The journey to the Japan Football Union headquarters was an exercise in patience, a calculated endurance of inefficiency. Kiyotaka Ayanokouji sat in the back of the public transit bus, his eyes tracking the passing urban landscape while his internal systems ran a low-level maintenance cycle. The host body, Renji, possessed a subtle, habitual slouch—a spinal deviation of 4.2 degrees—that Kiyotaka was gradually correcting. He engaged the Nano-Somatic Colony to micro-adjust the spinal alignment for optimal airflow and core stability. It wasn't about looking imposing; it was about readiness. In a world defined by physical output, poor posture was a statistical leak of energy, a vulnerability he deleted with a thought.
When he arrived at the designated coordinates, the sensory input spiked dramatically. The JFU building was a monolithic structure of glass and steel, a monument to bureaucracy, but it was the mass of humanity gathering at its base that triggered the system's alert protocols.
Three hundred high school students. Three hundred distinct biological signatures, each radiating varying degrees of anxiety, arrogance, and localized pheromones associated with high-stress competition. To a normal human, it was a crowd. To Kiyotaka, utilizing the sensory enhancement of the cerebral chip, it was a storm of inefficient data. The air smelled of cheap deodorant, nervous sweat, and the metallic tang of adrenaline.
[AUDITORY INPUT: 85 DECIBELS. CROWD DENSITY: HIGH. CONVERSATIONAL ANALYSIS: 90% NOISE (POSTURING/NERVOUS CHATTER/STATUS SIGNALLING).]
"System. Engage Auditory Dampening. Filter for keywords: 'Ranking', 'Threat', 'Strategy', 'Formation'," Kiyotaka commanded silently.
The roar of the crowd instantly dulled, turning into a distant, manageable hum, like the background radiation of a dying star. Specific voices, however, cut through the silence with crystal clarity, isolated by the AI's relevance filter.
"Hey, look! It's Kira Ryosuke!"
"The Jewel of Japan! He's actually here?"
Kiyotaka's eyes shifted, the motion smooth and mechanical. He located the subject of the adoration immediately. Ryosuke Kira. Tall, conventionally attractive, projecting a carefully curated aura of humble superiority. He was surrounded by a gravity well of lesser players, basking in the reflected light of a perceived elite. Kira smiled, waved, and offered platitudes about "doing our best together," but the micro-expressions around his eyes told a different story. The orbicularis oculi muscles were not fully engaged; the smile was a performance.
[TARGET SCANNED: KIRA RYOSUKE. STATUS: SOCIAL LEADER. THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE. NOTE: HEAVY RELIANCE ON EXTERNAL VALIDATION DETECTED. PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: FRAGILE/CO-DEPENDENT.]
"Fragile," Kiyotaka agreed internally. "He derives stability from the herd. In an environment designed to cull the herd, he will likely suffer a catastrophic breakdown when stripped of his audience."
Kiyotaka moved through the throng, his body flowing like water through the gaps in the crowd. He didn't shove; he simply calculated the velocity and trajectory of the bodies around him, predicting their movements 0.5 seconds in advance and occupying the negative space before they could close it. He was a ghost in the machine, a void moving through matter.
As he neared the entrance, a frantic figure stumbled into his path. A boy with messy dark hair and an expression of terrified determination. Isagi Yoichi.
Kiyotaka paused, his momentum arrested instantly by the nanobots locking his knee and ankle joints to prevent a collision. Isagi looked up, startled, his breath hitching. "Ah! I'm sorry! I wasn't looking—"
Kiyotaka stared down at him. The boy's biometrics were painfully average. Muscle mass: standard C-tier. Height: average. V02 Max estimate: unexceptional. Yet, the AI chip flickered with a momentary, unexplained hesitation—a logic error in the prediction algorithm.
[TARGET SCANNED: ISAGI YOICHI. PHYSICAL SPECS: C-TIER. SPATIAL AWARENESS: LATENT POTENTIAL DETECTED. EGO SIGNATURE: DORMANT/VOLATILE.]
