Chapter 1: The Brothers Enter the Crucible
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Joshua Yoichi's POV
The roar of jet engines faded as the private jet descended through Tokyo's low-hanging clouds. Beside me, my brother—Yoichi Isagi—slouched against the plush leather seat, fingers tapping out an erratic rhythm on his knee. He'd closed his eyes, trying to calm the storm inside him; I knew the feeling well. Blue Lock awaited us both—a frigid, unyielding arena designed to strip away every sentiment and forge the world's greatest striker. And tonight, under the glow of the facility's floodlights, our destinies would be tested.
I brushed a lock of galaxy-white hair behind my ear, watching city lights dance across Isagi's profile. My brother's dark hair was damp with nervousness, his face pale yet determined. We'd shared everything to this point—childhood tragedies, secret training sessions, whispered dreams under moonlit skies—and soon we'd be pitted against not only each other but a dozen other prodigies from around the globe.
When the jet touched down on the tarmac outside Blue Lock's hidden airstrip, I felt that familiar hum in my veins: Angelic Vision, clarity sharpening every detail. The hangar doors parted, revealing the compound's stark, monolithic architecture. Blue and black floodlights bathed the triangular towers in an icy glow, as though the building itself exhaled a warning: "Enter, and be remade."
I slipped from the seat and caught Isagi's eye. His lips quivered into a half-smile. "Let's go," he murmured.
I gripped his shoulder. "Together."
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Yoichi Isagi's POV
The entrance hall of Blue Lock felt impossibly vast, its white expanse illuminated by bright LEDs that erased every shadow. A single mirrored wall ran the length of the room, reflecting our reflections—two brothers bound by blood, stepping into a crucible that would either burn us alive or elevate us to untouchable heights.
A deep voice crackled over hidden speakers:
> "Welcome, candidates. You have been chosen for one purpose: to become the world's greatest striker. To succeed, you must abandon all else. Only one will emerge triumphant. Fail, and you will be barred from the pitch forever."
I swallowed. My stomach twisted as I scanned the other recruits.
Meguru Bachira: white-haired, electric-eyed, already grinning as though the very concept of elimination thrilled him.
Hyoma Chigiri: top-tier sprinter with shaved sides, tapping his foot impatiently.
Seishiro Nagi: stoic, hands in pockets, expression placid—yet everyone spoke of the raw power hidden in his lazy posture.
Rin Itoshi: ice-cold intensity radiating off him; his twin, Sae Itoshi, mirrored the same perfect features and calculated gaze.
They regarded us—the new brothers from Madrid—with cool curiosity. I felt a bead of sweat trace down my temple. Blue Lock was different from anything I'd imagined.
"Candidates, proceed to the locker rooms," the voice continued. "You will have one hour to prepare for the first evaluation match."
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The Locker Room
Inside the sterile locker room, rows of benches and jersey racks stretched away into the shadows. I changed into the sleek, all-white Blue Lock kit, its fabric hugging my frame like a second skin. My brother chose the slot beside mine. He worked with methodical precision—folding his hoodie, plugging in his cleats, centering his jersey—while I felt the butterflies flutter.
"Josh," I whispered, "what do you expect?"
He paused, meeting my eyes in the mirror. His galaxy-blue orbs seemed to glow brighter under the harsh fluorescents. "I expect to fly," he said softly. "You know I'm at my best once I'm in the Zone."
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, and when he opened them again, the glare in his gaze made the reflection behind him pulse gold for an instant. Creator Mode—a power I'd witnessed only in legend, reserved for the moments of supreme confidence when his ego peaked like the apex of a comet.
I forced a grin. "Just… tell me you'll keep me alive on the pitch."
He ruffled my hair. "I need you to push me, little brother. Surpass me—and maybe I'll learn something."
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The First Evaluation Match
The echo of our boots on concrete turned to the thunder of applause as we were led into the stadium bowl. Three thousand seats held glowing, cheering spectators—mentally projected images of J League and La Liga scouts, sports journalists, and the fervent fans who already worshipped Blue Lock's ruthless approach. The pitch itself shimmered under thirty floodlights, the grass unnaturally perfect, as though it, too, were expecting miracles.
A scoreboard flickered on: Team A vs. Team B. Our assignment: press relentlessly, score as many goals as possible within ten minutes. Then roles would swap—strikers become defenders, defenders become strikers—and the team with the highest cumulative goals would win.
