Blue Lock: Isagi the egoist

The rain poured heavily outside the small soccer field as five-year-old Yoichi Isagi sat on the bench, his tiny cleats dangling above the ground. His coach, a kind but unimaginative man, crouched before the team of wide-eyed children, speaking with all the fervor he could muster.

"Soccer is a team effort," the coach said, gesturing with his clipboard. "You win by working together, passing the ball, and helping each other out. It's not about one person—it's about all eleven."

The children nodded eagerly, soaking in his words as if they were gospel. All except for one.

Yoichi's eyes narrowed, his lips curling ever so slightly in disdain. What an idiot, he thought, his young mind brimming with defiance.

The logic was clear to him, even at his age: if you wanted to win, you scored more goals than the other team. It was as simple as that. Why would he waste time passing to someone less capable when he could do it himself? The idea of "all for one and one for all" seemed ridiculous.

But Isagi didn't argue. He simply nodded along like the others, keeping his thoughts to himself. There was no point in explaining something so obvious to people who couldn't see it. Winning is everything, and to win, you have to score. That's what soccer is. That's what being a Striker is.

That evening, while walking home from practice, Isagi's father tried to reason with him. The man's tone was patient, but there was skepticism in his voice.

"Yoichi, I know you love scoring goals," his father began, holding an umbrella over both of them, "but in Japan, soccer is about working as a team. You'll never get far if you're selfish. It's about harmony."

Yoichi's face twisted into a scowl.

"Then I'll play for another country," he declared with all the bravado of a child who believed the world bent to his will. "Maybe Europe. They care about winning."

His father's steps faltered for a moment, surprised by the sheer audacity of the statement. He chuckled, half amused, half concerned, but said nothing more.

The next weekend, Isagi's team played a match against another local squad. The rain from earlier in the week had left the field damp, and the ball skidded unpredictably across the grass. The whistle blew, and the game began.

Yoichi stood near the center circle, a bored look on his face as the ball rolled his way. A quick glance around the field told him everything he needed to know. His teammates weren't fast enough, their touches weren't sharp enough, and their passes lacked precision.

Useless.

Taking control, he darted past the first defender with ease, his small legs pumping furiously as he raced down the left flank. The next defender lunged at him, but Yoichi's body feint left the boy stumbling in his wake. By the time he reached the edge of the penalty box again, he had already scored three goals in quick succession, and the opposing team had given up any hope of stopping him.

The game was over, at least in spirit. But Yoichi wasn't done. He had grown bored of scoring simple goals. His mind wandered, imagining new possibilities. He wanted to try something he had seen on TV—a moment that had left him breathless.

With the ball near the sideline and rapidly approaching the out-of-bounds line, Yoichi's pace didn't falter. He adjusted his stride, planting his right foot as he swung his left with all the power his small frame could muster. The ball rocketed off his foot, spinning wildly through the air. For a moment, it seemed destined to sail harmlessly out of bounds.

But then, it curved. The ball's trajectory bent impossibly, swerving back toward the goal like a heat-seeking missile. The goalkeeper stood frozen as the ball smashed into the top corner of the net.

From beyond the line, Yoichi watched the goal with wide eyes. His heart pounded as exhilaration flooded his small body. He had done it. He had recreated Roberto Carlos' impossible goal. He didn't need a team. He didn't need anyone.

The final whistle blew shortly after. The scoreboard read 5-0, with all five goals credited to Yoichi Isagi. As his teammates celebrated, Isagi stood apart, staring at the field with a look that was both thoughtful and terrifying.

His eyes shone with a hunger far too vast for a boy his age. A hunger to dominate. A hunger to devour. His ego was monstrous, and it had only just begun to grow.

Soccer isn't about the team. Soccer is about me.