The whistle blew, signaling the end of the match. Team White stood tall, their victory undeniable, while Team Red lay scattered across the field, their bodies slumped in exhaustion and defeat. The intensity of the game had pushed everyone to their limits, but it was clear—they had been utterly crushed.
Rin knelt on the ground, fists clenched tightly as he stared at the grass beneath him. The gap between him and Shiro burned in his mind, a wound deeper than any physical pain. Beside him, Tokimitsu sat with his head buried in his hands, the weight of his efforts and the sting of failure pressing heavily on his shoulders. Bachira, lying flat on his back, gazed at the ceiling, his usual playful grin replaced with a rare look of frustration. Aryu struggled to even lift himself, his energy completely drained.
Meanwhile, Team White gathered together, their heads held high, their camaraderie strengthened by this hard-fought victory. Shiro stood at the center, catching his breath, his jersey drenched in sweat. His gaze swept across the defeated opponents with a mix of pride and quiet respect. He had faced some of the toughest challenges in this match, but in the end, his resolve and skills had carried the day.
Ego, watching from his office, smirked. "This is what Blue Lock is about," he murmured. "The battlefield that forges strikers who dominate, and those who rise above the rest. Shiro, Rin, Tokimitsu—all of them are evolving. This is only the beginning."
As the team huddled together after their monumental victory, Karasu broke the silence, his voice calm yet decisive. "So... who do we take?" he asked, glancing at each of his teammates.
Kurona, always practical, chimed in immediately. "Taking Rin would be the most logical choice," he said, crossing his arms. "He's already unlocked the flow, and his offensive capabilities could elevate our team even further."
Hiori, however, furrowed his brow and added thoughtfully, "I see your point, but I'd prefer Aryu. He'd be a great asset for aerial battles and provide us with a solid defensive advantage. We've seen how effective he can be in tight situations."
As the discussion continued, they noticed Shiro standing a bit apart, his eyes fixed on the defeated Team Red. His expression was unreadable, yet there was an unmistakable air of decisiveness about him.
"Shiro seems to have an idea," Hiori said, his gaze shifting toward their captain. The others turned to look at Shiro, waiting for him to speak, knowing his choice would likely shape the course of their journey in Blue Lock.
Shiro stepped forward, his piercing gaze fixed on Tokimitsu, who sat slumped on the ground amidst the shattered morale of Team Red. "Stand up, Tokimitsu," Shiro commanded, his voice carrying an unyielding tone.
Hearing his name, Tokimitsu's eyes widened in disbelief. Shock coursed through him as the reality of the situation hit. Me? Chosen? After everything? He thought of the freekick he gave away, the moment he thought he'd sealed his team's defeat. His hands trembled as he lifted his head to meet Shiro's unwavering gaze.
"Are you sure?" Tokimitsu asked hesitantly, his voice barely audible. "I… I don't want you to regret your choice. I'm just… me. I don't even have confidence in myself."
Shiro laughed softly, the sound carrying a warmth that broke through Tokimitsu's despair. "Who says a striker needs confidence?" Shiro asked, a playful yet profound grin spreading across his face. "What defines a striker isn't confidence—it's the will that resides in their core. The will that drives them to defy their limits, to face their fate head-on, and to rewrite their destiny."
He extended a hand toward Tokimitsu, his eyes blazing with conviction. "Aoshi Tokimitsu, your will—the fire you showed today—has proven you worthy in my eyes. So arise, Aoshi Tokimitsu. Come with us, and together, we shall shake the world."
Tokimitsu stared at Shiro's outstretched hand, his heart pounding. Slowly, he reached out, gripping it firmly as he stood, feeling a strange but exhilarating sense of purpose ignite within him. For the first time, Tokimitsu felt like he truly belonged.
As Team Red made their way toward the corridor leading to the next stage, Shiro paused at the entrance, glancing back at Rin. His expression was calm, but his words carried a sharp edge.
"Rin," he began, his voice steady yet cutting, "at the start of the match, you called me lukewarm. Now, take a moment and ask yourself—who's the lukewarm one now?"
