Compensating for the delay, there will be a double chapter today. sorry and thank you.
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It had been over a year and a half since Isagi Yoichi left his old life in Shizuoka behind and moved to Saitama Prefecture. His new school — Ichinan High, the pride of Kawaguchi town's football scene — carried a reputation as a local powerhouse.
But there was a problem.
Ichinan's football philosophy was 'All for one and one for all.'
Everything was about the team unit. Passing lanes had to be perfect, every player had to move as a collective, and no individual was allowed to step too far out of line.
They were obsessed with balance.
A beautiful ideal — on paper. But to someone like Isagi, it was shackles.
It didn't take long for him to shatter those chains.
It was during a simple practice match.
At first, he played along — sitting in his assigned position, following their scripted plays — until he broke the formation.
Isagi started carving his own paths, ignoring the pre-decided flow, dragging defenders where they shouldn't be, and cutting into spaces that hadn't even existed a second ago. His teammates, caught off guard, scrambled to react.
But somehow, it worked.
By the time the match ended, Isagi had scored a hattrick.
And the field itself had started to bend to his will.
Ichinan's coach wasn't some master tactician. He wasn't a former pro with years of experience at the highest level. He was a simple man — a coach molded by the local scene, shaped by grassroots football.
But he wasn't blind.
He didn't say much after that game, but he knew exactly what he had witnessed — the moment a new gravitational force took over the pitch.
From that day onwards, Isagi played on his own terms, reshaping Ichinan's rigid, all-for-one system until the entire team instinctively revolved around him.
He became their axis. Their heartbeat. Their absolute.
Without him, Ichinan wasn't just weaker — they were incomplete.
It was only later that the truth came out.
Isagi Yoichi wasn't just some talented transfer — he was the Blue Demon of Shizuoka Gakuen.
The name alone was enough to send ripples through Saitama's football circles. Tales of a striker who dragged a powerhouse to national relevance all by himself, a player who reshaped entire matches with his sheer will, had made their way even this far north.
For Ichinan's coach, it was reassurance.
For his teammates, it was acceptance.
If Isagi said "Give me the ball," they would.
If Isagi said "Move here," they obeyed.
There was no debate — he had proven himself.
Under Isagi's reign, Ichinan's reputation skyrocketed.
The once respected local powerhouse had grown into something bigger — a symbol of Saitama's football evolution. And at the center of it all was one name: Isagi Yoichi.
A player who arrived quietly from Shizuoka and tore down Ichinan's rigid philosophy, bending the team into his own creation. It was no longer all for one and one for all. It was all for Isagi — and Isagi for the goal.
But for all his brilliance, there was still one name that stood taller across Saitama's football landscape.
Kira Ryosuke.
Born and raised in this prefecture, Kira wasn't just a star — he was Saitama's crown jewel. The golden son who led Matsukaze Kokuō to back-to-back flawless seasons within the region. He wasn't feared — he was worshipped.
To players, to coaches, to the fans, Kira was the standard.
Isagi, on the other hand, was an anomaly.
Not a hometown hero, but a force they couldn't ignore. The Blue Demon of Shizuoka now wearing Saitama's crest — an unsettling symbol of change.
The two had never crossed paths on the pitch — not yet.
But with the Winter Qualifiers approaching, the tournament to decide Saitama's representative at Nationals, that collision was inevitable.
For Saitama, it was a battle of generations.
The established king versus the new weapon forged in chaos.
The entire prefecture was watching.
And so was Isagi Yoichi.
—-----------------------
Time had moved forward, and so had Isagi Yoichi.
Now, standing on Ichinan's worn but familiar training ground, he found himself drifting into memories — memories of a different field under a different sky. Back in Shizuoka, through all his middle school years, Isagi had built his game around positioning and vision. Reading the flow, slipping into spaces nobody else saw, and striking with precision. His signature was clear — those devastating power drives, either hammered straight past the keeper or curved wickedly into the net.
But high school football was different. And so was Isagi.
With the natural changes that came with growing up, his body demanded more. Matches were faster, defenders were sharper, and the physical toll was far heavier than before. The technical genius from middle school had no choice but to evolve.
Isagi Yoichi, now standing at 180 centimeters — nearly 5 foot 11 — had bulked up. His once wiry frame now carried lean muscle, built for shielding the ball and powering through defenders. His touch became sharper, his dribbling more refined. He wasn't just positioning himself for the perfect shot anymore — he was carving his own path through the defense with the ball at his feet.
