Ending it all (240)
Nakada, his face a mask of steely resolve despite the unexpected turn of events, slammed on the brakes, sending a bewildered defender sprawling past him.
A sly smile played on his lips as he noticed Otoya materialize from the defender's blind spot, a ghost flitting through the edges of perception.
With a pinpoint flick of his foot, Nakada sent the ball on a low, precise trajectory towards Otoya.
It was a risky pass, threading the needle between defenders, but Nakada's precognitive vision, though momentarily disrupted due to the pain in his eyes, hadn't completely shut down. He knew Otoya's position, his next move a ghost in the machine he was still trying to recalibrate.
Otoya, a silent phantom, received the ball with a single deft touch, his body a blur as he slipped past another unsuspecting Manchine defender. "Blindspot no Jutsu," he muttered under his breath, a playful glint in his eyes belying the seriousness of the situation.
The crowd roared, their initial shock transforming into a desperate hope. They had a lifeline, a flicker of a chance, and it resided in the unlikely duo of the forgotten Otoya and the data-powered Nakada.
The two became a whirlwind of white and blue, a chaotic ballet orchestrated not by premonition, but by a newfound sense of urgency. Nakada, fueled by a desire to maintain control, his arrogance replaced by a focused intensity, dribbled past defenders with a renewed purpose.
Each touch was calculated, each pass a gamble fueled by the knowledge that Otoya would be there, a silent receiver lurking at the edge of sight.
Otoya, emboldened by the unexpected opportunity, danced through the Barcha defense like a phantom.
He never stayed still, a constant flicker of movement, exploiting every blind spot, every gap in their increasingly frantic formation.
Nakada's passes, no longer preordained by data, became a series of calculated risks, arrows launched into the fog of uncertainty with the unwavering belief that Otoya would find them.
The remaining minutes ticked by in a blur of movement and desperate tackles. The score remained unchanged, a testament to the resilience of both teams. But the momentum had shifted.
Nakada, a predator toying with his prey, weaved through the Manchine midfield with the grace of a dancer on ice. The ball seemed glued to his foot, an extension of his will as he toyed with the frustrated defenders.
He wasn't interested in brute force; he was conducting an orchestra of humiliation, leaving them lunging at shadows and gasping for breath.
One by one, Nakada dismantled their attempts to contain him. A feint sent a defender sprawling one way, a sudden burst of speed left another flat-footed.
He dribbled through congested spaces like a fish navigating a coral reef, finding gaps that seemed to materialize out of thin air.
When the defenders finally converged on him in a desperate attempt to win the ball back, Nakada's lips curved into a playful smirk.
This was the moment he'd been waiting for. With a flick of his heel that defied logic, he sent the ball on a looping arc over the heads of the entire Manchine team.
It was an audacious pass, a gamble that reeked of showmanship.
The crowd gasped collectively, their eyes following the trajectory of the ball as it dipped and swerved towards the far side of the field. There, lurking in the perfect blind spot created by the converging defenders, was Otoya, the silent assassin.
Time seemed to slow down as the ball hung suspended in the air. Otoya, a blur of white and green, materialized out of nowhere, a ghost come to life. He met the ball with a single, deft touch, trapping it perfectly on his chest and bringing it under control with practiced ease.
The roar of the crowd was deafening. Manchine players, caught flat-footed and disoriented, could only stare in disbelief.
Nakada, a mischievous glint in his eyes, threw his head back and laughed, a sound that echoed with both delight and a hint of playful arrogance.
This wasn't just a display of skill; it was a message.
Nakada wasn't just here to win; he was here to dominate, to rewrite the very definition of the game with his audacious brilliance.
The ball hung tantalizingly in the air as Otoya materialized to receive Nakada's audacious pass.
A familiar figure, however, appeared beside him – Nagi, his smug grin a bad omen. "Move," Nagi barked, effectively cutting off most of Otoya's passing options.
Otoya cursed under his breath.
The pressure was on. Most players would panic, make a safe, predictable pass. But Otoya knew Nakada. He trusted his captain, his partner in this unexpected symphony of football. With a silent vow, Otoya opted for the impossible.
He launched the ball towards Nakada in a near-impossible trajectory, arcing high above Nakada's head and threatening to sail out of bounds. It was a desperate gamble, a Hail Mary fueled by unwavering trust.
Nakada, a blur of white and green, didn't even bother looking back. He kept his eyes locked on the goal, his mind already formulating the next step.
His precognitive vision, though not entirely accurate thanks to Manchine's desperate gamble, provided a glimpse of the ball's trajectory.
With a balletic twist, Nakada defied the laws of physics. He contorted his body mid-run, a blur of limbs and determination. Time seemed to slow around him as he completed the turn, bringing his body square to the approaching ball.
He didn't look. He didn't need to. Every fiber of his being, fueled by years of training and honed by the data stream, knew precisely where the ball was. A primal growl escaped his lips as he met the ball with a resounding thwack.
This wasn't just a kick; it was an amalgamation of everything that made Nakada a prodigy. The raw power of the Nakada Impact fused with the unpredictable spin and trajectory of the Phoenix Shot.
It was a new technique born of desperation, trust, and a desire to push the boundaries of the game.
The Manchine players watched in stunned silence as the ball transformed.
It was a blur of white and green energy, tearing through the air with a life of its own. The roar of the crowd was a mere whisper compared to the internal detonation within the ball itself.
The net bulged outwards as the ball slammed into its center. The referee's whistle, a mere formality at this point, confirmed what everyone already knew. The game was over. Manchine, their hopes crushed by the sheer audacity of Nakada and Otoya, had fallen.
The thunderous crack of Nakada's combined shot echoed through the stadium as the ball ripped through the net.
A primal roar erupted from the Barcha fans, a wave of pure euphoria crashing against the stunned silence of the Manchine supporters.
Even before the official goal confirmation, Nakada knew. A triumphant smirk played on his lips as he met Nagi's bewildered gaze.
"This is why you'll never surpass me, Nagi," he declared, his voice laced with a hint of playful arrogance. "So watch and learn."
With a flourish, Nakada collapsed dramatically onto the field, a theatrical flourish after his Herculean effort.
Almost comically, the ball seemed to teleport behind the net the moment it touched the ground, a testament to the sheer power of the shot. The scoreboard flickered, updating to a resounding 7-4 in Barcha's favor with a mere three minutes left on the clock.
Nagi, his bravado shattered, slumped to his knees. Frustration contorted his features, a stark contrast to the jubilant celebration erupting around him.
He had witnessed firsthand the culmination of Nakada's newfound abilities, a fusion of precognitive vision, calculated risk-taking, and raw talent. He had been utterly dominated, devoured by the beast he had once hoped to surpass.
A single, guttural curse escaped Nagi's lips.
This wasn't just defeat; it was a complete and utter dismantling, a stark reminder of the immense gap that separated him from his rival.
Nakada, meanwhile, rose from the ground with a flourish, a playful glint in his eyes. He had not just secured victory; he had rewritten the game in his own image.
He had shown the world the potential of his data-driven brilliance, a force to be reckoned with.
A/N so my in universe reason as to why my final match in the Neo egoist league wasn't like the one happening in the manga I would say is Nakada.
Nakada is a prodigy know world wide for his talent, and the director board are greedy so they kind of forced Ego hands to do some changes like make the final match in a standout people can attend so they can sell tickets along with some exclusive items(cash grabs).
The infinite goal thing was also so the match drag longuer than usual and they milk it for as long as it last.
So yes that the reason,it seem pretty solid and doesn't look like an asspull.