The stadium erupted, a living, breathing colossus of sound and fury.
Itoku's grin split his face like a blade through silk—wild, unhinged, electric. His serpentine aura coiled around him, shimmering in the air like a predator ready to strike. Every movement he made crackled with energy, the kind that turned boys into monsters beneath the floodlights.
A deafening roar rose from the stands, a tidal wave of euphoria crashing down on the pitch.
But in the eye of the storm stood Kou.
Still.
Unmoving.
Untouched.
Where others would flinch, Kou remained composed—an island of stillness amid the sea of chaos. His eyes were half-lidded, calm to the point of arrogance. He didn't need to bask in the crowd's frenzy. He didn't need their cheers.
He was already somewhere else.
"Wow," Akane muttered, whistling low. "What was that goal?"
Sosei hummed in response, as though analyzing brushstrokes on a painting. "An answer," he murmured.
Iori's jaw clenched. "Now's not the time to marvel." His eyes gleamed with fire. "I'll score the next one."
Yugen, however, stood frozen.
His breath caught in his throat, heart thudding irregularly as the replays echoed across the massive jumbotron above. Kou's strike was... perfect. Beyond logic. Beyond reason. Something primal twisted inside him.
That shot—he'd never seen anything like it.
Then, with a sharp slap, Yugen struck both his cheeks. The sting bit through the daze, snapping him back to reality.
What the hell was that goal?
A chuckle escaped his throat. He should've been scared. Should've been crushed by the weight of that brilliance.
But instead—
He grinned.
Sharp. Ferocious.
"I want to crush him," he whispered.
Kou glanced sideways, catching the change in his rival's eyes. He scoffed under his breath.
---
[Restart]
Play resumed with renewed tension crackling in the air.
Kou's pass snapped into Kumi's feet, and Kumi—ever the artist—twirled past his marker with a flourish, his movements fluid and intoxicating. The crowd gasped as he slid a delicate heel flick past the incoming tackle. He was jazz and ballet all at once.
Meanwhile, Kou had already vanished from the midfield line, slipping through spaces like a shadow slipping between lanterns.
He didn't need to demand the ball.
He simply... arrived.
His off-the-ball movement was like a whisper in the dark—unseen, but always felt. The defense, disoriented, found gaps torn open before they could even blink.
Yugen followed him, eyes narrowed.
Don't focus on scoring, he reminded himself. There's no opening for me yet. I need to—
Kou received the ball at the edge of the center circle. His head lifted, scanning. Calm. Cold. Dangerous.
Shinsei Makoto stepped into his path like a wall of certainty, intent on breaking momentum.
Then—from Kou's blind spot—Yugen surged forward like a phantom.
He offered a passing lane. A spark of opportunity.
Shinsei caught the movement, his instincts flaring.
That No. 11—shit!
He lunged sideways, expecting Kou to feed Yugen.
But Kou didn't.
Instead, he pirouetted away—pivoting with the grace of a seasoned dancer, his foot dragging the ball with such subtlety it almost looked accidental.
Both defender and teammate flew past empty air.
Yugen clenched his jaw. That bastard.
Now Kou was driving forward.
Thirty... twenty-nine meters from goal.
Itoku appeared like a mirage solidifying, his presence slamming into the moment like thunder.
He smiled like a devil at the gates.
"Where do you think you're going, boy?"
Kou didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
Itoku's grin twisted into something darker. "I'll take that as a yes, then."
He charged.
A duel ignited—two predators in a confined jungle.
It was speed versus silence. Ferocity versus foresight.
Each movement Kou made was deliberate. Each twitch of his boot, each shift of his hips—calculated with inhuman precision.
Yugen, watching from behind, couldn't breathe.
No wasted movements... every step calculated... this isn't just football—it's warfare. A duel of geniuses.
But something was off.
His gut screamed it.
Kou's... holding back.
Even Itoku sensed it.
His aura flared violently. "Are you holding back against me?!"
A snarl erupted from his throat. He surged forward, chaining feints, elbows, nudges—testing Kou's balance, forcing him onto the back foot. The crowd leaned in.
For the first time, Kou looked pressed.
Then—lightning struck.
A feint left. A drag-back right. The space ahead opened like a divine offering.
Kou's leg rose.
Unnatural.
Twisted.
It wasn't a normal shot stance. Not even close.
Itoku faltered. His body screamed at him to move—yet he stood rooted, paralyzed.
What the hell? He's shooting from here? With that form?
Yugen's eyes widened.
He'd seen this before.
Once. In a training session, long ago. A ghost of a memory. A technique that defied common logic.
Shinsei, behind them, laughed. "What's with that stance? Haha—"
And then—
The air changed.
Heavy.
Dark.
Dense.
Kou's aura flared—a smoky veil of pressure swirling around him, a glimpse into something other.
Then—crack.
The sound split the silence like a gunshot.
The ball rocketed from his foot like a comet. The arc—impossibly steep. The dip—vicious, venomous. It tore through the air, bypassing the goalkeeper's desperate stretch, and kissed the top right corner.
A whisper-soft thud.
Silence.
No words.
Just the sound of realization settling in a thousand throats.
Then—chaos.
The stadium exploded into thunder.
Screams. Applause. Disbelief.
Yugen clutched his chest, not from pain, but from pressure—like his heart had momentarily forgotten its rhythm.
Kou exhaled.
His dark aura unraveled, vanishing like mist in the morning sun.
On the sidelines, Mika stood with arms crossed, her coat fluttering slightly in the wind.
Her lips curled upward.
"As expected of the brother of Japan's number eight."