The buses wound their way up the narrow mountain road, the landscape shifting from the outskirts of the city to the remote wilderness of Japan's mountains. Shiro leaned against the window, watching as the dense greenery gave way to a massive, facility perched on the mountainside. Its sleek black and blue exterior seemed to hum with a latent energy, glowing faintly under the twilight sky.
When the buses finally stopped, Shiro removed his headphones and stepped out. The crisp mountain air hit him immediately, carrying a sense of stillness that contrasted sharply with the players' growing murmurs around him.
"Is that him? The White Demon of Tokyo?"
"Yeah, the one with the hat trick in his debut match."
"Arrogant as hell, isn't he? Thinks he's better than us already."
"But he's not even that impressive."
The voices swirled around, growing louder as Shiro adjusted his sunglasses and turned his gaze toward the crowd. His sharp, cold eyes pierced through the reflective lenses, landing directly on those whispering about him.
The effect was immediate. The murmurs died down, replaced by a tense silence as Shiro exuded an aura of pure, unshakable confidence. It was as though his very presence demanded respect, the ego radiating from him an almost tangible force. The players averted their eyes, and those who had been bold enough to speak fell silent, swallowing their words.
With a faint smirk that didn't quite reach his lips, Shiro pushed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and strode toward the facility's entrance. The massive doors slid open, revealing a striking interior bathed in black and blue lights. The sleek, futuristic design seemed to pulse with an electric energy, as if the facility itself was alive and watching.
Shiro didn't look back as he walked inside, his steps steady and deliberate. The aura he carried lingered behind him, filling the space he left with an unspoken challenge: Catch up if you can.
As Shiro entered the towering Blue Lock facilities, he was immediately struck by the futuristic design. The black and blue lights coursing through the metallic walls seemed alive, pulsating with energy. Walking further in, he spotted a young woman standing confidently by a desk. Her auburn hair framed a composed face, her sharp eyes glinting with resolve.
"Welcome to Blue Lock," she said, extending a hand. "I'm Anri Teieri, one of the coordinators here."
Shiro glanced at her hand but made no move to shake it, instead surveying the area with an air of indifference. His raven-black hair, messy yet deliberately styled into a modern pushback , shone faintly under the artificial lighting, its silk-like texture catching her eye. Anri couldn't help but notice how his piercing blue eyes seemed to cut through the room, sharp and calculating.
"Your personal belongings, please," Anri said, gesturing to a small bag on the counter.
Shiro raised an eyebrow and tilted his head slightly, pulling off his steampunk sunglasses with a calculated slowness. "The headphones stay," he said, his tone unwavering.
Anri shook her head firmly. "No exceptions. All personal items must be stored away for the duration of the program."
Shiro leaned in just slightly, a smirk pulling at his lips. "What about the phone? Surely you don't expect me to survive without it."
"Rules are rules," Anri replied, maintaining her professional stance. "No headphones, no phone, no sunglasses. Nothing that could distract you from the program's objective."
Shiro clicked his tongue in mild annoyance but relented, tossing his items into the bin. "Fine," he muttered.
Anri handed him a tightly folded uniform made of sleek spandex material. The black-and-blue fabric gleamed faintly, and a grey spot on the right arm.
"This is your uniform," she said, her tone composed. "You'll find a locker down the hall. Change into it and proceed to the team area. You're in Team V."
Shiro took the uniform without a word. As he turned to leave, he walked with the same confident air, his hair effortlessly falling back into place, its silk-like texture glowing under the facility lights.
"Good luck," Anri added quietly, watching him walk away.
As Shiro finishes suiting up, he steps out of the locker room and into the team v facility. The room he enters is stark and industrial, with cold concrete walls and a faint greenish hue from the overhead lights. A 52-inch screen on one side of the room is turned off, its blank surface reflecting the dim light of the space.
Shiro, now without his sunglasses, stands there for a moment. His eyes shine, glowing faintly with the determination burning inside him—his gaze sharp, full of purpose, and almost unnatural in their intensity. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, waiting in silence as the stillness of the room surrounds him. The quiet gives him time to reflect on his decision, and the weight of what's coming.