"Watch your periphery," Kiyotaka said, his voice flat, cutting off the boy's rambling. "Apologies are inefficient. Correction is required. You left your entire left flank exposed to a collision."
He sidestepped the boy and entered the building, leaving Isagi staring at his back with a mix of confusion and lingering unease.
The interior holding area was a cavernous hall, stripped of comfort. The three hundred strikers were herded into the center like livestock. The lighting was harsh, industrial halogen that cast long, sharp shadows. Kiyotaka positioned himself near a support pillar, minimizing his blind spots to a manageable 90-degree arc. He observed the cliques forming—the loud ones posturing to hide fear, the silent brooders preserving energy, the scared ones seeking alliances. It was a microcosm of high school society, magnified by the pressure of a national selection.
Suddenly, the lights died. Absolute darkness swallowed the room for three seconds—enough time to elevate the collective heart rate of the crowd by 15%.
A single spotlight snapped on, illuminating the stage at the far end. A slender, lanky man with a sharp bob cut and oversized glasses stood there, tapping a microphone. The feedback whine was sharp, piercing, causing several students to flinch physically. Kiyotaka's auditory filters adjusted instantly, dampening the treble.
"Congratulations, you unpolished gems," the man spoke, his voice scraping against the silence. "I am Ego Jinpachi. I have been hired to make Japan win the World Cup."
The crowd murmured. Confusion. Skepticism. A few nervous laughs.
Ego continued, his rhetoric escalating rapidly. He spoke of the death of Japanese soccer, the weakness of teamwork, and the necessity of a singular, overwhelming ego. He called their teammates "obstacles" and their past victories "trash." He projected images of the world's greatest strikers—Noa, Lavinho, Chris Prince—dissecting their selfishness.
Kiyotaka listened, deconstructing the speech in real-time.
[SPEECH ANALYSIS: MANIPULATIVE RHETORIC. OBJECTIVE: DESTABILIZATION OF COLLECTIVE SOCIAL CONDITIONING. METHOD: SHOCK DOCTRINE/TRAUMA INDUCTION.]
"He is breaking their programming," Kiyotaka noted, impressed by the efficiency. "Japanese society values the group; the 'Wa' (Harmony). The White Room valued the individual's perfection through isolation. This man, Ego, is attempting to induce a White Room mindset through immediate psychological trauma rather than long-term conditioning. It is crude, violent, but potentially efficient for mass processing."
When Ego announced that entering the gate meant discarding their high school careers forever—that losing here meant a lifetime ban from the National Team—the room erupted in protest. Kira Ryosuke was the loudest, his voice trembling with righteous indignation about the sanctity of his team, his provincials, and his future.
Kiyotaka watched Kira closely. The "Jewel" was cracking. His foundation was threatened. He was clinging to the social contract that had rewarded him thus far.
Then, Isagi Yoichi ran. Without a word, without a scream, the boy who had apologized for bumping into him sprinted toward the stage, his eyes burning with a sudden, desperate hunger.
"Interesting," Kiyotaka mused, zooming in on Isagi's pupils. Dilation confirmed extreme arousal of the sympathetic nervous system.
"The dormant ego has awakened in response to the existential threat of mediocrity."
The doors behind Ego opened, revealing a blinding light. The herd followed Isagi. The panic of being left behind overrode the fear of the future. Kiyotaka waited until the crush of bodies thinned, then stepped forward. He didn't run. He walked with a long, devouring stride, his pace calculated to match the average sprint speed of the stragglers without expending anaerobic energy.
The corridor beyond the stage was not a path to a stadium. It was a funnel. The air grew colder. The smell of concrete and hospital-grade disinfectant replaced the scent of cologne. They were led to a series of buses, windows blacked out.
