The first timei Isagi Yoichi saw him, it felt like watching a god descend from the heavens.
Noel Noa.
The screen flickered to life on a cold winter evening, the Isagi family sitting huddled on the sofa under a worn-out blanket. His father had just switched channels, aimlessly flipping through variety shows and news until the sharp green of a football field appeared. It was a Champions League match — Manshine City versus Bastard München. At the time, Yoichi barely knew what that meant. He was only six years old.
What he did know was that Number 9 was different.
The way Noel Noa moved wasn't like the others. Every touch, every step, — the game bent around him.
Isagi sat up straighter, eyes wide, as Noa received a pass on the edge of the box. Three defenders collapsed on him, like wolves lunging for prey. But the ball never stopped moving — a feather-light tap to his left foot, a sudden drop of his shoulder, and then a shot.
A cannon blast.
It wasn't a clean volley or a textbook curl. It was raw — a goal only a striker could create in chaos.
The net bulged. The stadium roared. And Isagi Yoichi felt something click inside his chest.
"I want to do that."
It was a simple thought. But a catalyst to a lot of events in the future.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It started harmlessly enough. After school, Isagi would head to the park, a scuffed-up ball tucked under his arm, and spend hours trying to recreate Noel Noa's goals. The spin, the power, the timing — he wanted to understand it all, down to the smallest detail.
He stood at the edge of the field, picturing the goal like it was some holy altar. In his mind, he wasn't a scrawny elementary kid anymore. He was a pro striker, wearing the Bastard München Number 9, preparing to shatter a defense. The ball rolled to his feet. One touch. The second was the strike. Just like he'd seen Noa do a hundred times before.
"Plant the left foot. Swing the right. Time the follow-through. Easy."
The ball hooked violently to the left, missing the goal entirely and smashing into the rusted fence with a loud clang. A couple of high schoolers hanging around laughed, and Isagi's face burned with embarrassment.
"Tch… Again."
Every day, it was the same routine. School, football, dinner, football again. If the sky was clear, he'd stay until sunset — experimenting, failing, tweaking, and trying again. His legs were too weak. His touch was still clumsy. He couldn't control the spin properly, and every attempt to copy Noa's ambidextrous shooting ended with him tripping over his own left foot.
But he didn't stop. The misses didn't discourage him. If anything, they pissed him off in the best way possible.
"Noa probably missed a hundred times when he was my age, right? Maybe more. I just have to outwork that."
Day after day, he kept at it, even after the streetlights came on and his fingers turned numb from the cold. It became a routine, almost ritualistic. School, football, homework (rushed through), football again. If it rained, he'd clear a small space in the living room and practice footwork between the furniture, careful not to knock anything over. When his parents scolded him for dribbling inside the house, he'd switch to watching matches instead — eyes glued to the screen, notebook in hand, scribbling down movements and patterns like a student cramming for finals.
His parents couldn't help but notice. It wasn't just a phase or a passing hobby — this was something deeper. There was a seriousness in his eyes, a focus they didn't often see in a boy his age. At first, they found it amusing, even encouraging. His dad, a casual football fan himself, started recording matches for him to watch after dinner. His mom, despite not knowing much about the sport, made sure his football cleats were always clean and ready by the door.
They saw how his world was quietly shifting to revolve around this one thing. How his conversations began to drift toward strategies, players, goals he wanted to recreate. And there was one name that came up more than any other — Noel Noa.
When his seventh birthday came around, his father didn't even have to ask what to get him. The gift was waiting for him at the breakfast table: a crisp, brand new Bastard München jersey — Number 9.
Isagi held it up like it was a relic from a shrine. The letters gleamed, the club crest pressed neatly over the heart. He wore it immediately, refusing to take it off for the rest of the day. In fact, for weeks after, it was the only thing he wanted to wear whenever he went out to play. Even when the lettering started peeling off from too many washes, he kept it in his room like a trophy.
With that jersey on his back, he wasn't just Isagi Yoichi anymore.
He was the kid chasing Noel Noa's shadow.
"If I'm wearing this… I can play like him."
And so, his solo training evolved.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From that day on, everything had a purpose.
Isagi's afternoons at the park weren't just about kicking the ball around anymore. They became experiments. Each day, he'd try to copy something he saw Noa do — a turn, a shot, the way Noa always seemed to pop up exactly where the ball would arrive.
