{Ego's POV}
And thus marks the end of the First Selection.
A step forward—for this project, this country, and these lumps of untapped ego-driven talent.
The whistle blew just as the net rippled for the tenth time.
Isagi Yoichi, goal number ten.
A clean strike off a calculated fake. A striker's ego, taking tangible form in the shape of a finishing blow.
I watched the ball settle behind the line as the players collapsed like puppets with cut strings. Exhaustion painted their faces—sweat, dirt, fatigue—and yet, underneath that, something more valuable glinted.
Resolve. Hunger. Ego.
On the monitor beside me, the field dimmed slightly as cooldown protocols kicked in—players exchanging breathless stares, too tired to even speak. The air was thick with tension, grief, and grudging respect.
Beside me, Anri broke the silence.
"That… was incredible. Some of them really went beyond expectations."
Her words were soft, tinged with admiration. Naïve. But not wrong.
"Especially Isagi. Ten goals… It's hard to even believe."
I didn't respond immediately. My gaze remained fixed on the boy in question.
Isagi Yoichi
Eyes sharp. Chest heaving. A predator who'd just claimed his territory. The others limped, some looked crushed, others broken. But him?
He stood there, watching the scoreboard. Watching his name burn brighter than the rest.
That's it. Let it bloom.
The ego of a striker.
I allowed myself the smallest of smirks.
It's time.
I stepped forward, hands behind my back, issuing the command for the field screen to light up once more. Their heads turned toward the screen like prey sensing their predator's return.
Let's make this clear.
Ego's voice crackles through the loudspeakers. Cold. Calculated. Ruthless.
"Congratulations… to those of you who managed to crawl your way past the First Selection of Blue Lock."
"Some of you shined. Others fizzled out like cheap fireworks on a rainy night. And a rare few—evolved. You broke past your limits, stepped into the unknown."
"This wasn't just a match. This was war. And every drop of blood, sweat, and ego spilled on that field was a necessary sacrifice."
"Because this project doesn't give a damn about your feelings, your friendships, or your past. It only cares about one thing—creating the world's greatest striker."
The pause that follows isn't silence—it's suffocation.
"Effective immediately… the First Selection is over."
"You've earned a break. One day. Not out of mercy—but because even a sword needs time to cool after it's forged."
"But make no mistake—your victory today doesn't make you strong. It just means you're not weak enough to be discarded. Yet."
"Because starting the day after tomorrow… we begin a week-long regimen of physical reconditioning."
"Your stamina? Pathetic. Your explosiveness? Laughable. Your bodies right now are like rusty chains holding your egos down."
"And I'm not here to build strikers who can score goals in a schoolyard. I'm here to forge weapons—tools sharpened by pain, precision, and pressure."
"In this next week, I'll be dismantling your weaknesses one tendon at a time. And when we're done, what will remain won't be human. It'll be a vessel of ego honed to kill."
"So sleep tight tomorrow. Dream your little dreams. Because once training begins—there will be no mercy, no excuses."
"This is Blue Lock. The world's most ruthless crucible. And if you're still breathing by the end of it, maybe—just maybe—you'll be one step closer to being worthy of your dream."
The screen fades to black.
A heavy silence falls over the field.
And behind the glass, I turn away—already planning the hell these strikers are about to be thrown into. One step forward.
The real game starts now.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I sit back in my chair, surrounded by walls of monitors—each screen looping footage from the other Wings. Broken plays. Flashes of brilliance. Moments of collapse. These were the raw materials I had to judge. To measure. To cut down. To refine.
Anri stood to the side, tablet in hand, scrolling through the raw data. Goal tallies, pass efficiency, sprint speed, stamina degradation—all quantified. She looked over at me, cautious as ever.
"We're locking in the last of the names today?" she asked.
"Obviously," I muttered. "Talent doesn't wait. It evolves, or it dies."
She didn't respond, but she didn't need to. She knew by now—this wasn't a game of fairness. It was survival of the egotist.
I tapped a few keys. On one screen, I reviewed Wing Five's final scoreboard. Team X: crushed. Team Y: held together by duct tape and desperation. Team W: Just don't even talk about them. But amidst the mess, three names burned through the static like embers refusing to die.
Barou Shouei.
Ikki Niko.
Wanima Junichi.
The highest scorers from their respective teams. each of them unstable, unpredictable, but undeniably dangerous.
"Send out the notices," I said. "Wing Five's done. These three move on."
Anri gave a small nod and began uploading the names into the Blue Lock system. Across the dorm halls of Wing 5, the sound of digital chimes echoed—notifications flaring to life on each player's device.
Most stared blankly at their screens.
Some broke into tears.