And his shooting? That part of him had evolved into something even more terrifying. His power strikes carried extra weight, making goalkeepers fear not just the placement but the sheer force behind them. His curved shots had transformed from unpredictable swerves into calculated missiles — bending with impossible precision.
Even his weaker left foot had been trained relentlessly until it could strike nearly as confidently as his dominant right.
Isagi had become a player who could control the game not just with his mind, but with his body. His positioning was still his greatest weapon, but now, he could win the ball, carry it through pressure, and finish however he wanted.
This wasn't the Isagi from Shizuoka anymore. This was the Isagi who had conquered Ichinan, the Isagi who had become the face of Saitama football.
And yet, standing on this field, feeling the earth beneath his cleats, all he could think about was how much further he still had to go.
—--------------------------------------
The stands at the local training ground were alive with chatter, a small group of high school football fans gathered to watch Ichinan's open practice. Most of them were students from nearby schools, some already decked out in team scarves, others just there to pass the time.
"Man, this year's Winter Qualifiers are gonna be nuts," one boy said, spinning a football on his finger. "Matsukaze Kokuō is the favorite again, right? With Kira leading them, it's kinda hard to argue."
"Yeah, Kira's a freakin' machine," another fan chimed in. "Dude barely ever misses, and his first touch is straight-up perfect. Everyone likes Kira and he is really great, that's for sure. But you don't know the deal until you've seen Isagi play. He's unstoppable, really. If you see him play once, you won't be able to help it— you'll become his fan."
"Kawaguchi's Blue Demon, huh?" someone in the back muttered. "I still can't believe Ichinan landed him. Shizuoka Gakuen's old ace, playing for a Saitama school? It's like a cheat code."
"But that's what makes it so good!" the first fan grinned. "Kira's been the King of Saitama since middle school. Everyone's always said he was untouchable here. But now there's Isagi — an outsider who doesn't care about anyone's crown."
"You guys are making it sound like some anime rivalry," a girl laughed. "But I get it. It's not just hype either — I saw Isagi's hattrick against Minami High last month. The way he moves? It's like he's puppeteering the whole field."
"And the crazy part," another fan leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret, "is that he's still changing. He's not even at his peak yet."
"So, who are you rooting for?"
The group fell silent for a moment, before someone finally spoke.
"I mean… Kira's the prince of Saitama football. But if you've seen Isagi play, even once… it's impossible not to root for him."
The conversation drifted into quiet agreement, the fans watching as Isagi drilled shots from the top of the box — one power drive, one curve, one left-footed rocket — each one slamming into the back of the net.
The battle for Saitama's crown wasn't just coming. It had already begun.
Later that evening, a local sports show aired a segment titled "Saitama Football Showdown: Kira vs. Isagi."
Clips rolled across the screen — Kira's elegant first touch, his perfect form when finishing, his calm leadership on the pitch. The commentators spoke with admiration.
Kira Ryosuke — the prince of Saitama football. Ever since his middle school days, he's been the face of the prefecture. His technique is textbook perfection, his decision-making sharp, and his presence on the field feels almost royal. Matsukaze Kokuō's unbeaten streak across the past year is thanks to Kira's steady hand and golden touch.
Then the screen shifted — footage from Ichinan's matches. Isagi tearing through defenses, pulling off impossible angles, dragging entire formations into his web.
And then there's Isagi Yoichi — the rising demon of Saitama. A player who rewrote Ichinan's entire identity in just a year. His positioning, vision, and predatory instincts make him unstoppable in front of the goal. What's terrifying is how much he's still evolving — more strength, sharper control, and a mind that sees the pitch like no one else.
The hosts went back and forth.
"Technically, Kira's still the top player in Saitama."
"But if we're talking momentum? It's all Isagi."
"It's experience versus evolution."
"Prince versus Demon."
"Two completely different styles — but only one can lead Saitama in the Nationals."
Clips of both players flashed again — Kira calmly placing a penalty into the top corner, Isagi rocketing a curve shot from outside the box.
The segment ended with a single line across the screen:
"This Winter — Saitama's King will rise.
But will it be Kira? Or Isagi?"
—------------
The practice matches leading up to the Winter Tournament unfolded exactly as people expected — complete domination by the two powerhouses of Saitama.
