Blue Lock: Isagi the egoist

The sun beat down harshly on the dusty local pitch. Five-year-old Yoichi Isagi squinted under the glare, his face set in an expression of disinterest as the coach once again gathered the team for a pep talk.

"Remember, teamwork is everything!" the coach said, his voice ringing out with a rehearsed enthusiasm. His gaze lingered on Isagi for a fraction too long. "No one wins alone. You have to rely on each other out there."

Isagi's lips pressed into a thin line. Does he think I'm stupid? he thought, stealing a glance at the coach's son, a striker who hadn't managed to score a single goal all season. Isagi's mind churned with frustration. He knew why the coach harped on about teamwork.

But he couldn't say it. He couldn't risk being benched.

Fine. I'll play along… for now.

The whistle blew, and the game began. Isagi's opponents were stronger than last week's team, forcing him to play smarter. His eyes roamed the field constantly, tracking the ball, his teammates, and every opposing player. As the game progressed, he started to notice patterns—how defenders shifted their positions, where gaps opened up, and how the ball flowed like water.

It's like I'm looking at the field from above," he realized, the thought sparking a thrill in his chest. I can see everything.

The game reached a crucial moment. Isagi's team earned a corner kick, and he darted into position. His eyes locked on the ball as it soared through the air. The defenders crowded around him, but he had already mapped out their movements in his mind.

In an instant, he moved, stepping into the perfect spot. The ball met his right foot in a clean volley. The strike was powerful and precise, sending the ball straight into the back of the net with such force that the small goal toppled over.

Cheers erupted from the sidelines, but Isagi barely noticed. He stood still, his chest heaving as the realization hit him:

I can control the field.

In the second half, Isagi tried something new. Inspired by Noel Noa, the player he idolized, he began using his left foot with the same confidence as his right. At first, the movements felt awkward, but he adjusted quickly, finding a rhythm that felt natural and freeing. With each touch and pass, he reveled in the sensation of ambidexterity, the possibilities it opened up on the field.

By the time the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read 4-2. All four goals belonged to Isagi, but he couldn't do everything. The two goals conceded gnawed at him.

Walking off the field, Isagi clenched his fists.

Scoring isn't enough. I need to control everything. I'll score the goals, and I'll make sure no one scores against us.

His eyes burned with determination as his ego grew larger, hungrier.

I'll devour the whole field.

Under the clear afternoon sky, Yoichi Isagi stood in the middle of the field, a ball at his feet and determination etched on his face. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he prepared for yet another shot. The Roberto Carlos goal still lingered in his mind, but he couldn't replicate it. Each attempt with his left foot either lacked power or sailed wide of the target.

Frustration gnawed at him, but Isagi wasn't the type to give up. He planted his foot beside the ball, swinging his left leg with precision. The ball flew forward, curving slightly, but not enough. It missed the goal by inches.

Isagi let out a sharp breath, his hands balling into fists.

I did it once. Why can't I do it again? Was it just luck?

The thought infuriated him. Luck wasn't what made a striker great. Luck didn't win games. Skill did. Talent did. And Isagi would be damned if he let himself rely on something as fleeting as luck.

He took a step back, refocusing. This time, he visualized the motion. The weight shift, the angle of his foot, the timing of his strike. He approached the ball again, slower this time, and struck with his left. The ball curled beautifully, kissing the top corner of the net before hitting the ground with a satisfying thud.

A grin split Isagi's face, but he didn't celebrate. Instead, he retrieved the ball and set it up for another shot. And another. And another. By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, his left foot felt almost as natural as his right.

But Isagi wasn't finished. The ball was just one part of the equation. His eyes—the way he saw the field—needed work too. He began dribbling, keeping his head up and his gaze fixed on the horizon. It was difficult at first, the ball escaping his control every few steps, but Isagi persevered.

The ball will follow me, he told himself. Not the other way around.

As the days turned into weeks, Isagi's progress became undeniable. His ambidexterity improved with every practice session, and his dribbling grew more fluid. Slowly but surely, he stopped looking at the ball entirely. He no longer needed to.

One evening, after a grueling session, Isagi sat on the grass, staring at the darkening sky. His legs ached, his lungs burned, and his body begged for rest. But his mind was alive, racing with possibilities.

I'm going to stand at the top of the world, he thought, his heart pounding with an unshakable conviction. There can only be one striker who's the best. And that striker will be me.