The ride was silent. The boy next to Kiyotaka was vibrating with anxiety, his leg bouncing at 3Hz. Kiyotaka ignored him, using the time to calibrate his Nano-Somatic Colony's nutrient consumption. He commanded his digestive system to enter overdrive, converting the breakfast Renji's mother had cooked into pure glycogen stores. By the time the bus stopped, his fuel tanks were full, and his waste processing was complete.
They were ushered into a massive, prison-like facility. The "Blue Lock."
Kiyotaka was assigned to a room based on a ranking system that seemed momentarily arbitrary but was undoubtedly based on a hidden algorithm involving their initial sprint speed, reaction to Ego's speech, and previous game data. He looked at the display on his new bodysuit, a skin-tight polymer that interfaced surprisingly well with his nanobots, allowing for thermal regulation.
RANK: 299.
He was placed in Team Z. The bottom of the barrel. The dregs. Building 5.
"Perfect," Kiyotaka thought, flexing his hand. The bodysuit tightened, offering zero resistance. "Low rank ensures underestimation. Underestimation creates openings. If I were ranked Number 1, I would be the primary target. At 299, I am invisible."
He entered the Team Z locker room. It was a small, sterile square of concrete. Eleven lockers. Eleven sleeping bags. The air was stale, recycled.
Ten other boys were already there, or arriving. He recognized Isagi Yoichi immediately. There was also a boy with orange hair (Kunigami Rensuke), a monk (Igarashi Gurimu), and a wildly eccentric boy with yellow streaks in his hair who was currently sitting on the floor in a lotus position, humming (Bachira Meguru).
Kiyotaka moved to his designated locker. He began to change, his movements precise. He folded his civilian clothes into a perfect square, aligning the seams.
"Hey! You're the guy from the entrance!" Isagi approached him, looking relieved to see a somewhat familiar face, even if that face was terrifyingly blank. "I'm Isagi. We're on the same team, huh? Rank 299... I'm 299 too. Oh wait, no, I'm 299, you're..." Isagi squinted at Kiyotaka's sleeve.
"I am Rank 300," Kiyotaka corrected, the lie of the display serving its purpose. In reality, the system had hacked the display interface to mask his true potential, mirroring the lowest score possible. "My name is Ayanokouji. Let us aim for mutual survival."
"Rank 300? Seriously?" The monk, Igarashi, laughed nervously, rubbing his shaved head. "And here I thought I was the worst at 275! Nice to meet you, bedrock! I feel better already."
Kiyotaka ignored the monk's attempt at status realignment. His attention was focused entirely on the screen turning on at the front of the room. Ego's face appeared, pixelated and looming.
"Welcome to your new home, unpolished gems. This is Room Z. You are the lowest ranked team in the lowest ranked building. You are the bottom of the food chain. The sludge of the selection."
Ego explained the reality of Blue Lock. Survival of the fittest. Shared resources. And then, he dropped the first variable.
"Soccer is a sport where you score points. But before that... we need to play a little game. A game to test your capability to be a striker."
The center of the room hissed. A trapdoor opened, pneumatic pistons whining, and a single soccer ball rose on a pedestal.
"Oni Gokko," Ego announced. "Tag. The time limit is 136 seconds. The person holding the ball when the timer hits zero... is locked off. Their career is over. Forever."
Panic. Immediate, visceral panic. The concept was simple, but the stakes were absolute.
"Wait, what? Right now?" Igarashi yelped.
"The person currently ranked lowest is 'It'," Ego continued. "That means... Rank 300. Ayanokouji Renji."
Kiyotaka looked at the ball. The room went silent. Ten pairs of eyes locked onto him. Some held pity (Isagi), some held aggression (Raichi Jingo), some held fear (Igarashi).
[CURRENT OBJECTIVE: SURVIVAL. GAME TYPE: ELIMINATION. VARIABLE: 10 OPPONENTS IN ENCLOSED SPACE. STRATEGY: CONSERVE ENERGY. REDIRECT AGGRESSION. DO NOT REVEAL FULL CAPABILITIES.]
