Blue Lock: Isagi the egoist

The sun hung high over the street soccer pitch, its rays baking the asphalt as Yoichi Isagi walked onto the makeshift field. Ahead of him stood a group of older boys—second graders, the self-proclaimed "big boys" of the street. Their sneakers squeaked against the pavement as they warmed up, showing off their clumsy but flashy skills.

"Hey, kid," one of them called out, grinning down at Isagi. "You sure you can hang with us? You're, what, five?"

"I'm six," Isagi replied flatly, his eyes narrowing. "And I'll be fine."

The older boys chuckled, exchanging looks. They weren't taking him seriously, and that suited Isagi just fine. He was here to prove himself, not ask for respect.

The game started, and Isagi immediately noticed the tricks. One boy attempted an elastico, the ball bouncing awkwardly between the inside and outside of his foot. Another tried a hocus-pocus, fumbling the ball but managing to pass it off to a teammate. Isagi watched, his eyes sharp and calculating. Their movements are sloppy, but the concepts are solid.

The ball came his way, and without hesitation, he mimicked the elastico perfectly. The ball snapped between his feet with precision, leaving his marker stunned as Isagi darted past him. A few steps later, he added the hocus-pocus to his repertoire, leaving another defender grasping at air.

The older boys' laughter faded as they realized what was happening. Isagi wasn't just keeping up—he was dominating. With every touch, he copied and refined their moves, outplaying them at every turn. His spatial awareness allowed him to see gaps they couldn't, and his growing arsenal of skills left them helpless.

By the end of the match, Isagi had scored five goals on his own. The older boys sat in stunned silence, their egos bruised, while Isagi stood in the center of the pitch, his heart pounding with exhilaration. I'm unbeatable.

Starting School

The first day of school arrived, and Yoichi Isagi found himself seated in a classroom that smelled faintly of chalk and freshly sharpened pencils. He was surrounded by kids his age, most of whom were nervously fiddling with their uniforms or whispering to each other. Isagi, however, sat with a bored expression, his chin resting on his hand.

The teacher began with basic lessons—Hiragana and Katakana charts filled the blackboard, and the class practiced writing simple characters. Isagi sighed, his pencil moving effortlessly across the page. He already knew this stuff. Kanji too. The only thing that annoyed him was dakuon—the voiced sounds in Japanese that required little marks to differentiate them. No matter how hard he tried, he kept confusing his dakuten and handakuten. It made his handwriting sloppy, and Isagi hated that.

"Whatever," he muttered under his breath. "I'll figure it out later."

While other kids struggled to keep up, Isagi found himself with plenty of free time. He began sketching in his notebook, not doodles or pictures, but diagrams of soccer fields. He drew up formations, scenarios, and moves, analyzing how players could position themselves to create openings or prevent goals. His notes became more detailed with each passing day, filled with arrows, circles, and annotations.

Exercises for Greatness

At recess, while his classmates played tag or chatted in groups, Isagi practiced alone. He set up small goals using sticks and rocks and worked on his shooting technique. He alternated between his left and right feet, mimicking the motions of players he had watched on TV. Every shot was followed by a mental note: Too much power. Adjust the angle. Keep the body balanced.

He also began testing his ability to dribble without looking at the ball. He started with slow, deliberate movements, letting the ball roll between his feet while his eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. Gradually, he increased the pace, forcing himself to rely on instinct and touch alone.

Isagi wasn't content with just physical training. At home, he watched soccer matches on TV, focusing intently on how professional players moved. He paused and rewound key moments, analyzing how attackers exploited space or how defenders closed gaps. Why did they make that pass? What was the goalkeeper thinking? Could I have done better? These questions fueled his ambition, driving him to improve.

Meta-Vision and Predator Eye

Isagi's obsession with analyzing the game led to two revelations. The first was what he called Meta-Vision—a style of perception that allowed him to see the entire field as if from above. By focusing on positioning, movement, and the flow of the game, he could predict plays before they happened, giving him unparalleled control over the field.

The second was Predator Eye, a razor-sharp focus that locked onto the goal. When Isagi activated this state of mind, the rest of the field seemed to fade away, leaving only the ball, the goal, and the slimmest of openings. He didn't care about the odds. If he saw a path to score, no matter how improbable, he would take it.

The Seed of Ego

By the end of his first month in school, Isagi's teachers had taken notice of his odd behavior. While other kids struggled with their lessons, he excelled academically but seemed uninterested. His notebooks, however, were filled with complex soccer strategies and theories.

"Yoichi," one teacher asked during recess, "why don't you play with the other kids?"

Isagi looked up from his latest diagram, his eyes calm but intense. "I don't have time for that. I'm going to be the best striker in the world."

The teacher blinked, unsure how to respond. Isagi's confidence was unnerving, even for an adult.

As the other kids laughed and played in the background, Isagi stood alone, his mind racing with possibilities. His ego burned brightly, an insatiable hunger that pushed him to see further, think faster, and play better than anyone else.

I want to control the field. I want to score every goal. I want to be the best. And I will do it all.