Of course, Isagi's first attempts were a mess.
He'd run wildly into the penalty area, arms swinging, eyes darting everywhere, only for the ball to roll nowhere near him. Sometimes he'd chase the ball like a puppy, trying to force his way into the play instead of predicting anything. When he tried to copy Noa's first touch, the ball would bounce off his shin and skid away embarrassingly.
But he kept trying.
At age seven, he didn't have the language to call it "positioning" or "spatial awareness." All he knew was this:
"Noa always ends up where the ball is. If I can figure out how to do that… I'll score more too."
It started crudely. He'd hover near the goal, waiting like a kid hoping for candy, just standing there and hoping the ball would magically appear at his feet. His friends laughed at him for being lazy, for not running back to help.
"Yo Isagi, stop goal-hanging and actually play!"
But Isagi wasn't just standing around. He was watching. Watching the ball bounce off legs and shins, watching bad crosses fly too far, watching how defenders panicked when they couldn't clear cleanly.
"If the winger crosses too early, it usually goes long. So if I stand back near the post…"
It wasn't perfect — most of the time he guessed wrong and stood uselessly in space, far away from the play. But sometimes, the ball would land at his feet, and he'd feel a spark of pride.
"I knew it."
That feeling became addicting. Like solving a puzzle in real-time — reading the flow, predicting where the loose ball would fall, and getting there first.
The more he chased that feeling, the more his understanding grew.
As the months passed and Isagi grew taller, his clumsy body began to catch up to his ideas. His touches softened. His steps became quicker. And his ability to read the flow improved. By the time he turned eight, his so-called "lucky positioning" became something his friends actually noticed.
"Why do you always end up right there?" they'd ask after he scored another tap-in.
At first, Isagi didn't know how to explain it. How do you describe something you feel more than think? All he could do was smile and shrug.
"That's where strikers are supposed to be."
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
But something was missing.
The goals felt good — they always did — but there were too many times where the ball never came. He'd find the space, the perfect gap where a pass could slide through, but nothing reached him. His teammates either didn't see him or couldn't get the ball past the wall of defenders in front of them.
Without the ball, his positioning meant nothing.
That helplessness sat in his chest like a weight. Every time the ball passed him by — every time a teammate blindly kicked it away instead of looking up — that weight got heavier.
He hated that feeling.
That frustration became a voice in the back of his mind, whispering the same thing over and over:
"If I want the ball to come to me, I have to make it come to me."
It was a simple thought, but it changed everything.
—
He turned nine, and that thought followed him everywhere — gnawing at his brain like a mosquito buzzing in his ear. Even when he scored, it felt incomplete. Because deep down, he knew — he didn't control those chances. He only reacted to them.
He could see the space, he could race into it, but defenders blocked his path before he even got close. His touches were still clumsy if he had to dribble under pressure, and when a defender pressed up tight, his body felt too small to hold them off.
He could read the game.
But he couldn't control it.
That thought scared him more than losing.
"If I only know how to find space, then I'm just standing there, waiting for everyone else to play perfectly."
The more he thought about it, the more useless that sounded. What if his teammates weren't good enough? What if they couldn't pass cleanly under pressure? What if the defenders were just smarter? What then?
That fear crawled under his skin and stayed there.
—--
The first time it really hit him was during a local tournament game.
Isagi Yoichi had spent the entire match doing exactly what his coaches praised him for — drifting into the perfect pockets of space, always ready to pounce the moment the ball came his way.
But the ball never came.
His teammates couldn't break through the press. When they did, they panicked under pressure, sending clumsy passes to no one. Even when Isagi stood wide open, arms out, calling, they never looked his way.
He stood there, hands on his knees, chest rising and falling, while the other team sprinted the other direction. His team was already retreating into defense, leaving him stranded and useless.
Helpless.
That feeling burned into him.
The match ended 1-0. Isagi didn't take a single shot.
That night, sitting cross-legged on his bed with his ball in his lap, the game replayed in his mind like a broken record. Every empty touch, every wasted second — all of it scraped at him until a single thought cut through the noise:
If I want the ball to come, I have to make it come.
That thought cracked something open inside him — a realization that shook him awake.
Just standing at the finish line wasn't enough.
He had to run the whole race.
The next day, his training changed.