He let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching Rin's reaction before continuing. "And your football? It's disgusting. A style built on nothing but tearing others down, focused on destruction rather than creation. What a pathetic joke."
With that, Shiro turned away, stepping confidently into the corridor, leaving his words to linger like a challenge Rin couldn't ignore.
An hour later, Shiro sat on the tiled floor of the shower, his back pressed against the cold, damp wall. The rhythmic patter of water cascaded over him, soaking his hair and running down his face like a cleansing stream. The steam rose around him, curling into the air and blurring the stark edges of the room, creating a cocoon of warmth against the chill of the tiles beneath him.
His breathing was steady, yet his body felt heavy, the weight of exhaustion and the intensity of the match finally settling in. Droplets clung to his lashes and slid down his cheeks, indistinguishable from sweat or perhaps something more profound. The echo of the water hitting the tiles was the only sound in the room, a stark contrast to the chaos of the field just an hour ago.
Shiro tilted his head back, letting the water wash over his face, as if trying to cleanse not just his body but the remnants of the battle from his mind. His muscles ached, but there was a certain calm in the moment—a solitude that allowed him to reflect on the match, the tension, and the choices he had made.
The world outside seemed distant, as though this small, tiled room was the only place that existed. Here, beneath the falling water, Shiro allowed himself to feel both the triumph and the toll of his relentless pursuit of greatness.
He decides to open the system to claim his reward and increase his stats.
Sports Gatcha System
Name: Asura Shiro
Age:16
ABILITY
Roberto Carlos's left foot power [95%]
Quaresma's shooting ability [80%]
Zlatan Ibrahimović's acrobatic ability [100%]
Ambidextrous [100%]
Zidane dribbling ability [100%]
Inzaghi's Spacial awareness [85%]
Ronaldinho's Brazilian Flair [80%]
Bergkamp's ball control [100%]
Ronaldo shooting range [85%]
Henry's Acceleration [75%]
Maldini Defensive Metavision [55%]
Cruyff Football Iq [70%]
FUSION WEAPON
Superior two guns volley[100%]
Sniper shot[95%]
Empty slot
STATS
Speed - S+
Shooting- S-
Pass- C+
Dribbling-S+
Defending- B+
Physic- SS-
Trait
Genius
Egoist
Greek God Body
Skill Dribbler
Speed Demon
Iron Wall
Points- 0
Luck Points- 0
Stats point- 0
Skill ticket
Store
Closing his system, Shiro closed his eyes and enjoyed his bath.
Three days later, Shiro and his team stepped onto the field for the final stage of the Second Selection. As they lined up, the sheer presence of their opponents left them momentarily stunned. The five professionals before them were not just seasoned players—they were legends, each carrying a reputation that seemed almost mythical.
At the forefront stood Leonardo Luna, the Prince of Madrid. A 25-year-old genius striker who had already played for Liverpool and Real Madrid, Luna's name was synonymous with excellence. His crowning achievement: leading his national team to World Cup victory. His composure and instinct made him a nightmare for any defender.
Beside him was Adam Blake, known as the Trophyless Goal Machine. Despite the absence of silverware in his career, he was the top goal scorer in the English Premier League, a relentless predator in front of goal whose hunger for scoring seemed insatiable.
Next was Pablo Cavasoz, the Argentinian number 10 who played for Juventus. Dubbed the Baby Face Killer, he was revered for his mesmerizing dribbling, unparalleled vision, and sniper-like accuracy. His mere presence on the pitch could change the tide of any game.
Towering over the rest was Dada Silva, the Human Tank. The leader of FC Porto, he was a defensive fortress known for his raw physicality and aerial dominance. Once he was in position, getting past him felt like trying to move a mountain.
Finally, there was Julian Loki, the Godsprinter. At just 18 years old, Loki had already won a World Cup, earning him the title The Boy with the World at His Feet. His speed was unmatched, and his ability to exploit space made him a terror to any defensive line.