Others lashed out in fury.
But in one corner of that building, three individuals quietly absorbed the message:
"Congratulations. You have qualified for the Second Selection. Prepare."
Barou clenched his jaw, eyes wild, fists tighter than steel.
Niko adjusted his hair to look at the screen properly, his mind already spinning.
Wanima cracked his neck and let out a quiet, satisfied breath.
Three more weapons are ready to be forged.
And me? I turned back to the rest of the footage. There were still more names to finalize, more cuts to make. Blue Lock had no time for sleep.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Kira Ryosuke – Break Day]
For the first time in weeks, the air felt… calm.
No countdowns. No screaming monitors. No blood-pumping urgency. Just a soft hum of silence and the comfort of a bed that didn't smell like adrenaline.
Finally, I thought, as I let my body sink into the mattress. A real break.
But peace never lasted long in Blue Lock.
Because my mind—relentless as always—dragged me back into the match. Back into yesterday.
I turned over and stared at the ceiling. The image of the final score burned into my thoughts. Ten goals… ten, from a single person.
Isagi… you damn monster.
I clenched my jaw, recalling every minute I spent on that field. And what stung most wasn't just the loss… it was how little I did.
I came into Blue Lock believing I'd make a name for myself. That I'd step out of Isagi's shadow. I told myself I was better than that—more composed, more elegant, more balanced.
But yesterday made it painfully clear.
I wasn't here to thrive.
Not yet.
Right now, my skills could only help me survive.
That realization stung harder than any tackle. But weirdly… it didn't kill my spirit. No. It sharpened it.
If survival's all I can manage now… then fine.
But when training starts tomorrow, I'll make damn sure I claw my way into the light.
That was the only way forward in Blue Lock. Grow… or be erased.
A chime echoed through the dorm.
The walls around us lit up with a flicker, and the overhead monitors powered on. No dramatic entrance. No Ego speech. Just plain text:
"The list for players advancing to the Second Selection is now live."
One line of data. That was all it took to make or break the futures of dozens of players.
I stood up, walking over with the rest of the guys, eyes scanning.
As expected, all the members from the top two teams had moved on. Isagi's name was at the very top—highlighted, bolded, almost glowing like a goddamn neon sign.
Kira Ryosuke – 5 goals – Advances to Second Selection. I spotted my name not far down the list.
But then… the wild cards.
The top scorers of each losing team. I scanned down, seeing the three names
I exhaled. Well, good for them.
And then… I saw him.
Isagi.
Leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, and wearing a grin that looked anything but innocent.
There was no warmth in that smile.
Just a challenge.
Fuck. Can't this monster leave me alone?
I had more than enough trauma from you.
Please leave me.
A chill traced down my spine. I didn't even realize I was gripping my wrist until my fingers started to ache.
Shit…
I remembered that final play. His fake volley. The one he copied just to spite Nagi. That wasn't strategy. That was personal.
I was so damn lucky I got that cross in.
Because if I hadn't… I knew I'd be the one left facedown on that grass. Erased. Forgotten.
Blue Lock didn't do second chances.
So starting tomorrow… no more drifting.
I'd better earn the right to be on the same field as that monster.
It got solidified when, not even 10 minutes later, I saw a horde of people walking through the big corridor. All of them looked broken, and a few were even in tears.
They had been eliminated.
I am happy I wasn't with them.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
{Ego's POV}
From the observation deck above the training chambers, I stood, arms folded, looking down at the gathered players. Survivors of the First Selection. Just barely.
Some were stretching. Some cracking jokes. Others with that wide-eyed, post-survival delusion that this would be a "light day."
"Idiots."
"This isn't a break," I muttered, flicking open my tablet, letting the data stream in—heart rates, sleep hours, recovery levels. "This is Phase Zero of destroying your limits."
Behind me, Anri Teieri stood with a towel over her shoulder. She was already sweating, and she hadn't even done anything yet.
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" she asked, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. "You look like a kid unwrapping Christmas presents…"
I didn't answer.
I just tapped the intercom and spoke directly into the chamber.
"Welcome to your one-week of hell."
"Your bodies are weak. Your endurance is laughable. You're strikers with no lungs, no legs, and no explosiveness. That ends here."
"Every day, for the next 7 days, you'll train to the brink of muscular failure. And then go past it."
"Morning: Long-distance endurance runs. Bare minimum? 20 kilometers. Fail to meet time goals? Redo it. Twice."
"Midday: Strength circuit. Sled pulls, incline sprints, bodyweight hell, explosive drills. You'll puke. You'll cramp. You'll beg. Don't."