No more sprinting blindly to the box. Instead, Isagi followed the ball like a shadow, learning what his teammates saw. If they were too scared to pass forward, he'd give them a pass they couldn't refuse — a short, safe option.
But the second the ball left his foot, Isagi was already moving, darting into the newly opened space, pulling defenders like strings.
For the first time, Isagi wasn't just waiting to score.
He was building the path to the goal himself.
But then reality hit him — what was the point of all this if he couldn't finish?
Every time the ball finally came back to him near the box, defenders swarmed, and Isagi's shots?
Weak. Hesitant. Easy to block.
It terrified him.
A striker without a shot is nothing.
That night, he stayed at the park near his house until the street lights flickered on, drilling shot after shot into a worn-out goalpost.
He started with direct drives — powerful, straight-line strikes that felt honest, like hammering the ball through the net. But direct shots alone weren't enough.
What about when defenders blocked his path? Or when the angle was too tight?
That's when he taught himself curved shots — bending the ball around imaginary defenders, tracing wide arcs that made goalkeepers stumble.
The more he practiced, the more he realized:
A great pass only matters if the striker can end it with a goal.
And dribbling — that couldn't stay weak either.
He didn't want to be the next flashy dribble king. That wasn't him.
But if a defender stood between him and the perfect pass or shot, he had to know how to get past them.
At first, it was just messy trial and error. Simple feints. Basic cuts. Sometimes they worked. Sometimes he tripped over his own feet.
But little by little, Isagi learned how to use his body to hide his intentions — how to angle his dribble so defenders leaned the wrong way. It wasn't showy. But it was effective.
And when no one was watching?
He still practiced a few flashy tricks — not because they were necessary, but because they were fun.
A well-timed nutmeg or a sudden elastico — they felt like secret weapons, just in case.
Control the pass.
Scan the field.
Move the ball.
Create the opening.
And when the goal appeared — strike with everything.
That became his creed.
At practice, the coaches only saw glimpses — a quiet kid staying after training, working alone until the sun dipped low. They thought he just wanted to score more goals. They didn't realize this was all part of a plan.
Isagi wasn't chasing goals for stats.
He was crafting the perfect version of a striker in his mind:
A playmaker who created the attack and finished it himself.
By the time middle school started, his game had transformed.
He wasn't the fastest.
He wasn't the loudest.
But the second Isagi touched the ball, the whole field shifted — like he was holding onto invisible strings only he could see.
His passes always felt one step ahead. His dribbling was clean, sharp, and cut through defenders only when necessary. And his shots — they landed like hammers or curved like whispers, always unpredictable.
First year, he was overlooked. Quiet, small, not particularly flashy.
But by second year, his teammates realized something:
When Isagi was involved, the attack made sense.
The ball moved. Gaps opened.
And at the end of the sequence, there he was — ready to shoot.
By his final year of middle school, Isagi had become the team's central pillar.
Coaches called him the brain.
Teammates called him the heart.
Opponents — they didn't have a name for him, but they all said the same thing:
"He's impossible to stop."
Not because of crazy speed.
Not because of flashy tricks.
But because every time Isagi got the ball, it felt like the entire field belonged to him — like he'd already written the ending before anyone else knew the story had started.
His teammates passed to him without hesitation because they knew:
Isagi's vision would find the right path.
And if the pass came back to him near the goal, there was no hesitation.
He would finish.
He wasn't trying to be a pure poacher, waiting to pounce.
He wasn't trying to be a midfield general, controlling from a distance.
He wasn't trying to be a flashy trickster who played for the crowd.
He wanted to be something only he could be —
A playmaking striker who created the game and ended it himself.
The one who wrote the script, passed the ball, made the space — and then delivered the final line.
—-----------------------
The first whistle cut through the late afternoon air, and the pitch erupted into motion. It wasn't even ten seconds in and Isagi already felt the heat — two defenders flanking him, one slightly ahead, the other brushing close enough that their elbows knocked.
Man-marking. Right from kickoff.
"Stay with him!" their captain barked from the backline. "He's the brain of this whole team!"
The crowd buzzed with anticipation — the stands packed tighter than usual. Students from other schools, parents with cameras out, and even a handful of high school scouts lined the touchline, watching to see if the rumors were true.
"Which one's Isagi?"
"The one they're already triple-teaming."
Their captain, a towering center-back named Kengo Gaiken, didn't even look at the referee before kickoff—his eyes were locked on Isagi.