Minutes pass before the sound of footsteps fills the corridor. One by one, players start to filter into the room. Eleven others, each with a look of focus and ambition in their eyes, all take their spots. Shiro watches them closely, sizing them up without a word.
But then, one player catches his attention.
Kurona Ranze.
Shiro immediately recognizes him—his pink ponytail stands out among the group, his posture calm but intense, as if he's already assessing the situation around him. Despite seeing him in the manga from his past life, Kurona's presence in person feels different. He's sharper now, more focused, as if the atmosphere of Blue Lock has already begun to shape him into something else.
Shiro doesn't acknowledge him directly but observes him silently, taking in every small detail. The others are unknown to him, but Kurona... He's a familiar face in this foreign place.
The room buzzed with murmurs as the players entered, their eyes immediately drawn to Shiro, who remained standing silently in the corner, leaning against the wall. His cold, almost indifferent expression held their attention, and whispers filled the air about the new player with the strange presence. Some players were in awe of him, while others couldn't help but feel challenged by his arrogance.
"Who does this guy think he is?" one player muttered, glancing at Shiro with an expression of disbelief. "He's only played one match and acts like he's already on top of the world."
"Yeah, that match against Saitama FC doesn't mean he's some kind of prodigy. A hat-trick in a high school tournament doesn't make you a national team player," another player added. "I bet he's just a lucky one-hit wonder."
But among all the voices, the loudest came from Sakura Miro, who had the audacity to walk up to Shiro and sneer. He looked at Shiro, puffing his chest with arrogance, clearly unconcerned by the atmosphere.
"Shiro, right?" Sakura scoffed loudly, his voice carrying through the room. "I don't know why you're acting all high and mighty. You got lucky with that hat-trick against Saitama FC, but I won the Osaka Youth Cup this year. I'm the one who deserves the top spot here—not some kid who got a single match right."
The other players exchanged skeptical glances, knowing Sakura's reputation from the Osaka Youth Cup. Still, they couldn't help but notice his tone and how it contrasted with Shiro's unbothered silence.
"Let's see if your lucky game can help you when you're up against me," Sakura continued, looking around as if daring anyone to challenge his claim.
But Shiro didn't flinch. Instead, he simply observed Sakura with that same cold gaze. His expression remained neutral, giving nothing away. The other players began to wonder if maybe there was more to this guy than they initially thought.
Sakura, sensing the lack of response, became more vocal. "You got lucky with your hat-trick, sure, but can you actually handle real pressure? I'm the one who dominated the Osaka Youth Cup—what does a single lucky match mean against a player like mine?"
But just as the murmurs reached a peak, the screen at the front of the room flickered to life with a sharp buzz, immediately silencing the room. The face of Ego appeared on the screen, his expression cold, and his voice cutting through the tension with sharp authority.
"Enough of this meaningless chatter!" Ego's voice boomed, instantly commanding silence in the room. "This isn't a place for whining and posturing. You all have potential here—some more than others, but none of you are perfect. There are players with raw power, some with speed, others with skill. But none of you will get anywhere unless you can prove you can survive and excel under pressure."
Ego's eyes scanned the room, his words cold and decisive. "You might think that because you've won some high school tournament that you have what it takes to be a professional footballer. But let me make something clear. In Blue Lock, the only thing that matters is the strength of your ego."
The players shifted uneasily, some nervously glancing at each other, but Shiro stood unfazed. His gaze remained unflinching, cold, as Ego continued.
"The rankings on your right arms are not just numbers—they reflect your true worth, your place here."
As Ego spoke, a faint glow appeared on the right shoulder of each player, displaying their rank clearly for all to see. The numbers flickered briefly, settling into place: all the ranks appeared in blue, shining brightly.
"And just so you know, those rankings can drop in an instant." Ego continued with a slight smirk.
The players exchanged uneasy glances, trying to figure out what that meant.
"To start you will play a tag for 136 seconds. The tag game works like this: the lowest-ranked player will be the first tagger. This player will be the one to possess the ball. The objective is simple—tag someone else with the ball. When the ball touches another player, that player becomes the tagger instead."