"Evening: Agility work. Cone drills, lateral sprints, resistance bands, and balance core circuits. Your legs will feel like sandbags by Day 2."
"And night? 30 minutes of cold water immersion. Why? Because you're not here to feel good. You're here to recover so you don't break the next day."
I paused, watching their faces drop.
A few flinched. Others froze. Some looked at me like I'd gone insane.
Good. That means it's working.
"You want to become the world's best striker?" I continued, voice sharp as glass. "Then you need a body that can survive hell and still sprint 90 minutes like a predator."
"This is not conditioning. This is forging. You don't get stronger by lifting weights. You get stronger when your body wants to quit, and you don't let it."
"Get moving."
The buzzer sounded. Players bolted off toward the track. Some sluggish. Some sprinting like they wanted to prove something. They didn't know that by the end of the day, all of them would be crawling.
Behind me, Anri exhaled slowly and whispered, "You're going to turn them into machines…"
"No," I replied flatly. "Machines break."
"I'm turning them into weapons. Though they also break. But in the hands of a skilled warrior, they don't."
"Are you a skilled warrior then?" she questioned me back with a raised eyebrow.
"Do you want to join them too? Anri?"
She shut up real quick.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Isagi's POV]
This training is brutal.
My shirt's clinging to my skin, sweat dripping from my hair, my legs feel like they're dragging anvils—but I'm flying. I've never felt more alive.
Every drill, every rep, every agonizing sprint—it's like Ego saw through me. Like he knew exactly what I needed to evolve.
"He's not just trying to make us stronger. He's reshaping us—turning us into weapons."
I can feel it. My body screaming, my heart pounding, and somewhere deep inside me, something breaking and rebuilding stronger.
"This is perfect. This pain, this struggle... it's fuel. Ego, you bastard. You really get it."
I charge into another shuttle run like it's a match point. I'm drenched, my muscles are on fire, and yet—I'm smiling. Grateful, even.
"Push me more. I want all of it."
—----------
{Third person POV}
Kunigami grunted, wiping the sweat from his brow, his arms trembling after the endless sets of push-ups.
"How the hell is Isagi still moving like that? Even my body is starting to take a toll from this torture. WAIT, IS HE SMILING?!" (E.N:- I wanna see this animated soo bad..)
Chigiri stood bent over, hands on knees, glaring at his calves like they betrayed him.
"My legs… my beautiful legs... I swear if one more drill hits them, I'm done. And that lunatic's sprinting like it's a damn joyride. Maybe this is because I didn't train for a year. HOW IS HE STILL EVEN GOING AT THAT SPEED?!"
Bachira had sprawled out on the turf, limbs flung in all directions, eyes half-open in disbelief.
"Isagi… you're glowing, man. Like some freaky ego-powered angel. But I think I'm gonna die here. Right now. Please bury me with a ball."
Kira leaned against the wall, drenched in sweat, chest heaving as he glanced at Isagi flying past him.
"He's… smiling? I can barely see straight. FUCK THIS SHIT. EGO TAKE HIM TO ANOTHER ROOM AND GIVE HIM MORE OF THAT TORTUROUS TRAINING, AHHHH!"
Kuon, already half-dead on a bench, gave up even pretending to keep up.
"This is absurd. Who trains like this willingly? And why the hell is Isagi having THE TIME OF HIS LIFE!?"
Raichi grit his teeth, hunched over mid-sit-up, staring at Isagi with a twitching eye.
"That smug bastard's enjoying this. This is some sick twisted kink, isn't it?! Damn freak..."
Igaguri collapsed mid-lunge, arms outstretched like a dying monk.
"God… is this divine punishment for faking fouls? I swear I'll stop—just please, make Isagi stop smiling like that...and END this torturous training, AMEN. AAMMMEENNNNN!!"
Naruhaya tripped during a side-step drill and just stayed down, watching Isagi sprint by with sparkles in his eyes.
"What is he made of? Jet fuel and ego? I trained just as hard—didn't I? …right?" Regardless of saying….. They were trying to cope. And HARD too...
Isagi, of course, didn't hear any of it.
He was too busy thriving in the chaos.
Every ounce of pain?
Fuel.
Every strained breath?
A step closer to his evolution.
And to him, this wasn't hell.
It was home.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Ego's POV]
Paperwork. Numbers. Budget reports. Procurement orders.
Somewhere between optimizing human potential and building the world's best striker, I also had to run a facility the size of a small military compound.
"Anri," I muttered, eyes fixed on the spreadsheet in front of me, "confirm the energy consumption for the central wing again."
She leaned over, scanning the monitors. "Still holding steady. 27,000 kWh this month. The solar panel backup cut 14% off the total costs."