Ichinan, with Isagi at its core, steamrolled through their local rivals. Teams came prepared with defensive gameplans centered entirely around stopping him, only to realize that preparation meant nothing when faced with his movement and reading of the game. Isagi's hattricks became so routine that the media stopped reporting them like shocking feats — they were expected now.
On the other side, Matsukaze Kokuō played their matches with a different kind of dominance. They were organized, refined, and precise — the work of a team that had been building towards this tournament for years under Kira Ryosuke's leadership. While Ichinan revolved around one player, Matsukaze Kokuō looked like a machine — every piece moving in harmony, with Kira as their shining blade to cut down opponents.
The tournament bracket itself seemed to tease the entire prefecture. Ichinan and Matsukaze Kokuō were placed on opposite ends — ensuring they could only meet in the finals. It felt like some official himself was scripting this.
As each round passed, the excitement only grew louder. Reporters flocked to the fields, interviews became a daily affair, and both teams found themselves constantly under the spotlight.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Winter Qualifiers began with a buzz unlike any Saitama had ever seen in years. From the first whistle, the story was already written — two schools, two names, two paths destined to collide at the end.
Ichinan's run was ruthless.
4-0 in the first round.
5-0 in the second.
A brutal 6-0 dismantling in the quarterfinals.
And a 3-0 victory in the semis, where Isagi walked off with another hattrick under his belt.
Each game felt like Isagi was writing his own legend, carving his name deeper into Saitama's football lore with every goal.
Matsukaze Kokuō, on the other hand, looked like royalty refusing to dirty their hands.
3-0 in the opener — a match where Kira didn't even break a sweat.
5-0 in the second round — Kira scored twice, assisted twice, and spent most of the second half dictating the game like a chess master.
The quarterfinals ended 2-0, not flashy, just clinical.
And in the semis, they walked past their opponent with a 4-1 win, Kira delivering the final goal with the calmness of someone signing their name on a letter.
–--
"Ichinan's turning every game into a highlight reel. Isagi's not just playing — he's putting on a damn show."
"Matsukaze Kokuō… they play like they already know they've won before the match even starts. It's terrifying."
"It's crazy — you've got Isagi scoring hattricks like it's casual, and Kira out here looking like he's holding back just to keep things interesting."
–----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a dark room, illuminated only by the bluish glow of multiple screens, Jinpachi Ego leaned forward in his chair. The game footage flickered across his monitors — match after match, every pass, every shot, every decision by one player alone.
Isagi Yoichi.
Ego wasn't interested in Saitama's darling Kira. That perfect ace molded by the system — predictable, boring. What mattered was the boy who had already begun to rewrite the script. The boy who shattered Ichinan's team play and rebuilt it around himself.
"Good… very good." Ego's grin stretched wide, teeth gleaming like a predator catching scent of blood.
"Destroy your team's style. Force them to orbit around you. Prove that football belongs to the striker who devours the game itself."
He tapped his finger against Isagi's face on the screen, almost affectionate, almost obsessive.
"Keep showing me, Isagi Yoichi — how far can a striker's ego take you?"
Ego didn't care about Saitama's crown.
He only cared about watching his ideal striker being born.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The room felt too small for the weight of this match.
On one side of the table — Kira Ryosuke, the golden boy. Neat jacket, composed smile, that effortless aura of someone born to carry a team. Matsukaze Kokuō's perfect ace — polished, graceful, and ready.
On the other side of the table — Isagi Yoichi, the rising star who rewrote Ichinan's history in a single season. He sat back in his chair, not slouching, but comfortable in his own skin. Not flashy, not trying to play a role — just a striker who knew exactly what he could do, and wasn't afraid to show it.
"Kira-kun, Matsukaze Kokuō is aiming for a consecutive championship win. This time, you face Ichinan's team led by the tournament's top scorer. What does this final mean to you?"
Kira smiled softly, hands folded neatly on the table.
"It's an important match, of course. But for me, every match matters equally. Ichinan's growth is impressive, and Isagi-kun's talent is undeniable. That's exactly why this final is exciting — because it's a chance for both sides to prove their football."
Polished and diplomatic — the prince's response.
"Isagi-kun, you've scored the most goals in the tournament so far — more than even Kira-kun. Many say you are the reason Ichinan is here. What does this final mean for you?"
Isagi leaned into the mic, no awkwardness, no hesitation.
"It's simple. I'm here to win."
He didn't shout it, didn't pose — just stated it like a fact.