Kiyotaka walked to the center of the room. He picked up the ball. It felt light, standard size 5.
"136 seconds," Kiyotaka said aloud, his voice devoid of the tremors affecting the others. "That is a generous amount of time."
BEEP.
The timer on the screen started counting down. 136... 135...
"Start!" Ego's voice cracked like a whip.
The room exploded into motion. Everyone scattered, pressing themselves against the walls, putting as much distance between themselves and Kiyotaka as possible.
Kiyotaka stood still in the center of the room, the ball resting under his right foot. He didn't chase. He didn't sprint. He simply closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
"System. Activate Sector Scan. Map the room geometry and the biometric fear response of all targets."
[SECTOR SCAN: ACTIVE. ROOM DIMENSIONS: 15M x 10M. OBSTACLES: MINIMAL. TARGETS MARKED. PULSE RATE ANALYSIS: IGARASHI (180 BPM), RAICHI (150 BPM), KUNIGAMI (120 BPM).]
He opened his eyes. The obsidian irises seemed to absorb the light in the room.
"Why isn't he moving?" Raichi Jingo, the blonde delinquent with jagged teeth, shouted, backing into a corner. "He's giving up! The trash knows he's trash!"
"Don't let your guard down!" Kunigami warned, his stance rigid, ready to block.
Kiyotaka took a single step forward. It was slow, deliberate. The psychological pressure of his calmness was heavier than a sprint. If he ran, they would run. It would be a chaotic scramble. But by walking, he forced them to watch him. He forced them to anticipate.
He looked at Igarashi. The monk flinched, pressing himself into the corner like a rat.
"Target locked," Kiyotaka whispered.
He kicked.
It wasn't a power shot. It was a calculated, stinging pass. The ball flew across the room, not at Igarashi's chest, but at the wall six inches to the monk's left.
BANG!
The ball ricocheted off the concrete wall with terrifying velocity, the angle perfectly calculated by the Laplace's Demon system. It slammed into Igarashi's calf just as he tried to scramble away.
"Ow!" Igarashi yelped, clutching his leg as the ball dropped at his feet. The holographic interface on his suit turned red. TARGET.
The timer read 120 seconds.
"The tag has transferred," Kiyotaka stated, stepping back to the center, his hands in his pockets. "I advise you to move, Monk. Time is a resource you are rapidly depleting."
Chaos erupted. Igarashi, panic overriding his pain, grabbed the ball and began to sprint, screaming. He targeted the nearest person—Isagi.
Kiyotaka watched the pandemonium unfold from the eye of the storm. The Nanobots regulated his adrenaline, keeping his heart rate at a resting 60 beats per minute while everyone else spiked above 160. He stood near the wall, motionless, watching the vectors of the ball.
He observed the movement patterns.
Bachira was drifting. He wasn't running away; he was dancing. He moved with a fluidity that defied standard athletic biomechanics, his center of gravity shifting unpredictably. [NOTE: BACHIRA MEGURU. THREAT: UNPREDICTABLE. NON-LINEAR MOVEMENT.]
Kunigami relied on positioning, using his large frame to block paths. [NOTE: KUNIGAMI RENSUKE. DEFENSIVE STANCE: SOLID. THREAT: LINEAR.]
Isagi was purely reactionary. He was terrified, his head on a swivel, wasting energy on anxiety. [NOTE: ISAGI YOICHI. CURRENT UTILITY: NULL.]
The ball bounced from person to person. Igarashi hit Raichi. Raichi, furious, blasted it at Gagamaru. Gagamaru absorbed it awkwardly with his face and kicked it at Naruhaya.
60 seconds.
The ball was currently with Raichi again. The aggressive blonde turned, his eyes locking onto Kiyotaka. Raichi realized that Ayanokouji hadn't moved since the first kick.