Ego's tone turned serious, his eyes scanning the room, making sure everyone was paying attention.
"And now, a very important point: if you're hit by the ball, and you're tagged, you become the new tagger. If you are hit at the end of this game, the result is devastating. That player will be eliminated from Blue Lock and will never be able to represent Japan on the world stage."
Ego's eyes narrowed, ensuring everyone understood the stakes.
"There is no room for weakness here. Everyone's rank can drop. Everyone's position is in danger. Now, let's begin."
The screen blinked off as the players braced themselves. The room was filled with tension as each player looked at their own rankings, knowing their position in this game could determine their fate.
Miro glanced at the number on his arm, a smug grin spreading across his face. The number 253 glowed brightly in blue. He felt a sense of pride welling up inside him. Of course, I'm the highest in the room, he thought, feeling confident. Who else could possibly be better than me?
His grin grew wider as he scanned the others, expecting to see players with lower numbers. His eyes wandered from player to player, sizing them up as he waited for confirmation that no one could rival him.
But then his eyes fell on Shiro. The number on Shiro's arm flickered, revealing 241—a number significantly higher than his own.
For a brief moment, Miro's smug expression faltered. Wait… His brain was struggling to process what he had just seen. His mind immediately rejected the possibility. How is that possible?
Shiro should've been ranked lower, just another weak player. But here he was, ranked much higher than Miro had expected.
241…? Miro thought, his frustration bubbling up inside him. What the hell? How is he ranked higher than me?
His chest tightened, and for the first time, Miro felt his confidence slipping. I should be the highest in the room! he thought, now fuming. I've dominated every match I've been in! I won the Osaka Youth Cup again!
But there it was. The undeniable reality. Miro wasn't the highest-ranked player. Shiro was. And that stung more than he cared to admit.
Miro's fists clenched as he tried to shake off the feeling of unease. The game had to begin, and he still had a point to prove.
Ego's voice sliced through the tension, indifferent to Miro's internal struggle.
"The lowest-ranked player will begin the game as the first tagger. That means Miro, you will be the one to start."
Miro, still seething with anger and confusion, snatched the ball, glaring at Shiro. His eyes burned with the desire to prove himself, to show that he was still better than Shiro, despite the ranking.
He launched the ball toward the other players, aiming with all his might. His shot missed completely, the ball skimming past everyone and rolling out of bounds. The other players couldn't help but chuckle at his failure, seeing how unrefined his skills were.
Miro's face turned even more crimson as he retrieved the ball, clenching his fists in frustration. He was determined to prove that he was better than this.
With a fierce glare directed at Shiro, who still stood leaning against the wall, unbothered by his outburst, Miro aimed once more, shooting the ball straight at Shiro.
But instead of dodging, Shiro calmly stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Miro's. With a smooth motion, Shiro controlled the ball with the inside of his foot, effortlessly trapping it. The other players stared, taken aback by his nonchalant skill.
Without even looking at the others, Shiro began juggling the ball with ease. He performed a flawless Around the World with his foot, flicking it up and over, then effortlessly controlled it with his chest before flicking it back up with a delicate touch. The ball danced around his feet in a mesmerizing pattern—his movements fluid, precise, and effortless. He flicked the ball higher, allowing it to spin in the air, his feet working in perfect harmony as he juggled it skillfully with both feet and head, showing off his remarkable control.
The other players watched, their mouths agape as Shiro made it look almost too easy. His confidence radiated, and it was clear—he wasn't just some lucky striker; he was a master at this game.
Then, in one swift motion, Shiro flicked the ball upward and, without hesitation, performed a stunning bicycle kick, sending the ball rocketing toward Miro's face. The ball hit him squarely, knocking him off his feet and sending him sprawling to the ground, stunned and dazed.
"You talk too much," Shiro muttered, his expression still cold as he leaned back against the wall
Kurona Pov:
The game begins, and I stay alert, watching every player carefully. I'm the second-highest rank in the room.Miro, takes the ball and immediately sends it flying toward the other players. The ball rolls toward them quickly, but the first shot doesn't connect.
