The remaining matches played out like a choreographed dance Kai had seen before. Ryo dismantled his opponent with surgical precision, his passes finding impossible angles. Shun's lightning-quick reflexes kept him undefeated in three straight matches. But something was different this time—every player who stepped onto the pitch kept glancing at Kai, their strategies colored by what they'd witnessed.
The butterfly effect begins, Kai thought, watching a speedy winger attempt the same defensive pressure technique he'd used against Yuto. The copy was imperfect, mistimed, and resulted in an easy counter-attack goal.
"Hasegawa." Coach Kirihara's voice pulled him from his observations. "You're up again."
Kai stepped forward, noting how the circle of players subtly widened, giving him more space than necessary. His display against Yuto had done more than win a match—it had established him as a threat.
"Tanaka," Kirihara called out. "You're his opponent."
Ryo took deliberate steps into the field, his face unreachable. This match had never occurred in their former life. Ryo had already lost and was up against someone else. They would now clash on their first day due to Kai's altered timeline.
Ryo muttered, "Interesting," as they positioned themselves. "You knew Shimizu's move before he made it."
Kai maintained a neutral expression. He recalled this Ryo as being dangerous, observant, and analytical. "Lucky guess."
"No." Ryo's gaze squinted. Before he even started his step-over, your weight was shifted. You were aware.
Before Kai could react, the whistle blew, and play began.
Neither player moved for it immediately. This was different from the Yuto match—no rushed challenges, no early mistakes. Ryo, unlike Yuto, understood the value of patience.
In their previous life, they had played together professionally for two years before the scandal Kai was intimately familiar with Ryo's approach, including how he utilized space and the subtle movements that hinted at his intentions. But this younger Ryo was raw and unrefined, which made him more unexpected.
Kai took the opening move, slowly approaching the ball. Ryo mirrored him, keeping a distance between them. The seconds passed by.
Then Ryo smiled—a little, knowing smile that sent shivers down Kai's spine.
"You're right-footed," Ryo stated loudly enough for only Kai to hear. "But you haven't favored either foot since you came onto the pitch. Your balance is too perfect, your movement too efficient." He took a step forward. "Who are you really, Hasegawa Kai?"
The question hit harder than any tackle. Ryo had always been dangerously observant, but this level of analysis on day one? This wasn't supposed to happen yet.
Kai's hesitation cost him. Ryo pounced, not for the ball but for the space around it, cutting off Kai's preferred angles of approach. It was a professional-level tactical move, one that forced Kai to either retreat or commit to a risky challenge.
In his previous life, Kai would have retreated, played it safe. But that path had led to failure.
Instead, he did something that his sixteen-year-old self would never have attempted. He moved toward Ryo, then dropped his shoulder and spun, allowing his momentum to carry him in a flawless roulette move. Zidane's signature technique required perfect balance and timing, which a high school player should not be able to perform.
Ryo's eyes widened as Kai emerged with the ball, which was now behind him and on a clear route to goal. However, the midfielder recovered quickly, pivoting faster than Kai's youthful muscles could accelerate.
They both reached the ball at the same time. In that brief second, Kai saw two possibilities: he could step away, avoid contact, and keep the mystery Ryo had already started to unravel. Or he could commit to the challenge and risk revealing more of his true ability.
He chose the latter.
Their legs entangled as both players reached for the ball. In his adult body, Kai would have maintained his balance easily. But these younger muscles betrayed him. He fell, but as he did, he hooked his foot around the ball, pulling it with him.
Ryo, expecting resistance, stumbled forward. The ball popped loose, spinning toward the boundary line.
Time slowed. Kai, still falling, saw the ball's trajectory. In one fluid motion, he planted his left hand on the ground and swung his right leg up, connecting with the ball just before it crossed the line.
The shot curved impossibly, arcing over Ryo's head and into the far corner of the goal.
Silence fell over the pitch once again.
Kai lay on his back, breathing hard. He'd done it—scored an extraordinary goal that would cement his reputation. But as he looked up at Ryo's face, he knew he'd also confirmed the midfielder's suspicions.
This wasn't the play of a talented high school freshman. This was something else entirely.
"Match to Hasegawa," Coach Kirihara announced, his voice tight with controlled excitement. "That's enough for today. Top five scorers: Hasegawa, Tanaka, Yamamoto, Kimura, and..." he paused, scanning his notebook, "Shimizu. You'll start in tomorrow's practice match."
As the other players dispersed, Ryo offered his hand to Kai. This time, Kai took it, letting himself be pulled up.
"We should talk," Ryo said quietly.
"Nothing to talk about," Kai replied, but they both knew it was a lie.
"You move like you've played a thousand matches," Ryo continued, keeping his voice low. "Your techniques are polished, but your body hasn't caught up to your mind yet. It's like..." He trailed off, perhaps realizing how impossible his theory would sound.
"Like what?"
"Like you're remembering rather than playing."
Kai felt his heart skip a beat. In his previous life, Ryo's insight had made him the best tactical midfielder in Asia. But it had also made him dangerous—too perceptive for his own good.
"Meet me at the rooftop after school," Kai found himself saying. "If you want answers."
Ryo nodded once, then turned away, leaving Kai alone on the pitch.
From the sidelines, Coach Kirihara watched the exchange with sharp eyes. Behind him, Yuto stood with a small group of players, his expression dark with barely contained anger. And in the distance, Shun was walking toward the goal, replaying Kai's impossible shot in his head.
One match had been enough to change everything. Two matches had rewritten the future entirely.
As Kai walked toward the locker room, he couldn't help but wonder: in trying to avoid his past mistakes, had he just made an entirely new one?
The morning sun cast his shadow long across the pitch—a reminder that every action, every choice, would cast ripples through this new timeline he was creating.
And some ripples, he knew, could become tsunamis.