"You think you can just stand there looking cool, you 300-ranked piece of trash?" Raichi roared. "I'll crush you first!"
Raichi charged. He didn't kick the ball; he dribbled it, closing the distance to point-blank range to ensure a hit that couldn't be dodged. A primitive, brute-force strategy.
Kiyotaka watched him come. The distance closed rapidly. 5 meters. 3 meters.
[INCOMING THREAT: RAICHI JINGO. VELOCITY: 7.2 M/S. TRAJECTORY: DIRECT INTERCEPT. RECOMMENDED ACTION: DENSITY SHIFT - EVASION COUNTER.]
Raichi swung his leg, a vicious volley aimed squarely at Kiyotaka's face.
In the nanosecond before impact, Kiyotaka moved. He didn't jump back. He stepped in.
Engaging the Density Shift, he flooded the nanobots to his left shoulder and core, turning his upper body into a dense, immovable object to absorb incidental contact, while simultaneously relaxing his legs to allow for fluid rotation. He slipped inside Raichi's kicking arc.
The ball whizzed past Kiyotaka's ear, missing by millimeters—a calculated margin.
Kiyotaka pivoted on his heel. As Raichi followed through, off-balance from the missed kick, Kiyotaka extended his foot. He didn't kick the ball. He placed his foot gently on top of it, arresting its momentum instantly.
Raichi stumbled past him, his momentum carrying him into the wall.
Kiyotaka stood with the ball under his foot. Raichi turned around, panting, realizing he hadn't tagged anyone. He was still "It". The suit remained red.
"What... what did you do?" Raichi gasped, his eyes wide.
"You telegraphed your intent," Kiyotaka explained, his voice cutting through the heavy breathing of the room. "Anger makes you predictable. Predictability is death in this room. You aimed for the face, which shifted your balance upward. Had you aimed for the legs, I would have had to expend 15% more energy to evade."
He flicked the ball up, caught it in his hand, and tossed it lightly back to Raichi.
"You still have the status of 'It'," Kiyotaka reminded him. "I suggest you find a new target. I am currently outside your calculation range."
The room stared. For a moment, the game stopped. They weren't looking at the lowest-ranked player anymore. They were looking at an anomaly.
30 seconds.
Raichi, humiliated and desperate, turned away from Kiyotaka. He looked for weaker prey. He saw Isagi.
"Don't look down on me!" Raichi screamed, launching a long ball at Isagi.
Isagi froze. The ball was coming straight for him.
Suddenly, a blur of motion intercepted the pass. Bachira. The eccentric boy trapped the ball with his chest, landing softly.
"This is getting fun!" Bachira giggled, a wild light in his eyes. He looked at Isagi, then at Kiyotaka. "Hey, Robot-kun! You're pretty interesting! But..."
Bachira turned and blasted the ball. Not at Isagi. Not at Kiyotaka.
He aimed for the sleeping giant, the boy who had been dozing in the corner until the game started. Nagi Seishiro? No, Nagi wasn't in this stratum. It was the tall, silent one. Gagamaru.
No, the memory file corrected itself. It was Kira Ryosuke.
The "Jewel of Japan" had been staying away from the chaos, using his teammates as shields. Bachira saw through it. Bachira's pass was wild, aimed to force a reaction.
Kira dodged, but the deflection sent the ball skidding toward Isagi.
Isagi's instincts flared. He didn't want to just survive. He wanted to eliminate the strongest. The monster inside him woke up.
10 seconds.
Isagi turned. The ball was at his feet. He looked at Igarashi, who was injured on the floor. An easy target. Logical survival.
No, Isagi's expression shifted. The eyes darkened. The ego was taking root. He turned his gaze to Kira.
Kira's eyes widened. "Isagi? We're teammates! What are you—"
5 seconds.
Isagi wound up. A direct volley.
BAM!