The weight of their opponents' reputations bore down on Shiro and his team, but amidst the awe, a fire began to burn in Shiro's eyes. This was the ultimate battlefield, and he was ready to prove that even legends could be toppled.
As the Japanese teenagers stood in formation, observing their legendary opponents, Dada Silva broke the silence with a chuckle. "They're scrawnier than I thought," he said, his deep voice echoing with a mix of amusement and disdain.
Adam Blake smirked and shrugged. "Who cares? Let's just get this over with. I heard Japanese women know how to take care of a man," he added with a suggestive tone. "I wouldn't mind trying that out after this."
Pablo Cavasoz chimed in, his voice light and playful. "Yeah, let's wrap this up. I want to explore Tokyo and prove to everyone that I'm cuter than Pikachu." His grin widened, clearly enjoying his own joke.
Leonardo Luna, however, remained calm and composed as he observed the Japanese players. "To think they're the first team to show up," he said with a hint of derision. "I expected Sae Itoshi's little brother's team to be here first, but whatever. As if Japanese football has any real future," he added with a smirk. "I mean, do you see Spaniards trying to become world champions in Sumo?"
Their words hung in the air like a challenge, fueling the quiet determination simmering within Shiro and his team. They knew this match would be more than just a game—it was a battle for respect.
As the taunts of the World Five echoed across the field, Karasu furrowed his brow and turned to Shiro. "What are they saying? I don't understand this language."
Shiro, his gaze fixed on the opposing team, replied with a sharp edge in his voice, "They're speaking in English, and they're mocking us." His tone was calm, but the tension in his body betrayed the anger brewing within him.
Without hesitation, Shiro began striding toward the World Five, his every step purposeful and radiating defiance. Just as he closed in, Julian Loki stepped forward, raising his hand in a conciliatory gesture. "Please excuse them," Loki said in English, a polite smile on his face. "Those men don't have any manners."
Shiro didn't even pause. He slapped Loki's hand away with a sharp motion. "Yeah, I heard that," Shiro said coldly, his voice dripping with restrained fury. "So move out of my way. They're mocking us, and I'm going to talk to them." His piercing glare was locked on the players who had disrespected his team, his anger burning like a storm barely held in check.
Shiro took a step closer, his voice loud and clear, cutting through the air like a blade. "Hi, you're mocking us?" he called out, his tone daring and confrontational. His eyes narrowed, locking onto Adam Blake. "Let me tell you something."
He jabbed a finger toward Blake, his expression sharp with disdain. "First, Adam Blake. You come here just to get paid and enjoy your vacation? Is that all you're good for? A little ugly manwhore with nothing but money to his name."
The tension on the field thickened as Shiro's words struck like thunder. "Why don't you try to win a trophy for once in your life? Because instead of scoring, you don't know how to do anything else. I mean, what's the point of scoring goals if you never win anything? You're just a hollow goal machine."
The other players exchanged glances, stunned by Shiro's audacity, but he stood firm, his glare challenging anyone who dared to respond.
Shiro's gaze shifted sharply to Leonardo Luna, his tone dripping with disdain. "And you, Leonardo Luna," he began, his words steady and cutting, "just because you won the World Cup and played for two good teams doesn't make you impressive."
He took a step forward, his voice rising with intensity. "Why don't you try having a real impact on a match for once? All we have to do is watch your so-called performances for Madrid and Spain to see the truth. At Madrid, Cristiano Ronaldo was the star, the main goalscorer—while you stood in his shadow. And in Spain? A midfielder had to do your job in the World Cup Final. Some 'genius striker' you are."
Shiro's words hung in the air like a challenge, daring Luna to respond.
Shiro's eyes turned toward Pablo Cavasoz and Dada Silva, his expression filled with contempt. "And as for you two," he said, his voice cold and dismissive, "I don't even have to say much."
He jabbed a finger toward Pablo. "One of you is completely useless without his teammates propping him up, nothing but dead weight on his own." Then, his gaze shifted to Dada, his tone sharper. "And the other? Just a decent player in a small league. A so-called 'tank' who wouldn't last in a real competition."
