Evolution (233)

The deflated ball rolled towards Kunigami after Nishioka's heroic block. Fueled by a desperate desire to equalize, Kunigami lunged for the loose ball, his eyes burning with determination. But just as he was about to unleash a shot, a voice like ice shattered the intensity.

"You are painfully obvious, Kunigami-san," Nakada's voice dripped with a patronizing amusement.

The single sentence hit Kunigami like a physical blow. His telegraphed movement, his predictable hunger for glory, it was all laid bare by the prodigy. For a moment, hesitation gnawed at him, a moment Nakada needed.

With lightning-fast reflexes, Nakada surged past Kunigami, snatching the ball with a single, precise touch. He paused, his gaze locking onto Kunigami's. A cruel smile stretched across his face.

"Didn't I tell you to stop dreaming, hero-san?" he said, his voice laced with a mocking sweetness.

Then, with the ball glued to his foot, Nakada burst forward. His eyes, devoid of any trace of humanity, scanned the field with an almost inhuman efficiency. In a split second, he spotted Bachira, his red Barcha jersey a beacon in the chaos.

A pinpoint pass left his foot, the ball arcing perfectly towards Bachira. And as if on cue, Nakada's Meta vision activated. The world around him sharpened, the details becoming hyper-focused. But this time, something was different. The usual blue lines and information streams were replaced by something...different.

Nakada blinked, momentarily disoriented. His vision now resembled Snuffy's perspective, filled with swirling colors and blurry outlines. He quickly shook his head, forcing the vision back to normal. Confusion momentarily clouded his judgment, but the game pressed on.

Bachira, receiving Nakada's pass, weaved through a defender like a phantom, his chaotic dribbling leaving his opponent off-balance. He then flicked the ball to Nishioka, who, without even glancing at his target, launched a long pass towards an empty space on the field.

Nakada, his vision back to normal, sprinted toward the empty space. His movements mimicked Loki's stance, low to the ground, predatory and efficient. He reached the designated spot just as the ball arrived, his body perfectly positioned to trap it without breaking stride.

As Nakada, the predatory Snuffy in human disguise, reached the final third, the defenders converged on him like hungry wolves. But the prodigy was ready. His stance morphed, mirroring the fluidity of Lavinho.

He danced through the defenders, his moves so precise, so calculated, it was like watching bees trying to follow the unpredictable flight of a hummingbird.

He reached the penalty area, a symphony of feints and stepovers echoing in his wake. With the goal in sight, Nakada lifted the ball, preparing the final stroke. But a blue figure materialized in his path, Nagi, the silent predator guarding his territory.

"I've noticed you favor your right foot heavily," Nagi stated, his voice devoid of emotion but his eyes burning with competitive fire. He expertly positioned himself, denying Nakada the use of his seemingly preferred right foot.

A flicker of a smile played on Nakada's lips. "You forgot one crucial detail, Nagi," he said, his voice calm and collected. He planted his right foot firmly, using it for leverage as he unleashed a powerful shot with his left.

"I am ambidextrous," he declared, an image of the legendary Noel Noah, another master of both feet, appearing briefly behind him.

The ball, propelled by Nakada's unexpected left-footed strike, screamed towards the goal. But Chris Prince, the world's number two, seemed to relish the opportunity to crush a young prodigy's dream. With a confident smirk, he leaped and raised his foot, ready to block the shot.

Nagi, however, saw something chilling in Nakada's smile. It wasn't a desperate attempt, but a calculated maneuver. He watched in stunned disbelief as the ball, mere centimeters from Chris' outstretched hand, started spinning rapidly. It seemed to defy physics, gaining momentum as it twirled.

And then, like a miracle, the spinning ball seemed to come alive. It changed direction, a supernatural curve defying gravity itself, and ripped past Chris, leaving him flailing in the air. The net bulged, and a collective gasp rippled through the stadium.

Silence descended for a moment, the only sound the ball bouncing gently in the back of the net. Nakada, his face devoid of any trace of celebration, simply stood there, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. The "impossible" goal, a testament to his ambidexterity and strategic brilliance, had left everyone speechless.

The prodigy had spoken, not just with his words, but with his actions. The game had taken another unexpected turn, and the question now hung heavy in the air: could Manchineel respond to this audacious display of skill, or would Nakada and his Blue Lock team continue their relentless dominance?

Nakada's lips curled upwards, not in a genuine smile, but in a cold, predatory smirk. It was a victory grin, devoid of warmth, and tinged with a hint of arrogance. His eyes, devoid of any playful amusement, held a steely glint, a predator savoring the moment of dominance.

He turned towards Chris Prince, the world number two, who lay sprawled on the ground, the sting of the impossible goal and the weight of his own failure etched on his face. Nakada's voice, devoid of any warmth, dripped with a calculated condescension as he spoke.

"How does it feel," he began, each word measured and deliberate, "to lose to a kid?"

The question hung heavy in the air, a blatant jab at Chris' age and experience, a stark reminder of the changing tides in the world of football.

It was a challenge, an invitation to a battle of wills, a declaration that the new generation wouldn't back down, wouldn't be intimidated by the established names of the past.