"I don't buy the hype," Kengo muttered, cracking his knuckles.
"We'll make sure your last game is forgettable."
Isagi just smiled. Not cocky, not arrogant. Just ready.
The referee blew the whistle.
—-----
For the first few minutes, Isagi hardly touched the ball. Every pass toward him was intercepted, every gap he could slip into was sealed off before he could blink. His teammates panicked, defaulting to hopeless long balls over the top — desperate to avoid turnovers near their own goal.
From the sideline, his coach shouted, "Calm down! Use Isagi!"
Easier said than done. With defenders clinging to him, Isagi had to fight for every inch of space. But the pressure didn't rattle him — if anything, it sharpened his focus.
It came around the sixth minute — a simple back pass from his midfielder under pressure. Isagi took it with his back to goal, immediately feeling the weight of the defender's arm pressing into his spine.
No turn. No time.
So he didn't force it. One touch, two touches, dragging the ball sideways, baiting both defenders to shuffle after him.
A third touch — disguised as a pass back.
Except it wasn't.
With a sharp cut, he rolled the ball the other way, into the space he'd just created, leaving his shadows scrambling. The crowd gasped at the simplicity of it —
"He split them that easily?"
Isagi gave a quick pass to the left winger pushing through. And made his run toward the penalty box.
Even after losing his markers, Isagi didn't sprint forward blindly. He scanned — left wing pushing up, right wing still hesitating, defenders clustered toward the middle. No clear path.
That's fine.
He drifted wide, almost to the sideline, until the defenders hesitated. Do we follow him out here? Or hold the line?
That hesitation was death.
"Here!" Isagi's voice cut through, sharp and clear. The pass came — not perfect, but he adjusted on the run, settling the ball with a soft touch. 22 meters out. Sharp angle.
"Too far!" someone shouted from the crowd.
Isagi's left foot planted, his right swung through — the kind of shot you only attempt when you've hit it a thousand times alone on an empty field.
One touch to settle.
One glance at the keeper.
One swing—
CRACK.
The ball arced beautifully — a perfect curve that knifed into the far top corner.
The net rippled.
1-0.
The crowd roared, half in disbelief, half in awe.
The commentator's voice crackled from the sideline speaker:
"GOAL!! ISAGI YOICHI — STRIKES FIRST BLOOD!!"
"NO WAY—"
"HE CURVED THAT FROM OUTSIDE THE BOX?!"
"That's insane!!"
The defenders stared at each other, stunned.
"What the hell was that shot? From there?"
"Who shoots from that angle?"
The commentators struggled for words.
"An unreal finish! Isagi Yoichi —what a strike!"
On the field, Kengo's face twisted in disbelief.
His goalkeeper groaned, picking himself up from the ground.
"Shit… what the hell was that shot?"
His teammates piled onto him in celebration, but Isagi's mind was already ahead.
One down. What's their next move?
—---
The opposing coach wasn't stupid. He shouted new orders immediately.
"Don't chase him outside the box! Hold the line — if he wants to waste time out wide, let him!"
They adapted, pulling tighter in the middle and handing off marking duties when Isagi drifted deep. They stopped chasing shadows.
Isagi smiled to himself.
They think they've solved me. Hilarious.
With the defenders planted centrally, Isagi adjusted his positioning. Instead of lurking up top, he slid back — almost into midfield, becoming a passing option.
His teammates hesitated at first.
"You're too far back!"
"Trust me," Isagi said, voice calm.
As the next attack built, Isagi took a pass just inside his own half. Two defenders immediately closed in — but this time, Isagi had time.
Tap. Tap. Drag. Cut.
He danced between them with quick, efficient touches — no wasted movement, no flashy tricks. Just pure control.
The crowd oohed — not loud, but enough to ripple through the stands. Even a simple dribble looked magical when it came from someone controlling the whole flow.
With the defense momentarily out of shape, Isagi drove forward, the field stretching open in front of him. One defender stepped up to block him at the edge of the box.
Too slow.
Isagi nutmegged him without breaking stride, and the crowd lost it.
"Holy shit!!"
"Did he just—"
"Where's the second defender? Someone stop him!"
But there was no second defender. They were still backpedaling, unsure whether to hold the line or chase.
Isagi didn't wait.
From 18 meters, he hit it.
From the edge of the box—another shot.
Low. Hard. Cruel.
