.
A young reporter, with her hair tied in a hasty bun, approached with a professional smile.
"Isagi Yoichi! Congratulations on the crushing victory! Eight goals, hat-trick in the second half... how do you feel after a performance like that? Any comments on the opposing team or your teammates?"
Isagi stopped, his cold and direct gaze fixed on her, without a drop of fake excitement.
"It was easy. I did my job as a striker. They were weak. My teammates did the basics. I'm looking forward to the next game..." And that was it. He turned his back without waiting for more questions, his tone dry like someone who saw no reason to drag it out.
The reporter blinked, stunned, but the camera captured everything, the coldness of a genius who didn't need extra spotlights, because he already had them all.
He disappeared into the locker room, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The air inside was humid, smelling of sweat and hair gel, the lockers creaking as the other players entered little by little.
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On the other side of the field, the Kashiko High team dragged themselves like defeated ghosts, shoulders slumped, shirts soaked in sweat and mixed tears. The grass, which before seemed like a stage of dreams, now was just a trampled green carpet, marked by the footprints of a humiliation no one would forget anytime soon. Some players were already sitting on the grass, heads down, muffled sobs echoing softly, as if crying was the only possible response to the score still flashing on the screen: 8-0.
Zantetsu, his legs still trembling from the insane effort of the second half, stopped beside Haruto, who had fallen to his knees in the center circle, his face buried in his hands. The sprinter extended his arm, his hand firm on his friend's shoulder, pulling him up with a strength he barely had left.
"Hey, get up. You're not going to stay there on the ground like we lost the whole war. It was just a game... a damn bad game, but just one."
Haruto let himself be pulled, his eyes red and swollen, his chest rising and falling in short, faltering breaths. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, looking at the rest of the team slowly gathering on the sideline, some hugging each other, tears flowing without shame. The coach tried to say something motivational, but the words came out weak, as if he himself didn't believe them.
"Give up... I'm going to give up, Zantetsu..." Haruto murmured, his voice hoarse, almost a broken whisper. He shook his head, his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if seeing the end of something bigger.
"Why continue? We're mediocre compared to guys like that Isagi. He didn't even sweat properly, and we... we ran like crazy and didn't touch the ball. Real talents are like that, right? They're born ready, and the rest is just... filler. I'm tired of being filler..."
Zantetsu blinked, his jaw clenching for a second, but he didn't let go of his friend's arm, guiding him to join the others.
"Hey, stop that. Mediocre? Since when does that matter? Next time we can prove we're geniuses! We just need to try harder! The GPS doesn't turn off just because the road is bad, it recalculates. We recalculate too. Tomorrow we train more, turn the page. Give up? That's for cars without fuel..."
But Haruto just gave a bitter smile, his eyes welling up again, as they followed the flow of the team to the locker room, their steps slow as if carrying the weight of the entire world.
"Maybe I don't have any more fuel, Zantetsu. Maybe it's time to pull over to the shoulder..."
Zantetsu felt Haruto's words like a punch to the stomach, but instead of knocking him down, it ignited something deep inside; a spark that spread quickly, turning into a blaze. His ego, already bruised by the defeat, now burned like wildfire. No, he wasn't going to let it end like this. Give up? Pull over to the shoulder? That was for the weak!
As he dragged Haruto to the locker room, their steps echoing in the humid corridor, Zantetsu clenched his hidden fist. In his heart, he swore softly, the words echoing like a roaring engine at the start:
"Next time... next time I win..."
The fire in his chest didn't go out; it only grew, fueled by the humiliation, the anger, the insane desire to be number one. Tomorrow, training would be hellish. He would run until his legs turned to rubber, dribble until his feet bled. Because geniuses aren't just born, they're built on the track, one lap at a time.