Mine and Isagi's names popped up in Team A. I heard Bachira's triumphant laugh; Chigiri jogged onto the field with that trademark grin; Nagi sauntered in, flipping his hair; Rin and Sae nodded to each other like warriors preparing for battle.
As I stepped onto the pitch, I felt a fire ignite beneath my ribcage. Every cell screamed for release. I pictured golden wings unfurling, the roar of divine speed carrying the ball past any barrier. But I held back—this was just Round 1, a taste of war, not the full conflagration.
We lined up:
Chigiri Rin Sae
Bachira Isagi Nagi
Joshua (me)
Isagi stood beside me, jaw clenched, scanning the defense. I whispered, "I'll draw them to me. Then you exploit the gap."
He nodded imperceptibly, every tendon in his neck visible. I tapped the ball against my cleat twice, then launched into a sweeping bend.
Angelic Free Kick—the air itself bent around the shot, tracing an impossible curve. The goalkeeper dove… too late. Goal.
The crowd's roar felt like a physical force, but I only had one thought: find Isagi. He slipped through Chigiri's deft feint, receiving a pass from Nagi at the edge of the box. Then he did something I'd never seen before: Isagi's Instinct—he twisted in the air, redirecting the ball with a backheel toward the far corner. I sprinted, leapt, and sent the ball soaring across the net.
Two goals in thirty seconds.
Bachira howled in delight, dancing as he weaved through defenders; Chigiri exploded past Rin; Nagi struck from distance with nonchalant power. But every time the ball arced in—from any of us—the defense fractured. Our synergy was uncanny: a twin assault of divine power and mercurial instinct.
When the whistle blew, Team A led 6–1.
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Half-Time: Brothers' Strategy
In the tunnel, sweat drenched my jersey. Isagi panted beside me, eyes alight not with relief but with calculation.
"We're unstoppable," I said, chest heaving.
Isagi smirked. "Unstoppable together. But next half, we switch to defense. Our roles reverse. We need a plan."
I clenched my fists. "I'll guard their best striker—probably Bachira. You anchor the counter."
He nodded. "But there's more. Watch Rin and Sae. Their link-up play is clinical. If I can read their passes early… I can break them before they break us."
I considered his words. My brother, always the strategist. Even in our manor's empty training grounds, he'd drilled me on reading patterns, mapping defenders' momentum. Now, on the world's grandest testing ground, his instincts would be just as crucial.
"Agreed," I replied. "Then I focus on shutting down Bachira's dribble. Angelic Control—just enough to redirect him, not overpower."
He looked at me, pride shining. "Perfect. Let's finish this."
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The Second Half: Lockdown and Counter
As we re-entered the pitch, the scoreboard reset: Team A (now defense) vs. Team B (attack). Bachira charged like a wild storm, every touch electrifying. I met him stride for stride, using Angelic Control to absorb his momentum, nudging him into congestion. Each pass he attempted was intercepted by my omnipresent Metavision—I saw the alleyways before they materialized.
Meanwhile, Isagi shadowed Rin. The twin's passes were precise as surgical strikes—but Isagi's anticipation cracked their rhythm. He stepped in for a tackle, blocked a shot, then launched a perfect springboard to Chigiri. In an instant, Chigiri fed Nagi, who played a one-touch through to Isagi breaking forward. I sprinted into position, taking the final touch with a fluid Angelic Header that thundered past the scrambling keeper.
The crowd erupted. Ten minutes, and the scoreboard read 3–3; aggregate 9–4. Victory belonged to us by a landslide.
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Exit to the Night
As we trudged off the pitch, drenched and elated, I glanced at Isagi. The chemistry between us—blood, trauma, shared dreams—had manifested in raw power. I'd expected to carry him; instead, he'd elevated me.
He bumped my shoulder. "Not bad for brothers."
I laughed, ruffling his hair. "Not bad at all."
Above us, the Blue Lock monolith loomed, daring us to greater feats. This was only the first skirmish. Ahead lay relentless elimination rounds, each more brutal than the last. But now, more than ever, we knew our greatest strength: unity.
Tomorrow, the real battle would begin. And together—as Joshua Yoichi and Yoichi Isagi—we would carve our names into soccer legend.
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End of Chapter 1