The keeper dove late. The net rippled again.
2-0.
The crowd roared, louder this time. His teammates screamed his name. But the best reaction came from the opposing captain, standing near midfield, hands on his knees, glaring at Isagi like he was seeing a ghost.
"What the hell… how do you stop someone like that?"
The sideline commentator, scrambling for words, found his voice:
"Isagi Yoichi — the player who sees two steps ahead — carves through the defense again!"
As the teams walked off at halftime, the opposing captain passed by Isagi. For a second, they locked eyes.
"What the hell are you?" the captain muttered, too low for the crowd to hear.
Isagi smiled — not mocking, not arrogant. Just calm.
"A striker."
—------
The match had turned ugly — not just physically, but mentally.
Every time Isagi touched the ball, someone was there to shove him off it. Studs scraped his ankles, elbows dug into his ribs, and off-the-ball body checks knocked the wind out of him. None of it was accidental.
"Stay down, freak!" one of the defenders hissed after slamming into him just outside the box.
But Isagi didn't stay down. He never even looked at them. He used them.
Because the more they focused on him, the more gaps opened everywhere else.
Isagi changed how he moved — no longer charging toward goal like a hungry striker, but drifting, sliding into spaces between the cracks. Sometimes deep into midfield to pull defenders out of their shape, sometimes wide like a winger just to stretch them further.
"Where the hell is he going now?!" No. 5 shouted, spinning his head like a lost dog.
"He's baiting us, idiot!" the captain snarled.
But knowing the trap was there didn't mean they could avoid it. Every step Isagi took was a thread tightening around their necks.
The play started fast — a botched clearance falling into his team's midfield, and in seconds, they broke forward. Three attackers spread wide, dragging defenders with them.
Isagi? He lingered behind just enough to disappear into the blind spot.
"Where is he?!" No. 5's voice cracked, panicking now.
"Check the middle—"
Too late.
Isagi timed his run like a knife slipping between ribs, arriving just as the cross tore through the air.
"WATCH HIM!" someone screamed, but Isagi had already taken flight — left foot slicing through the ball with brutal precision.
The volley hit like a gunshot, smashing into the roof of the net so hard the goalposts shuddered.
"HAT-TRICK! ISAGI YOICHI! UNSTOPPABLE!" the commentator roared, nearly losing his voice.
The crowd lost its mind — fans screaming, stamping their feet, a storm of sound crashing over the field.
On the pitch, No. 5 dropped to his knees, hands pulling at his hair.
"What the hell are we supposed to do?!" he shouted to no one in particular.
Another defender kicked the ground, frustration spilling out in curses.
"He's not even flashy! It's just... perfect."
"Perfect positioning... perfect timing... perfect shot…" their captain muttered like he was reciting some curse, his eyes locked onto Isagi, who stood at midfield, calm as ever.
That calmness drove them insane.
"Why doesn't he celebrate?! Why does he just stand there like it's nothing?!"
Even his teammates couldn't look at him the same way anymore.
"Isagi… you're kinda terrifying, you know that?" his winger muttered, jogging past him to reset the play. There was a laugh in his voice, but his eyes couldn't quite hide the unease — like he wasn't sure if they were playing with a teammate or something far scarier.
Isagi wiped the sweat off his chin, eyes locked straight ahead.
"Just keep feeding me," he said. No cockiness, no bravado — just a hunger so sharp it could cut the air.
The winger swallowed. "Shit… you're really trying to eat everything, huh?"
On the sideline, the coach stood with his arms crossed — a faint smile tugging at his lips. Pride and fear mixed in his chest like oil and water. He'd seen talented kids before, but this?
This was something else.
As the ball was placed at center circle, No. 5 stood frozen for a moment, staring straight at Isagi.
He didn't see a scrawny little kid anymore.
Didn't see a regular middle school forward.
What stood across from him was a striker with no wasted motion — a player who didn't need to dance or dazzle because every step dragged you exactly where he wanted you to go.
A striker who didn't just want to score — he made you feel like resisting was pointless.
A striker whose game was so cold, so calculated, it felt like death was walking in cleats.
"No…" No. 5 whispered under his breath, voice cracking slightly.
"He's not a player anymore.
He's a monster."
—------
The restart was a mess.
The opposing team, already rattled, threw everything forward in desperation. Their midfield turned reckless, launching hopeful long balls that died before reaching the box. They weren't playing to win anymore — they were playing to survive.
