It's end now (226)
Nagi stood momentarily stunned, his attempt to intervene dismissed by Nakada as casually as one would swat away a bothersome fly.
The shock lingered in Nagi's expression, a mixture of disbelief and frustration, as he watched Nakada effortlessly use him as a stepping stone to propel himself forward.
It was a stark reminder of the vast difference in skill and power between them, and for a brief moment, Nagi found himself caught off guard by the audacity and efficiency of Nakada's move.
Nagi, seething with frustration and resentment, couldn't bring himself to glance in Nakada's direction. The feeling of being relegated to insignificance beneath Nakada's prowess fueled a deep-seated hatred within him.
Meanwhile, Nakada was caught in a clash with Chris Prince, each vying for control of the ball.
In a brief moment of separation from Nakada, Chris Prince seized the opportunity and unleashed a powerful shot. With a clutter of players obstructing the keeper's view, the ball sailed past him and found the back of the net.
A triumphant smile played on Chris Prince's lips as he taunted, "How does it feel to have a front-row seat to my scoring spectacle?"
Nakada, undisturbed by the goal against him, responded with a confident grin, "So that's your trick, huh? If I incorporate that into my Phoenix Shot, it'll definitely get an upgrade." Nakada's focus remained on utilizing every opportunity, even conceding goals, to enhance and refine his own skills.
Nakada's eyes darted towards the sidelines, immediately locking onto Lavinho, who seemed poised to enter the fray. A growl rumbled in his throat. "You better park your wrinkled ass on that bench, old man," he spat, his voice dripping with arrogant confidence. "I ain't done with this game yet.
"
Lavinho, unfazed by his son's bravado, chuckled. "Coming from the guy who couldn't keep blondie in check? Rich," he retorted, his gaze unwavering.
Nakada scoffed. "I said I ain't done, Pops! Pull your hoodie back on and warm that ancient ass of yours on the bench. You need it more than ever."
Lavinho's smile widened, a hint of amusement and challenge playing in his eyes. "Seems you're not doing so hot yourself, kiddo. Can't contain him, huh? So why should I listen to your bark?"
The tension crackled between them. Nakada met his father's gaze, his own eyes hardening with icy determination. "All I need is to score more than him. I'm not a defender, remember? I'm a striker."
"And what happens if you lose?" Lavinho pressed, his voice laced with a subtle probe.
Nakada's jaw clenched, but his resolve held firm. He stared into his father's eyes, his voice low and unwavering. "Then I join the Brazilian team. Does that satisfy your hunger for drama, old fuck?"
The air hung heavy with unspoken words and simmering emotions. In that charged exchange, a clash between generations, ambition, and pride played out, leaving the next move, the next goal, hanging precariously in the balance.
A sly grin stretched across Lavinho's face as he met Nakada's gaze. A slow shake of his head followed, laced with both amusement and a touch of warning. "Remember, son," he rasped, his voice barely a murmur, "don't disappoint me." With that, the elder pulled his worn hoodie back on, its faded logo swallowed by the growing shade as he settled onto the bench.
Nakada didn't bother acknowledging the parting shot. His attention was already laser-focused on the Manchine team, his lips curling into a predatory smirk. This, he thought, this was going to be glorious.
Little did he know, his fiery exchange with his father had become an unexpected sideshow, drawing whispers and curious glances not only from the stands but also from the VIP section where, unbeknownst to him, the very eyes of the FIFA president himself were following the unfolding drama.
But such trivial details held no sway over Nakada at that moment. The president, the crowd, the entire world could fade away for all he cared.
There was only one thing fueling his fire, a potent cocktail of adrenaline and newfound knowledge. He had unearthed a secret, a vulnerability in his opponent's armor, and he was ready to exploit it with ruthless precision. His mind buzzed with a single, primal urge: to crush them all.