The ball smashed into Kira's face. The impact was brutal, the sound of synthetic leather hitting cartilage echoing in the concrete box. Kira crumpled, the red holographic "TARGET" appearing on his chest.
0 seconds.
BUZZZZZZZZ.
The room fell into a stunned silence. Kira Ryosuke, the Jewel of Japan, lay on the floor, dazed, a red mark forming on his cheek, the ball rolling innocuously away from him.
"Game Over," Ego's voice announced from the speakers, sounding bored. "Kira Ryosuke. You are locked off. Leave."
Kira sat up, blinking. He touched his chest, seeing the red light. "What? No. This... this is a joke, right?" He looked around, his confident facade shattering. "I'm the ace of my team! I'm going to Nationals! You can't end it here with a stupid game of tag!"
"It's not a game," Kiyotaka's voice cut through Kira's panic. He hadn't moved from his spot. "It was a spatial awareness test. And you failed."
Kira glared at Kiyotaka, then turned to the screen. "This is bullshit! What does tag have to do with soccer?!"
Ego's face on the screen zoomed in. "Everything. The confined space required close control. The time limit required decision-making under pressure. And the targeting... revealed your nature."
Ego's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Kira Ryosuke. You spent the entire time running away. You used your teammates as shields. You waited for the clock to run out. That is the mindset of a coward. A striker must be the one who changes the future with his own foot. Look at Isagi Yoichi."
Everyone turned to Isagi. He was panting, staring at his own hands, trembling not with fear, but with the residual high of the execution.
"He didn't target the injured monk," Ego continued. "He targeted the strongest person in the room. He chose to devour the biggest threat to prove his existence. That is the Ego of a striker."
Kira stood up, screaming, slamming his fist against the wall. "I don't accept this! I am the Jewel of Japan!"
"You were the Jewel of Japan," Ego corrected. "Now, you are just a loser. Get out."
The floor beneath Kira opened slightly, venting cool air. The lock on the exit door clicked. Kira stood there, broken. He looked at Isagi one last time—a look of pure hatred and betrayal—before turning and walking out into the darkness of the corridor. His career was dead.
Kiyotaka leaned against the wall, his heart rate still a steady 60. He watched as Kira's reality shattered. It was pathetic. It was human. But it was also data.
[ELIMINATION CONFIRMED. SUBJECT KIRA REMOVED. HYPOTHESIS CONFIRMED: EXTERNAL VALIDATION PROVIDES NO DEFENSE AGAINST RAW EGO. SURVIVAL RATE OF TEAM Z: 90%.]
Kiyotaka looked at Isagi. The boy looked terrified of what he had done, yet his body was relaxed. He had crossed a threshold.
"Stage One complete," Kiyotaka thought, closing his eyes as the nanobots began a microscopic repair cycle on his muscle fibers, preparing for the next equation.
"Listen up, sludge," Ego's voice returned, sharper this time. "The eleven of you who remain... you are now Team Z. You will live together. You will eat together. And you will fight together. But remember... inside Blue Lock, you are all enemies."
Kiyotaka opened his eyes. The atmosphere in the room had shifted. The camaraderie of the bus ride was gone. The air was heavy with suspicion.
"System," Kiyotaka commanded internally. "Initiate Social Dynamic Simulation. Variable: Betrayal."
[SIMULATION STARTED. PROBABILITY OF INTERNAL CONFLICT WITHIN 24 HOURS: 98%.]
Kiyotaka pushed off the wall. He walked over to his locker and retrieved a water bottle. He took a sip, the cool liquid fueling the nanobots.
"Well," Kiyotaka said aloud, breaking the heavy silence. "Now that the trash has been taken out, perhaps we should introduce ourselves properly."
He looked at Isagi, then at Bachira, then at the fuming Raichi.
"I am Ayanokouji Kiyotaka. My specialty is... positioning."
A lie. But a useful one.
The real game was just beginning. And unlike Kira, Kiyotaka had no intention of being a jewel. He would be the cutter.