And Isagi saw it all.
Every weak pass. Every nervous touch. Every second guess.
They were no longer thinking about scoring. They were thinking about him.
On the far side of the stands, half-hidden under a cap and leaning against the railing, a lone figure watched the game unfold.
Their eyes tracked Isagi — every run, every adjustment, every silent manipulation of space. They didn't cheer or react like the rest of the crowd. They just… observed.
"Interesting…" the figure muttered, arms crossed tight.
This was exactly what he needed. This was a blueprint for something far more dangerous.
Back to the Pitch
A sloppy pass was intercepted — Isagi's team snapped forward like a spring-loaded trap.
This time, Isagi didn't drift or disappear. This time, he demanded the ball with a sharp call and an outstretched hand, his presence so overwhelming his teammate didn't even think — they just obeyed.
"TAKE HIM OUT!" No. 5 screamed, charging straight at Isagi.
Isagi didn't dodge. He welcomed it.
A feint left — the defender lunged.
A flick right — the ball rolled just out of reach.
Then a sudden outside cut that bent No. 5's knees the wrong way, sending him stumbling face-first into the dirt.
"OH! HE'S BROKEN HIS MARKER COMPLETELY!"
The crowd roared — middle schoolers, parents, coaches from other teams, all standing as Isagi Yoichi left defenders in his wake like discarded bodies on a battlefield.
"He's not just a poacher," the commentator's voice cracked from shouting, "he's a conductor! Controlling the tempo, pulling strings — and now, he's going for blood!"
One defender left. The captain himself.
He rushed Isagi, desperate, but Isagi already knew what was coming. A quick nutmeg — the ball slipped between his legs like water, leaving him frozen mid-step.
"NO!"
One-on-one with the keeper.
But Isagi didn't just blast it. That would be too obvious.
He opened his body for a power shot — the keeper flinched, ready to dive — but at the last second, Isagi's foot sliced across the ball, curving it gently into the far top corner.
A pass into the net.
"GOAL! GOAL! ISAGI YOICHI! FOUR GOALS IN THE FINAL!"
The stadium roared — but on the pitch, the silence was deafening for the other team.
No. 5 just lay there, face in the grass.
The captain stared at his hands like they'd betrayed him.
The keeper collapsed against the post, eyes empty.
"He's… unreal…"
"No, he's…"
One voice from the crowd rang out first — sharp, excited, almost desperate to be the first to say it:
"It's Shizuoka's Blue Demon!"
"Blue Demon?"
"Yeah! He's calm, cold — but the second you lose track of him, it's over! He's there, then gone, then you're picking the ball out of the net!"
The nickname swept through the crowd like wildfire — part fear, part awe, all respect.
Chants started rolling across the stands, louder with each beat:
"Blue Demon! Blue Demon! Blue Demon!"
From the upper stands, the scout — whoever they were — leaned off the railing, turning away before the celebrations even peaked.
"Shizuoka's Blue Demon, huh?" They smirked to themselves, already imagining the boy on a much crueler stage — one where demons eat each other alive.
"This one's going to be fun."
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Notes
Yo, what's up?
Lately, I've been crazy hooked on Blue Lock, and at some point, I started thinking — what if I messed around with Isagi's story? Just to see what happens.
A lot of people call him a shackled genius in high school, but nah — that was never my take. To me, Isagi was just shackled by his environment. It wasn't about his talent being hidden — it was about nobody giving him the right space to cook.
So I thought — what if he broke free before high school even started? What if the moment he realized just standing around the goal wasn't enough, he started building himself up from scratch? That's the Isagi I wanted to write. The one who didn't wait around for a system to use him — he made his own damn system.
If this Isagi feels stronger than canon, good. That's the point. The hunger hit him earlier — and if you're starving, you're gonna evolve or die trying.
This prologue was all about that — showing you the real start of his evolution. Next chapter? That's his debut at Ichinan after moving to Saitama. Shizuoka knows who he is — but in Saitama? They don't have a clue.
They think they're getting some random transfer.
Nah.
They just opened the gates for the Devil of Shizuoka.
See you in Chapter 1.
- SG
(you can read ahead in my patreon, link is in the sypnosis)
EDITOR'S NOTE:-
IDK what all this is…. This guy randomly came up with it and made me edit it.
Someone help me......….