The roar of the crowd faded to a dull thrum as Nakada reached midfield, chest heaving, eyes locked on his teammate Nishioka. "Listen up," he said, his voice a low growl, "don't even think about holding me back." His words were sharp, but his gaze held a flicker of desperate hope. Nishioka, in contrast, exuded calm certainty. He simply nodded, his eyes glinting with understanding.
The shrill whistle tore through the air, signaling the restart. Nishioka's pass was a blur, finding Nakada's foot with pinpoint accuracy. In that instant, everything Nakada had absorbed, every lesson learned in the crucible of the Neo Egoist League, ignited within him. It wasn't just knowledge; it was instinct, a primal urge to break through, to conquer.
His feet became blurs of motion, defying gravity as he weaved through the Manchine defense. He saw their reactions, anticipated their moves – not as individuals, but as a singular, pulsating organism. He feinted left, sending a defender crashing into his teammate, before juking right, exploiting the momentary gap. Every step, every touch, was infused with newfound purpose, his body an instrument perfectly tuned to the rhythm of the game.
The ball nestled against Nakada's foot, a pulsating spark in the chaos of the field. Nishioka's trust hung heavy, a silent challenge he met with a burning gaze. The whistle pierced the air, a battle cry. This wasn't just a game; it was an ascension, a supernova igniting within him.
He surged forward, a blur of motion defying gravity. The first defender lunged, a desperate swipe for the prize. Nakada, fueled by precognition, spun a pirouette, the ball dancing around his body like a mischievous sprite. The defender stumbled, left grasping at thin air.
The second came at him with brute force, a mountain to be overcome. Nakada, channeling the fluidity of water, dipped low, sending the ball between the defender's legs like a playful trout slipping through rapids. The roar of the crowd echoed his silent laughter.
The third, cunning and quick, anticipated his moves. But Nakada, one step ahead, performed a rabona, the ball arcing impossibly over the defender's outstretched foot, a moment of sheer audacity that made the crowd gasp.
With each successful dribble, he transcended human limitations. His movements were poetry in motion, each touch precise, each juke orchestrated with the grace of a maestro. It wasn't just skill; it was an awakening, his raw potential blossoming like a supernova. He saw the field with a clarity that bordered on precognition, predicting tackles before they were made, weaving through the defense like a phantom.
Sweat gleamed on his brow, not from exertion, but from the sheer exhilaration of pushing his limits. His every touch hummed with power, a testament to the Neo Egoist League that had forged him anew. He wasn't just Nakada anymore; he was an unstoppable force, a divine dancer on the field of dreams.
This wasn't just about getting past the Manchine defense; it was about painting his name on the canvas of the world. Every obstacle became a stepping stone, every defender a brushstroke adding to his masterpiece. He was unstoppable, a force of nature fueled by ambition and raw talent. The Manchine team, once formidable, now looked like petrified trees facing a hurricane.
His eyes blazed with a single purpose: to reach the goal, to prove himself, to rewrite his destiny. And as he weaved through the final defender, leaving him grasping at shadows, one thing was clear: Nakada had transcended mere skill.
The roar of the crowd was a distant hum to Nakada, his world narrowed to the hypnotic dance of his feet against the ball. Each touch ignited a spark, each dodge defied gravity. The Manchine defenders were mere shadows flailing at his afterimage. He was in the zone, his potential reaching supernova levels with every successful dribble.
But then, a presence cut through his ecstatic focus. A prickle on his neck, a shift in the air. He glanced up, met with Nagi's blazing eyes. Gone was the carefree grin, replaced by a feral intensity. Determination etched itself onto Nagi's face, a fire burning deep within his soul. This wasn't the playful rival, but a predator on the hunt.
An aura, almost tangible, emanated from Nagi. Not the comforting warmth of comradeship, but a chilling aura of death. It whispered of unyielding will, of boundaries tested and shattered. The air crackled with unspoken challenges, the playful dance morphing into a deadly duel.
Nagi's voice, low and guttural, cut through the electric silence. "No more escapes, Nakada. This ends now."