"Scoring goals is my job. And yeah, I'm proud of what I've done so far. But goals from the qualifiers mean nothing if we lose here. The only goal that matters now is the one that wins the final."
Calm. Clear. And dangerously confident. The kind of player who's tasted his own growth and knows exactly how sharp his fangs have become.
"This is the first time you two will face each other directly. What's your impression of the other?"
Kira smiled, thoughtful.
"Isagi-kun is a striker with a rare gift — the ability to see goals before anyone else does. His positioning, his movement, his sense for space — it's the kind of talent you respect, no matter what team you're on."
Isagi didn't miss a beat.
"Kira-kun's a great player — technique, composure, speed, and shot power coupled with a great sense of field awareness. As an opponent, no matter what, you would respect someone like that. So I only hope for a match that would be worth remembering."
A prince acknowledging a rising demon.
And a demon respecting the king who still sits on the throne.
"Any message for each other before the final?"
Kira's smile sharpened just a little.
"Let's put on a match everyone will remember."
Isagi's smirk matched his, a spark in his eyes.
"Yeah — let's make it a fight worth winning."
The cameras caught it — that moment where respect, ambition, and hunger all collided between them.
Two players.
Two visions of what a striker should be.
And only one crown.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No one batted an eye when the press conference was announced.
It wasn't nationals. Not even close.
But this wasn't just any match.
This was Isagi Yoichi versus Kira Ryosuke.
That alone was enough to pull cameras, reporters, scouts — and the eyes of an entire prefecture — onto this final.
Both names were already in JFA scouting reports. Their paths to the U-20 team weren't guaranteed yet, but everyone knew — a dominant run at Nationals could lock their ticket. This game was just a prelude, a preview of what they might do on a bigger stage.
The hype wasn't manufactured. It was earned.
And it followed them all the way to the tunnel, to the handshake, and to the center circle itself.
The referee held up the coin. Kira called it.
It landed in his favor — first win of the day.
Matsukaze Kokuō would kick off.
Both teams bowed to each other — a tradition carried with respect, even in a match with this much weight.
On Ichinan's side, the formation was 4-2-3-1, with Isagi at the tip of the spear. A year ago, Coach Nozomi would've laughed at the idea of playing this shape — too ambitious for a school like theirs.
But that was before Isagi Yoichi changed everything.
Across from them, Matsukaze Kokuō lined up in their signature 4-4-2, a formation built around balance — and around Kira Ryosuke.
Two forwards up front. Kira leading the line. His partner, the secondary striker, ready to link up or play feeder — the same routine that's won them game after game.
The referee's final glance flicked between the two captains — Kira and Isagi — before raising his whistle to his lips.
The shrill note pierced the air.
The final of the qualifiers had begun.
Kira rolled the ball left to his strike partner, then immediately took off down the center. A quick give-and-go — textbook.
With the return pass at his feet, Kira glided into Ichinan's half, his first touch immaculate, his acceleration crisp and effortless.
Ichinan's defenders closed in, but Kira danced through them — a body feint to the right, a sudden Cruyff turn to the left, then a sharp elastico that left the right-back flat-footed.
He wasn't alone either. His partner stayed close, running sharp diagonals, pulling Ichinan's center-backs out of shape — and with every successful pass, Matsukaze's grip tightened.
They held onto possession for nearly four full minutes, pinging short passes, rotating the ball with sharp one-twos, gradually suffocating Ichinan into a defensive shell.
It was calculated. Clinical.
And the whole time, Isagi didn't move.
He watched. Every pass, every feint, every movement. His eyes tracked patterns — the rhythm of Kira's play, the spacing between him and his partner, even the slight hesitation in their fullback's overlaps.
But Kira wasn't interested in Isagi.
He was locked in — hungry for the first strike.
At the edge of the box, Kira squared up against Ichinan's last defender.
Step-over. Step-over. Quick Marseille turn.
The defender bit — lunging too early — and Kira slid past him like water, stepping into the penalty area with a clear line to shoot.
He barely hesitated.
Instep drive. Full power.
The ball rocketed to the top left corner, clipping the inside of the post before rippling the net.
Goal.
5th minute.
Matsukaze Kokuō 1-0 Ichinan.
The stadium erupted.
Fans on their feet, commentators gushing — this was exactly the start they expected from Saitama's crown jewel.
But amidst the celebration, the camera cut to Isagi.
He wasn't shaken.
He was smirking.
