At my desk, the soft hum of my laptop filling the room. The only other sound was the faint rustling of paper as I flipped through my notes. As a finance major, I had spent years preparing for this moment. The comprehensive exam I was taking today was the final hurdle. If I did well, I could fast-track my coursework and finally get into advanced computer programming classes. That was the plan.
The sun peeked through the blinds, washing the room in pale morning light. I leaned back in my chair and stretched, my body groaning in protest after hours of sitting. I was running on pure adrenaline, and my brain felt like it was swimming in numbers—formulas, probabilities, algorithms. All of it blended together in a mess that teetered on the edge of total chaos.
My stomach growled faintly, but I ignored it. Food wasn't what I needed. What I really needed was another jolt of caffeine. With that thought, I pushed back from my desk, shoved my wallet into my hoodie pocket, and shuffled toward the door.
The stairwell was eerily quiet as I made my way down, each step echoing off the walls. I passed a bulletin board littered with flyers for study groups, campus events, and a few hastily scribbled advertisements for tutoring services. None of it registered. My mind was locked on one thing: the vending machine in the lobby.
When I reached it, the fluorescent lights of the machine flickered faintly, the hum of its motor the only sound in the empty space. I fumbled for change in my pocket, feeding the coins into the slot with mechanical precision. The can of Red Bull dropped into the tray with a satisfying thunk.
As I reached down to grab it, a sudden wave of dizziness hit me. My vision blurred, and the room tilted. I tried to steady myself, but it was like my legs had vanished beneath me. The next thing I knew, I was falling into nothingness.
I woke up to the sound of a whistle blowing. It was sharp and commanding, cutting through the fog in my mind. My eyes snapped open, and I squinted against the blinding sunlight overhead.
Where was I?
The ground beneath me was soft, the smell of freshly cut grass filling my nose. I blinked a few times, and slowly, the world came into focus. I wasn't in the dorm lobby anymore. I was lying on a soccer field, surrounded by people.
Confusion twisted in my chest as I pushed myself up to a sitting position. My hands brushed against something strange. My clothes—these weren't mine. I was wearing a soccer jersey. Bold letters stretched across the front: Aldera high. I glanced down further and noticed a name printed on the back in sharp black font: Akira.
"Akira!" someone shouted.
I turned toward the voice, and a boy around my age waved at me from across the field. He looked impatient. "You're up next! Stop spacing out!"
My heart thudded in my chest. This had to be some kind of dream. I had never played soccer seriously in my life, not since middle school gym class. My brain screamed at me to protest, to tell him this wasn't right, but somehow, my body moved on its own.
I jogged toward the group, my legs feeling lighter and stronger than I'd ever remembered them being. My cleats dug into the grass, and my mind registered everything with startling clarity—the weight of the ball on the field, the positions of the other players, the way the coach on the sidelines watched like a hawk.
As I stepped into position, a surge of adrenaline coursed through me, sharpening my focus. The ball rolled toward me, and instinctively, I initiated a deceptive maneuver. With a gentle touch using the inside of my right foot, I nudged the ball forward. Immediately, I performed a feint by circling my right foot around the ball, suggesting a move to the left. This deceptive motion caused the first defender to shift his weight, anticipating my movement to his left. Capitalizing on his hesitation, I swiftly pushed the ball to the right with the outside of my left foot, exploiting the space created and bypassing him effortlessly.
Advancing further, another defender closed in, his stance low and ready. Approaching with calculated speed, I tapped the ball outward with the outside of my right foot, prompting the defender to commit in that direction. In a split second, I snapped my foot inward, bringing the ball across my body to the left. This rapid change in direction left the defender off-balance, allowing me to slip past him seamlessly.
With open space ahead, I accelerated, keeping the ball close. Approaching the penalty area, a third defender attempted to intercept. I pushed the ball laterally across my body to my left foot, simultaneously shifting my weight. This swift lateral movement allowed me to evade the defender's challenge, maintaining control as I penetrated deeper into the box.
Now, with only the goalkeeper to beat, I assessed his positioning. He stood slightly off-center, anticipating a shot to his left. Exploiting this, I opted for a finesse shot. Planting my left foot firmly, I struck the ball with the inside of my right foot, imparting a subtle spin. The ball curved gracefully, arching over the keeper's outstretched arms and nestling into the top right corner of the net.
The sequence—from the initial dribble to the final shot—felt both rapid and prolonged, each moment etched vividly in my mind. The culmination of precise footwork, strategic feints, and calculated decisions resulted in a goal that seemed almost effortless, yet was rooted in technique and instinct.
As the referee whistle signaled the start of the next kickoff, I positioned myself on the field, anticipation coursing through me. The ball was stolen after a while and passed to me with a firm kick, and I received it with the inside of my right foot, cushioning its momentum. A defender immediately closed in, his eyes locked onto the ball. I feigned a move to my left by shifting my weight and slightly angling my body, causing the defender to lean in that direction. In a swift motion, I used the outside of my right foot to push the ball to my right, exploiting the space created by the defender's misstep.
With the defender now behind me, I accelerated down the flank, keeping the ball close to my feet. Another opponent approached, attempting to block my path. As he neared, I slowed my pace, drawing him in. Just as he extended his leg to challenge, I deftly tapped the ball between his legs, executing a precise nutmeg. I darted around him, regaining possession on the other side, and continued my advance.