I can see where this is going. Miro's eyes flick to the side, and he spots Shiro, standing against the wall with that cold, composed look on his face. Miro's expression changes. It's clear he sees Shiro as a challenge now, the one player he wants to take down.
Miro takes aim, focusing all his energy on Shiro. His shot is aimed directly at him, and the ball comes flying through the air with impressive force. The tension in the room builds as the ball speeds toward Shiro, but then, in an unexpected move, Shiro doesn't dodge. He steps forward and calmly controls the ball with his foot, stopping it with ease.
I can't help but watch closely, my eyes tracking his every move. Shiro isn't reacting like the others. Instead, he begins juggling the ball—Around the World, flicking it up with his feet, chest control, flicking it upward again. The ball seems to float around him as he controls it effortlessly.
It's mesmerizing.
The room goes silent as everyone watches. No one has ever handled the ball with such casual ease, such flair. Shiro isn't just trying to avoid the tag—he's showing us all how to play. His movements are precise, almost too smooth to believe.
Then, just as I think he's done, Shiro flicks the ball high into the air. His body coils, and with a stunning bicycle kick, he sends the ball rocketing toward Miro's face. The shot is perfect, fast, and powerful. It hits Miro square in the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, utterly defeated.
I stand there, stunned. I've seen many players come and go, but this? This was something else.
"You talk too much," Shiro muttered, his expression still cold as he leaned back against the wall.He just knocked Miro out of the game without breaking a sweat. His skill, his confidence—it's on a level I've never seen before.
I can't help but feel both impressed and a little shaken. Shiro isn't just another player here—he's something different.
As Miro lay on the floor, stunned by the bicycle kick that had knocked him out, the room remained eerily silent for a moment, save for the ticking of the countdown timer. He slowly rose, wiping the blood from his lip, and the weight of his defeat slowly began to sink in. The other players stood still, watching the outcome unfold with a quiet intensity.
Ego's voice suddenly broke the stillness, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Sakura Miro, while you may have been considered a top player in your youth leagues, in the grand scheme of things, you are nothing more than an underwhelming footballer," Ego declared, his tone cold and dismissive. "Your achievements, like winning the Osaka Youth Cup, are not enough to warrant recognition on this stage. You may have had a fleeting moment of success, but Blue Lock is a completely different world."
Miro opened his mouth to protest, but Ego continued without pausing.
"And this room," Ego gestured around at the stark surroundings of Blue Lock, "is designed to simulate the penalty box, the very heart of a football match. This is where you will either thrive or be crushed. A striker's job is simple: take the ball, create the play, and score. Nothing more, nothing less. Your past accolades mean nothing here."
Miro's chest heaved with frustration as he clenched his fists. "But... there wasn't enough time!" he snapped, trying to justify his failure, his voice cracking with a mix of anger and disbelief.
Ego's cold gaze met his. "136 seconds," he said, his voice deliberate and cutting through Miro's excuses. "That is the average amount of time a professional footballer has to touch the ball during a match. If you can't do anything with that, then you're not a striker. You're just someone who happened to get lucky now and then."
Miro's heart dropped. "That's not fair—"
"No," Ego cut him off sharply, "what's unfair is expecting to win based on your past accomplishments. In Blue Lock, there is no room for excuses. You had 136 seconds. And yet, you failed."
With those final words, Miro's face turned pale as the reality of the situation hit him. He was out. No more chances. And the door to Blue Lock opened, signaling his exit. He stood there for a moment, looking around at the others, as if hoping for some kind of mercy, but there was none. The harsh truth had set in: his time had come to an end.
"Leave," Ego commanded, his tone unforgiving. "The game is over for you."
Miro's fists trembled at his sides, but there was no arguing with Ego. His pride shattered, Miro slowly made his way to the exit, the door slamming shut behind him. The other players watched quietly, but deep down, they knew they were one step closer to understanding what it truly meant to be a striker in Blue Lock.