Eyes still locked on Kira, sharp as a blade.
"I understand you now."
Nozomi stood on the touchline, arms crossed, face unreadable.
If this were any other coach, they'd probably already be clutching their head, scrambling to adjust after conceding so early.
But Nozomi wasn't worried.
Because he had Isagi Yoichi.
His eyes locked onto his striker — and just from the way Isagi was standing, weight slightly shifted onto his back foot, gaze calmly scanning the field — he knew.
He's figured something out already.
The ball was placed back at the center circle. This time, Ichinan would kick off.
Isagi didn't hesitate, playing a sharp backward pass into Ichinan's defensive line.
"Keep possession." His voice was calm, but there was authority in it — a clear signal that the real game was starting now.
From his position at the center circle, Isagi stood still, watching Matsukaze's shape react to the passive buildup.
And just like he expected, it was disappointingly textbook.
Kira and his partner — what was his name again? Whatever — both pressed hard, sprinting straight toward Ichinan's center-backs, trying to force a turnover.
Predictable.
For three minutes, Isagi just watched, observing how Matsukaze's lines pushed up too aggressively, their midfield drifting apart, their defenders leaving gaps in the half-spaces wide open.
Enough.
Isagi moved.
The moment he made his first step, every Ichinan player straightened up.
They knew.
They are striking now.
Isagi darted into the right-side channel — a pocket of space completely overlooked by Matsukaze's defensive block. The fullback was too preoccupied with the winger, and the center-back was drawn up pressing the midfield line. Gap exposed.
A sharp, lofted pass arced through the air, aimed at Tada — Ichinan's attacking midfielder, stationed just behind Isagi.
Without missing a beat, Tada controlled the ball with a clean first touch and threaded a low, driven pass straight into Isagi's path.
"Good work." Isagi said with a straight face, no expression.
He was already halfway into Matsukaze's half, and only three defenders stood between him and the goal.
Two center-backs stepped forward to engage, closing him down in a 2v1.
Perfect.
Isagi accelerated straight at them, closing the gap faster than they expected.
They braced for a dribble duel — but instead, Isagi flicked the ball up with his toe, then launched a rainbow flick right over their heads.
He burst between them before they could even turn around.
Two defenders gone in a flash.
The last remaining defender, caught off guard, shuffled awkwardly into position.
The defender lunged in, legs spread too wide — a fatal mistake.
Isagi slid the ball through the gap with a nutmeg, gliding past effortlessly.
Now, he stood 27 meters from goal, just outside the penalty area. Positioned toward the right flank, his angle to the goal was awkward — a diagonal line, far from ideal for a direct shot.
Behind him, three Matsukaze defenders were already charging, their pride shattered, their desperation boiling over. They were out for revenge, closing in fast.
Most players would have slowed down, tried to shield the ball, or stalled for support.
Not Isagi.
He planted his left foot firmly into the pitch, body leaning slightly back.
Then — with his right foot — he struck the ball with a brutal outside spin, connecting low on the ball's left side.
The ball rocketed off his boot, slicing through the air in a wild curve, bending from right to left at a terrifying angle.
The goalkeeper's eyes widened — completely fooled.
He shuffled right, expecting a curling shot to the far post.
Wrong.
The ball's wicked spin pulled it back toward the near post, curving impossibly into the top-right corner — a shot so audacious it left the crowd gasping.
The net shook violently, the ball slamming into it with such force that half the backline came loose, the top corner sagging slightly under the sheer impact.
The stadium fell into a stunned silence — Matsukaze fans frozen, jaws slack, disbelief in their eyes. They'd written off Isagi as just another striker — only to witness something unreal.
Half the crowd simply couldn't understand what had just happened.
The other half, the ones who truly knew football, were left staring in awe at the brilliance of Isagi Yoichi.
Isagi stood still, gaze locked on the net for a moment, before calmly running a hand through his hair, flicking it back from his forehead.
He turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder at the stunned Matsukaze players — the picture of calm dominance.
That's when his teammates swarmed him, shouting his name, piling onto him in celebration.
But even as they celebrated, Isagi's focus never wavered.
There was still a lot to cover here.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Matsukaze restarted with cautious possession, their players now fully alert, moving the ball between themselves in short, safe passes.
They weren't looking to score anymore.
They just wanted to kill time—drag this match into halftime with the scores level.
Cowards.
Isagi stood at the center of the pitch, hands on his hips, watching them with utter boredom.