"Hmph. Acceptable."
Operating Blue Lock wasn't cheap.
We were running a top-tier athlete factory with round-the-clock surveillance, AI-driven match simulation systems, private dormitories, full-scale stadium replicas, biometric labs, nutritional labs, and a training AI that could simulate pro-level plays.
This month's internal summary looked something like this:
Operational Costs: ¥170,500,000
Tech Maintenance & Upgrades: ¥50,300,000
Catering & Nutrition (275 players): ¥40,200,000
Utilities: ¥8,750,000
Medical & Recovery: ¥12,800,000
Miscellaneous: ¥8,100,000
All of it funded to sharpen egos and weed out mediocrity.
I looked over at Anri as she tapped through the data sheets. "The second selection is going to require more. New gear, upgraded VR pods, two additional indoor fields, and isolation analysis rooms."
"We'll need custom uniforms too," she added. "The second selection will be visualized differently. Might as well reflect that in their outfits."
I nodded. "Send the new specs to the suppliers. Tight-fit, breathable, compression-enhanced. Track internal biometrics in real-time. We're not dressing them to look cool—we're dressing them for war."
"And the tech?"
"We're installing three new spatial recognition tracking towers," I said. "Each will run constant scans to monitor player positioning and behavior tendencies."
Anri's eyes lit up. "That'll help with dynamic analysis and predictive movement modeling—"
"—And expose tactical idiocy faster," I cut in.
She sweatdropped, clearly excited despite my bluntness. "You sound almost giddy about it."
"And we also need the AI Goalkeeper. The blue lock man." I was looking at the prototypes of those.
"Yes, I have already put in an order for them. They are really expensive. Since they require special footballs to respond to them. It will be hard to get the funds for this from JFA." her voice was laced with concern.
"Don't worry. They will agree with some persuasion. If you can't get them to agree, then send them to me." My smile might have been a bit too much as Anri started to sweat.
"Also, bump the daily meal intake by 200 calories. Increase protein. The next round of training will shred them apart if their bodies can't keep up."
This wasn't just about getting results. It was about building weapons that breathed ego and exhaled goals.
My fingers danced over the keyboard as I finalized the orders.
"The Second Selection starts in 6 days," I said coldly. "And when it does, Blue Lock will no longer be a proving ground. It will be a warzone."
And I was making sure the battlefield was perfectly prepared.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Anri's POV – Blue Lock Dormitory, Late Night]
It was past midnight.
Most of the Blue Lock players were out cold after Ego's delightfully torturous training day. The facility was quiet, save for the occasional hum of machinery in the distance.
I had just finished sorting through nutrition reports when I passed the control room… and there he was again.
Ego Jinpachi. Alone. Blue light from half a dozen screens dancing on his glasses. Elbows on the desk. Eyes sharp. And—
Slurp.
Cup noodles.
Again.
I stared at the sad foam cup sitting beside his keyboard, the contents halfway gone and soaked in what I hoped was just extra soy sauce and not despair.
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Cup noodles… seriously?"
It wasn't like I liked him or anything. I was just worried he'd pass out one day mid-sentence from vitamin deficiency.
So, with a reluctant huff and a faint blush I'd never admit to, I made my way to the staff kitchen.
—---------------------------
Twenty minutes later.
A warm bento. Simple, balanced, light.
Grilled salmon with lemon, spinach sesame salad, rolled omelet, brown rice with barley, and a miso soup thermos on the side.
Nothing fancy. Just something… decent. For all his genius, Ego clearly needed someone to look after the basics.
I set it down beside him gently.
"You're not going to survive on sodium packets alone."
He barely looked away from the screen. "Food is fuel. I function."
"Not if your organs shut down in a month."
Still, he reached over, picked up the chopsticks, and started eating with a neutral grunt.
I crossed my arms, satisfied—until he reached into the drawer, pulled out a bottle of hot mayonnaise sauce, and drowned the salmon in it.
…
"EGO!!"
He blinked at me. "What?"
"You just—just ruined it!! Do you even taste anything?"
"It's more efficient this way. Enhances caloric density," he said, completely straight-faced.
I clenched my fists, cheeks puffing with frustration. "I made that with balance in mind!"
"It's edible. Mission accomplished."
I groaned and turned away, muttering to myself, "This is why you'll die alone…"
—--------------
Later that night.
I caught him again—this time brushing his teeth with one hand while typing with the other, still muttering about "training plan optimization models."
I offered him a vitamin tablet. He took it. Said thanks. Added wasabi to it.
I gave up.
—-------------
And yet…
Watching him work tirelessly for a dream no one else could see—sacrificing sleep, taste, peace—for a vision only he believed in… it was kind of admirable. In a completely irritating, infuriating, absolutely platonic way.