Kurona, who had been watching the entire scene unfold, felt a sense of unease settle in his chest. He had just seen a top player eliminated, someone with a past full of victories. And yet, in this twisted game, none of that mattered. It was all about the now—the skill, the ego, and the ability to prove yourself in a fraction of a second.
He glanced at Shiro, who stood calmly, his face unchanging, as if nothing had happened. Despite the fact that Shiro was only one rank above him, Kurona couldn't help but acknowledge the staggering difference in their abilities. The way Shiro had controlled the ball, the fluidity of his movements—it was a level of technique that made Kurona feel like a mere amateur.
It was a brutal reminder of what Blue Lock was all about. And Kurona knew that it would take everything he had to survive. He couldn't afford to make excuses like Miro had. In Blue Lock, the stakes were too high, and the time too short to waste on anything less than perfection.
Shiro Pov:
The room was still as Mira was send off, his dreams of being a striker for Japan shattered in an instant. The players were still processing the shock of the elimination, when Ego's cold, commanding voice once again filled the space.
"Enough. The game is over for today," Ego declared, his tone unwavering. "There is no time for you to dwell on what just happened. It's time to rest."
The players exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of what to expect next. Shiro stood still, expression unreadable, as the weight of what had just transpired began to sink in. The fear of elimination loomed over the room, but there was no point in resisting.
Ego pointed to a corner of the room where several sleeping bags were laid out in neat rows. "There are sleeping bags in that corner. Go to sleep. You'll need all the rest you can get for what's coming next."
Shiro didn't hesitate. His eyes remained sharp as he made his way to one of the sleeping bags. Sleeping on the hard floor didn't bother him. Having grown up in an orphanage, he wasn't used to sleeping in luxury, and the conditions here were nothing new. Comfort was irrelevant. They weren't here to relax—they were here to push their limits, to prove themselves.
Ego's voice rang out again, the command final and without warmth.
"Tomorrow, we're going to undergo physical training. Rest now, because it's going to be a long, grueling day."
The room filled with the sounds of rustling sleeping bags as the players reluctantly settled down. The weight of the day's events hung over them like a cloud, but there was no time for rest, no time for weakness. Tomorrow was another battle, and Shiro knew it would be the start of something even more intense.
As he closed his eyes, Shiro's thoughts drifted to the challenges ahead. Physical training. Competition. It would all come down to who could endure, who could push themselves further than anyone else. He wasn't about to let anyone else outshine him. Not now, not ever.
The room fell into a tense silence, each player lost in their thoughts, preparing for whatever the next day would bring.
After two days of intense physical training, the players are physically drained, struggling to cope with the relentless pace. The conditions they've been enduring are harsh, and the discomfort has begun to take its toll. Frustration builds up as the players talk among themselves, and one random player from the group, unable to hold back any longer, stands up and demands to know why they're being treated this way. Why are they forced to endure such harsh conditions when they haven't even proven themselves yet?
Suddenly, the screen embedded in their room flickers to life, and Ego's face appears, his expression as cold and emotionless as ever. He doesn't acknowledge the complaint directly, instead speaking with chilling clarity.
"Your complaints are irrelevant," Ego states. "The conditions here are meant to break you down. Blue Lock is not about comfort. It is about pressure—pressure to shape you into the most elite, relentless players. Only those who can withstand the hardest conditions will rise to the top."
He pauses, letting his words sink in before continuing.
"You are part of Team V," Ego announces, revealing the shocking truth. "This is the highest of the five teams in your stratum. But don't get complacent. While your team is the highest in this group, you are still among the five lowest teams in Blue Lock."
Ego's voice cuts through the tension: "Your next challenge will be against the other teams. You will face the four other teams in your group. Only the two teams with the most points will move on to the next stage of Blue Lock."
But then, Ego adds the most chilling part: "For the three teams that finish in the bottom, only the player with the most goals from each of those teams will advance to the next stage."
The room grows heavy with realization. It's not about teamwork. It's not about how well their team performs. It's about individual goal-scoring prowess. Only the player who proves themselves as the most lethal striker will survive.
Ego's words cut through the air with cold finality: "The strongest will survive. The rest will be eliminated. Prove your worth, or you will be sent home."