One goal—just one goal—and they were already playing scared?
He sighed. It wasn't surprising. They had lost all momentum.
And now, they were trying desperately to get it back.
For fifteen whole minutes, Matsukaze controlled possession, playing a conservative, dull game—occasionally losing the ball, but recovering it just as quickly.
It was a standoff, but Isagi wasn't even concerned.
This was exactly what he wanted.
And then—it happened.
Their second mistake.
Matsukaze's midfield, feeling a tiny bit of confidence return, finally tried to push forward.
A lazy, underpowered pass was sent toward their central midfielder—a player so used to the slow tempo that he wasn't even expecting interference.
Too easy.
Isagi sprinted forward, cutting the passing lane perfectly, intercepting the ball without any effort.
A clean, precise steal.
Ichinan reacted instantly.
Their midfielders spread into attacking positions, knowing what came next.
They had played with Isagi long enough—they knew the moment he stole the ball, the attack had already begun.
Isagi quickly flicked the ball right to Ogawa, who had broken into an open space.
He didn't waste time admiring his work—he was already moving, sprinting into position for the return pass.
Ogawa took control, pushing forward alongside Tada and Ryosuke.
The three of them formed a quick, rotating triangle, passing sharply between each other, dismantling Matsukaze's first line of defense.
Then—Ryosuke saw the opening.
A long pass, high and fast, sent over the Matsukaze defenders—aimed toward Isagi.
It wasn't perfect.
Too much power.
Too far ahead.
If left alone, it would roll straight into the goalkeeper's hands.
For a split second, Isagi's eyes flickered—calculating, analyzing.
Then, he moved.
Adjusting his stride, he caught up to the ball, but controlling it would take extra time—too much time.
Matsukaze's defenders were already closing in, fully aware of the danger.
But Isagi wasn't planning to stop.
He stretched his right leg out, using the outside of his foot to make a soft, controlled touch—enough to slow the ball without losing momentum.
The moment the ball dropped to the grass, he shifted his balance.
The keeper had already stepped forward, thinking Isagi would need another touch to set up his shot.
Wrong.
Isagi's body twisted before the defenders could even react.
With his left foot planted, he swung his right leg around in a first-time volley.
The strike was devastating.
A controlled, dipping shot—low and fast, curling viciously toward the bottom left corner.
The goalkeeper lunged, stretching out desperately.
But the ball was already past him.
It slammed into the bottom of the post—then into the net.
A perfect finish.
For a moment—silence.
Then, eruption.
Ichinan's players sprinted toward Isagi, piling onto him in celebration.
On the other side, Matsukaze's players stood frozen, hands on their heads, disbelief written across their faces.
Isagi exhaled, calm and composed, before tilting his head back toward their stunned expressions.
Two goals.
2-1
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kira Ryosuke, the crown jewel of Saitama Prefecture. The one destined to become Japan's shining star.
And yet, right now, he was speechless.
From the moment he first touched a football, people called him a genius. Coaches, analysts, and fans alike all agreed—Kira Ryosuke was special. No one could compare to him. He had grown up being told he was above the rest, and he carried himself accordingly. An ego? Of course, but he was smart enough to keep it in check. Public relations mattered, after all.
So when he first heard about a rising talent—one who some dared to compare to him—he almost laughed. Isagi Yoichi? The name barely registered in his mind. The idea that someone could rival him? A joke. He didn't even bother watching his games. He dismissed him as just another player who would eventually fade away like the others.
Yet, the noise around Isagi didn't die down. His name kept appearing in discussions, his performances turning heads. By the time the Winter Tournament arrived, Isagi wasn't just a rising star—he stood shoulder to shoulder with Kira in media coverage and fan discussions.
That irked him.
Then he saw the stats. And for the first time, Kira really took notice.
Isagi had scored a hat-trick in every match. A double hat-trick in one. He was the tournament's leading goal scorer with 15 goals in just four games—an average of 3.75 goals per match. Meanwhile, Kira, the so-called crown jewel, had only 7.
Half.
Kira narrowed his eyes at the numbers, his grip tightening on his phone as he stared at them. A nerve had been struck. And if that wasn't frustrating enough, they were scheduled for a press conference together. Forced to sit side by side, answer questions, and acknowledge each other.
Kira played it smart—he praised Isagi, gave him the respect he needed to maintain his public image. And Isagi? He barely acknowledged him, offering only the most basic of responses.
