Zaahir exhaled deeply, his breath fogging up the glass window beside him. Outside, the familiar sights of Japan's urban sprawl stretched endlessly, yet it all felt foreign. Unnatural.
Because it was.
He clenched his hands into fists beneath his desk. The weight of realization pressed down on him, an intrusive thought that refused to leave since he woke up in this body. This wasn't his world. This was Blue Lock.
A universe where football wasn't just a sport—it was war. A place that would forge Japan's greatest egoist striker, a battleground of prodigies where only the best would survive.
And he was in it.
Not as a side character.
Not as an observer.
He was in Isagi Yoichi's place.
There was no Isagi in this world. Zaahir had taken his spot.
His fingers tapped against the desk, mind racing. He wasn't dreaming. This was reality. He had all of Zaahir's memories—the life of a Japanese high school student with a dream of becoming a pro footballer. But deeper than that, he had his own memories, his old life, the knowledge of what was to come.
And if he knew anything about Blue Lock, it was that this world demanded a genius.
A smirk ghosted his lips. Good thing he already was one.
The Genius on the Pitch
"Zaahir!"
His thoughts snapped back to reality as the sharp voice of his coach cut through the air. His high school team was gathered on the field, their jerseys clinging to sweat-drenched bodies under the midday sun. The semi-final match of the prefectural tournament was underway, and all eyes were on him.
"Oi, Zaahir! Stop spacing out!" His teammate nudged him as they lined up for a throw-in.
Zaahir rolled his shoulders, exhaling through his nose. Right. Focus.
This was the present. His last high school tournament before the story of Blue Lock would begin. And if he was going to carve his path, it started now.
The ball was thrown in. Instinct took over.
With a single fluid motion, Zaahir flicked the ball up with his heel, pivoting his body to slip past the defender. His dribbling was razor-sharp, his agility making him nearly untouchable as he cut through the opposition's formation like a knife through silk.
Defenders lunged at him, but he was too fast, too slippery. A slight feint sent one sprawling. A quick outside touch made another miss by inches. He danced through them, each movement precise, controlled, like an artist painting strokes on a canvas.
This is what makes me special.
Unlike Isagi, who relied on vision, Zaahir's greatest weapon was his dribbling—his ability to weave through defenses, to turn chaos into opportunity.
One-on-one with the keeper now.
The world seemed to slow.
He remembered how this would play out in the original world. How Isagi would hesitate. How his shot would get blocked. How his dream would nearly slip through his fingers before Blue Lock appeared.
But Zaahir wasn't Isagi.
He was better.
A soft touch. The keeper lunged. Too early. Zaahir nudged the ball past him with a delicate flick of his foot—an effortless panenka finish into the net.
The stadium erupted.
Final whistle. 1-0. Game over.
Zaahir stood in the center of the pitch, heart pounding, sweat dripping down his brow. His teammates swarmed him in celebration, but his mind was already elsewhere.
This was just the beginning.
He had just rewritten history.
And soon, Blue Lock would come knocking