Definitely not romantic. Nope.
Still, I sighed and left a thermos of warm tea at his desk before heading to bed.
He'd drink it. Probably with chili flakes. But still.
Someone had to keep the madman alive.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Ego Jinpachi's POV – Blue Lock Facility, Day 4 of Physical Training]
By the fourth day, their screams had dulled.
The Blue Lock candidates, once cocky and overconfident, were now hollow-eyed husks clinging to survival. Perfect. That meant the facility was mine to roam without anyone trying to sneak a ball onto a pitch or collapse dramatically for sympathy.
As I stepped out onto the catwalk overlooking the central hub, the size of it all truly came together again — five wings branching out like a star from the heart of the complex: the largest football stadium in all of Japan.
But those were just shells.
Now we were building the weapon.
Below me, teams of construction workers moved like ants, modifying the lower-floor training grounds into a set of 10-a-side fields. The full-size pitch wouldn't fit neatly per team, so this was our compromise — tight space, tighter matches. More pressure. Less room to breathe. A striker's perfect hell.
Meanwhile, the real battlefield was above.
The first floor — previously dormant — was being transformed into the nerve center of the Second Selection. 125 high-tech penalty box training rooms. Each one being outfitted with AI-controlled goalkeepers, reflex sensors, performance-tracking software, and pressure-variable ball launchers. This wasn't training — it was digitized ego dissection.
I turned as sparks flew near one of the newly completed test chambers. A worker gave me a thumbs-up.
"Room 32's AI keeper is now online, Jinpachi-san!"
"Make sure it can adapt to shot trajectories within 0.3 seconds," I replied. "I want it to humiliate them if they flinch."
The man looked… concerned. But nodded.
They'd thank me later. Or die trying.
"You're still burning through the budget like a damn furnace," came a voice behind me.
I didn't even need to turn.
Hirotoshi Buratsuta.
The kind of man who could recite a balance sheet but wouldn't know the offside rule if it kicked him in the face.
He walked up, wrinkling his nose at the sparks flying from welding machines and the thud of construction boots on steel. The new floors above us were coming together fast — 125 upgraded penalty box arenas with AI goalkeeper tech humming in place.
"Seriously," he muttered, arms crossed. "Do you even know how expensive this crap is? AI goalkeepers? Upgrading all the rooms? Building new fields? It's a football program, not a military base."
I didn't even bother looking at him. "You don't get it."
"Damn right I don't," he snorted. "Why are you even shrinking the fields down there? You think less grass means more goals? Looks cramped and stupid."
I rolled my eyes, still scanning the construction. "You wouldn't understand even if I explained it."
"Tch. Of course. Because I'm not a genius like you, right?"
"Exactly," I said flatly, pushing up my glasses. "You approved this place to make headlines. So let me make the product."
He sneered, rubbing his temples. "At this rate, the headlines will be about a billion-yen failure."
I smirked. "Then pray it works. Otherwise, all that money burns on your name."
He grumbled something under his breath before letting out a dramatic sigh and walking beside me for a few steps. His gaze went to the glowing outlines of the upper ring's renovation.
"You know," he said with a sudden smirk, "the only reason I even gave this circus a greenlight…"
I tilted my head slightly, expecting something idiotic.
"…was to score points with Anri. That's it. She's got that whole 'passion for the future of Japanese football' thing. Makes me look good when I say I support it."
He chuckled to himself, pleased.
I stared at him like he was a stain on my floor.
Disgusting.
As he strutted off, I returned my gaze to the construction.
It didn't matter what that clown thought.
These rooms weren't just being built — they were being sharpened.
The real Blue Lock begins Next.
AI goalkeepers, pressure chambers, stripped-down fields.
No time, no space, no mercy.
Score — or vanish.
Let the second selection begin.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Notes:–
YO!
Sorry for the slight delay on this chapter — I've been busy setting the stage for the Second Selection. It took some time, but I wanted to make sure everything lined up perfectly, both structurally and narratively.
This chapter is a bit different from the usual — I really wanted to dive into the inner workings of Blue Lock and shed some light on Ego Jinpachi's behind-the-scenes grind. It's something the original never explored in detail.
Also… yeah, you might've caught that little moment between Anri and Ego. Don't worry — no romance here, just a slice-of-life breather between all the madness. (Maybe, Maybe not. Who knows?)
As always, feedback means the world!
Please drop a comment, leave a review, or toss a few powerstones if you're enjoying the story.
Signing off,
– SG
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Editor's Note:-
The first selection is officially over. Yay. Now to the second selection.
-NB