That pissed him off.
What did they call him again? The Blue Demon?
"Tch," Kira scoffed internally. "Demons always get hunted down by gods."
He wasn't a god, but he was the king. And it was his duty to hunt down the demon lurking in his kingdom.
That was his mindset heading into this match.
And at first, everything was going according to plan. He scored the opening goal, just as he expected. He looked at Ichinan's players and felt nothing but disappointment. Was this the team they dared to compare to Matsukaze? Was this supposed to be his so-called rival? Pathetic.
And then—
Before he could even complete that thought, Isagi struck.
It was fast. Too fast. Two touches and the ball was already at his feet. Before the field could even register the shift in tempo, the ball had already left his boot. Kira, standing in the center circle, had a perfect view as it curved mid-air, as if it had changed direction entirely.
A goal. Just like that.
And then, Isagi turned.
Not to celebrate. Not to acknowledge his teammates.
He turned his gaze towards Matsukaze. Towards him.
It was taunting. Mocking.
Kira clenched his teeth, his fists curling at his sides.
"I'll show you," he thought, a fire now burning in his chest.
The match resumed, but Matsukaze was shaken. His coach, his teammates, they needed time to settle. Kira, as the leader, did what he had to—calmed them down, reassured them.
"Don't worry, guys. It's just one goal. Let's get it back."
They regained possession, controlled the pace. And for the next fifteen minutes, Isagi did nothing. He was silent, unmoving. Kira started believing that maybe—just maybe—that goal had been a fluke.
Then it happened.
A mistake in midfield. A lazy pass.
And Isagi was there. Instantly. He cut off the pass, barely even needing to stretch for it. A clean interception. Effortless.
"What?" Kira breathed, his body tensing as he saw Isagi immediately transition into attack. A pass to the right—quick, precise. Then he was off, sprinting into space.
Kira moved. His speed was his weapon, and he wasn't about to let Isagi slip away again.
The ball came flying towards him. Kira saw it was slightly overpowered—it would take time to control.
"Ha! Got you—"
Then, before Kira could even react, Isagi struck it.
First-time.
It wasn't a clean pass, it wasn't in an ideal position—but none of that mattered. Isagi adjusted instantly, striking through the ball, sending it slicing towards the bottom left corner. The goalkeeper barely had time to react.
The net rippled.
2-1.
Kira skidded to a stop, his breath caught in his throat. He stared at the ball nestled in the back of the net, then at Isagi, who stood there, completely unfazed.
No… this wasn't just some second-rate player.
Was he… better than him?
For the first time in his career, Kira felt doubt. A creeping, unsettling sensation crawled into his mind. He had always been the best. He had always dictated the game, controlled the pace, determined the outcome.
But Isagi Yoichi was different.
His movements were unreadable. His adaptability, unmatched. His unpredictability, terrifying.
Kira's game had always followed a formula. He had three primary ways of scoring:
Use his acceleration to burst past defenders, bait the goalkeeper, and slot the ball in.Take a powerful shot from the edge of the penalty box, aiming for one of the corners.Wait for a clean cut-back and finish it cleanly.
His game was structured. It was efficient.
But Isagi—Isagi had no set formula. He wasn't just following a pattern.
He was reading the entire field like a book and rewriting the script in real time.
Kira clenched his fists.
"This isn't over," he muttered under his breath, stepping back to the center circle for the kickoff.
He refused to lose. He refused to let Isagi take his crown.
If Isagi Yoichi was a demon—then Kira Ryosuke would be the one to exorcise him.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author Notes:-
Imma end this chapter here. A decent start to the game if you ask me.
Initially, I was gonna write two whole chapters with Isagi getting suppressed by the Ichinan system before proving himself. But then I remembered—I made Isagi overpowered in middle school, so why the hell would he struggle with high school pace? That'd be dumb. (Bro, I actually wrote both chapters, then scrapped them after realizing how ridiculous it was getting.)
This arc was supposed to be stretched over like 5 to 6 chapters… Haha, yeah…
But don't worry, this match will only have one more chapter. At max. I think… I hope it only takes one chapter because my ass tends to write too much, bruh.
Anyway, see you guys in the next chapter! Drop some feedback—let me know if you're vibing with this or if there's anything I should improve.
And no-thanks to the editor who is lazy. NB
(You can read ahead at my p*tron. link is in the sypnosis.)
SG
Editor's note:-
I am lazy...….
NB