Shiro crossed his arms, letting the silence that followed amplify his scorn. The sheer disdain in his words made it clear: he wasn't here to back down, no matter who stood in front of him.
Shiro turned his gaze to the entire group, his piercing eyes locking on each of them before settling on Julian Loki. "The only one here who can truly call himself world-class," he began, his voice steady and unwavering, "is the youngest among you—Julian Loki."
He gestured toward Loki with a nod. "At least he's proven that he doesn't need anyone to carry him to success. Sure, Paul Pogba and N'Golo Kanté were the pillars of France's World Cup victory, but Loki? He was the sharpest sword, cutting through defenses and carving out his place on the world stage."
Shiro took a step back, his words sinking in. "The rest of you?" He smirked, his disdain evident. "You're living off hype and past glory."
Shiro took one last look at the group, his expression hard and resolute. "And one more thing," he said, his voice laced with contempt. "Don't mock a country's sport when you don't even stand at the top of your own."
His words hung in the air like a challenge, cutting through the tension as he turned his back to them, signaling the conversation was over.
The four professional footballers glared at Shiro, their pride wounded by his blunt words. Adam Blake's jaw tightened, his fists clenching as he took a step forward. "Who the hell does this kid think he is?" he muttered under his breath, his face twisted with anger.
Leonardo Luna's usual smug demeanor was gone, replaced by a scowl. "A no-name teenager dares lecture me? Let's see if he can back up his arrogance on the field."
Pablo Cavasoz, the "baby-faced killer," didn't hide his irritation, his youthful charm overshadowed by the sharp glare he directed at Shiro. "That brat has no idea who he's talking to," he hissed, his hands balling into fists.
Even Dada Silva, typically calm and composed, seemed to bristle at the insult. "Let's teach him and his team what it means to face real footballers," he said, his voice low and menacing.
Julian Loki, however, stood quietly to the side, a slight smirk playing on his lips. Instead of anger, there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he observed Shiro's boldness. "Interesting," he thought. "Let's see if he can back up all that talk."
The four pros exchanged glances, their competitive fire ignited by Shiro's audacious remarks. Adam Blake cracked his knuckles, a predatory grin forming on his face. "Alright, kid," he muttered, his voice dripping with menace, "you've just made this personal. Let's see how cocky you are after we're done."
Leonardo Luna flipped his hair back with a scoff, his pride fueling his resolve. "You'll regret ever opening your mouth. I'll show you what it means to face someone on my level," he said, his gaze fixed coldly on Shiro.
Pablo Cavasoz adjusted his jersey, his youthful facade giving way to a steely determination. "Let's crush him and remind these amateurs why we're at the top," he said, his voice sharp with irritation.
Dada Silva rolled his shoulders, his imposing frame towering over the others. "The boy's got guts, I'll give him that," he rumbled, his tone calm but deadly. "But he'll learn soon enough—there's no room for disrespect on this field."
Their resolve was unanimous: Shiro needed to be taught a lesson, and they were determined to show him the vast gap between themselves and a rising star from Blue Lock.
As Shiro walked back to his teammates, Kurona tilted his head and asked, "What did you say to those pros?" Shiro smirked but didn't answer, his silence more telling than words.
Hiori raised an eyebrow, a knowing look on his face. "Shiro insulted them. I know enough English to tell you went straight for their pride. You didn't just talk—you cut deep."
Tokimitsu, his face pale with anxiety, fidgeted nervously. "But now they're even angrier… They're going to destroy us. What were you thinking, Shiro?"
Shiro let out a hearty laugh, his confidence unwavering. "Why are you scared? This is the perfect chance to experience it—the essence of true football. Pure, raw football at its finest."
Karasu, catching onto Shiro's mindset, grinned slyly. "Ah, I get it now. Even if we can't win, we've got to give it everything. You're saying we have nothing to lose, right?"
Shiro nodded, his expression firm. "Exactly. To get better, you have to go up against players who are better than you. If you only play against those you can beat, you'll never progress. This is our chance to push past our limits. Let's show them the spirit of Blue Lock."