Scanning the field, I noticed a teammate making a run toward the penalty area. I adjusted my stride, preparing to deliver a cross. As I approached the best spot, I struck the ball with the inside of my right foot, imparting a slight spin. The ball arced gracefully through the air, curling away from the goalkeeper and defenders. My teammate timed his run perfectly, meeting the ball with a powerful header that sent it crashing into the back of the net.
Cheers erupted from my teammates, but I barely registered them. My chest heaved as I stood frozen, staring at the goal. What had just happened? How had I done that?
I didn't have time to think. The coach clapped his hands, barking out instructions for the next kickoff. Before I knew it, the game resumed, and I was moving again.
Each touch of the ball felt electric, like I had tapped into some hidden reservoir of skill and instinct. My mind worked in overdrive, breaking down the game into patterns and probabilities. Every pass, every shot—it was like solving a puzzle, and my body executed the solutions perfectly.
By the time the game ended, I was drenched in sweat, but my heart pounded with something I hadn't felt in years: excitement.
——
As I walked home alone, the cool evening air brushing against my skin, my mind raced, trying to piece together the events that had led me here. Just hours ago, I was a college student, hunched over textbooks, preparing for a finance exam that would determine my future. Now, I was on a soccer field, executing moves I had never consciously learned, scoring goals with a precision that felt both foreign and familiar.
Who was I? Obi Khan, a name that now seemed unfamiliar, like a character from someone else's story. I had always been analytical, driven by numbers and patterns, believing that success was a matter of calculation and strategy. But today, on that field, I felt something else—a raw, unfiltered instinct, a connection to the game that transcended logic.
I paused at a streetlight, the glow casting long shadows on the pavement. Was this some kind of dream? Had I fallen asleep at my desk, and this was all a figment of my imagination? The vividness of the experience, the tactile sensations—the feel of the ball at my feet, the rush of wind as I sprinted, the surge of adrenaline as I scored—felt too real to be a dream.
I resumed walking, my footsteps echoing in the quiet street. Could it be that I had been given a second chance? A chance to explore a path I had never considered, to embrace a side of myself that had remained dormant? The idea was both exhilarating and terrifying.
As I walked to what seemed to be my apartment building, I noticed the familiar but unfamiliar sights—the worn steps, the chipped paint on the door, the faint smell of takeout from the neighboring unit. Everything was as it had been before, yet nothing felt the same. I changed, or perhaps I was finally becoming who I was always meant to be.
I stepped into the apartment, and a quiet stillness greeted me. Walking through the space, everything felt both known and strange at the same time. On the kitchen table, I noticed a handwritten note: "I went grocery shopping. I'll be back at seven. —Mom." A mix of relief and confusion washed over me. Even though I wasn't sure where I was, it was comforting to know I had family here.
Beside the note lay an envelope addressed to "Akira," with a logo that read "Blue Lock." Curious, I opened it and began to read.
The letter was an invitation to join the Blue Lock Project, a special training program started by the Japan Football Union. Its goal was to find and train high school soccer players to prepare for future World Cups. The program aimed to create Japan's best striker by bringing together 300 high school forwards for intense training.
I sat down, the letter trembling in my hands. The reality of my new situation settled in. I wasn't just living a different life; I was about to start a high-stakes journey to become the best striker in Japan.
Putting the letter down, I make my way toward the bathroom, my mind still racing. The weight of everything that had just happened—the game, the instincts that felt both foreign and natural, and now this invitation to Blue Lock—felt surreal. But before I could even begin to process what it all meant, a simple yet pressing question formed in my mind: Who am I now?
Pushing open the bathroom door, I step inside and flick on the light. The fluorescent glow hums softly as I raise my gaze to the mirror.
The face staring back at me isn't mine. At least, not the one I remember.
I lean in, eyes scanning every detail. My hair is… different. The left side is jet black, but the right side transitions into a dark blue, fading into even darker tips. The two colors blend together in a way that seems intentional, like a design choice rather than something natural. My eyes—dark blue, almost navy—stare back at me, sharp and intense in a way that makes my own reflection feel unfamiliar.
Is this normal? I try to recall if people here naturally have exotic hairstyles and colors. During the game earlier, I had noticed a few players with unusual appearances, so maybe this isn't out of place in this world. But still, seeing myself like this—seeing someone else in the mirror but knowing it's me—is unnerving.
I run a hand through my hair, feeling its texture, as if confirming that it's real. It's soft, yet slightly unkempt, giving me a rugged look.Almost similar to that one green dude hair from my hero,my face is sharper than I remember, my jawline more defined. I look athletic, which is strange because, in my past life, I spent most of my time sitting at a desk studying finance and programming, not training to become a professional athlete.
Lifting my shirt slightly, I glance down at my torso. Lean muscle. Not bulky, but clearly built for speed and agility. Another difference. This body was made for sports. It feels efficient, like a machine fine-tuned for one purpose—soccer.
A deep breath escapes me as I grip the edges of the sink. This is real. I am Akira now.
I straighten up, staring into my own eyes, searching for something familiar. My old self, Obi Khan, is still in there, somewhere. The analytical mind, the methodical way I process information—it's all still mine. But this body, this life, this new world… it's different.
My gaze drifts back to the letter on the counter, the words "Blue Lock" standing out like a beacon calling me forward.
I don't know why I'm here or how I ended up in this world, but one thing is clear—I have been given a chance. A new path.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel something stir within me.
Excitement.