He is mine (227)

The clash was a tempest, a swirling vortex of two forces diametrically opposed. Nakada, a whirlwind of motion, each touch infusing the ball with life. It danced on his foot, spinning with mischievous energy, a vibrant spark defying gravity. He wove through the Manchine defense, an artist painting his masterpiece on the canvas of the field.

But then, Nagi emerged from the chaos, a specter against the vibrant backdrop. His every touch drained the life from the ball. Spin vanished, replaced by a chilling stillness. It clung to his foot like a morbid talisman, devoid of joy, fueled by an iron will. Each interception was a chilling whisper,

"No further, Nakada."

Their clash was a ballet of contrasting styles. Nakada, a hummingbird flitting between flowers, each touch a burst of color. Nagi, a panther stalking its prey, his movements deliberate, predatory. Every tackle was a chilling scythe, reaping the momentum Nakada sowed.

The crowd held its breath, witnessing a battle beyond mere tactics. It was a clash of philosophies, a duel between life and death, played out on the green battlefield.

Nakada, fueled by the thrill of creation, tried a dazzling rainbow flick. But Nagi, anticipating the move, simply extended a leg, the ball bouncing off it lifelessly. A guttural growl escaped Nagi's lips, a primal challenge echoing through the stadium.

Nakada met the challenge.

He attempted a nutmeg, the ball slipping between Nagi's legs with audacious flair. But Nagi, unfazed, spun with inhuman speed, trapping the ball with his heel before it could escape his grasp. He looked at Nakada, his eyes burning with an icy fire. "Your flamboyance ends here," he said, his voice a chilling rasp.

The tension crackled. Were these mere mortals playing football, or elemental forces locked in an epic struggle? Each touch, each interception, whispered the answer: this was more than a game. 

Nakada's heart hammered against his ribs, a drumbeat keeping rhythm with the rising frenzy of the crowd. Nagi's words were a gauntlet thrown, and Nakada seized it with a feral grin. Forget tactics, forget strategy.

This was primal, a clash of wills played out in a whirlwind of movement.

They danced across the field, a dizzying blur of color and energy. Each touch of the ball was a spark, igniting a supernova of possibilities. Nakada, infused with a feverish joy, reveled in the creation of life.

His passes curved with impossible angles, his dribbles defying the very laws of physics. The ball became an extension of himself, pulsing with vibrant energy.

But Nagi mirrored him, a dark reflection. His touch was an ice storm, draining the lifeblood from the ball. Spins vanished, replaced by chilling stillness. His tackles were reaper's scythes, each one chipping away at Nakada's momentum.

The ball became a lifeless puppet in his grasp, controlled with chilling purpose.

The crowd roared, their voices a primal chant fueling the players' fervor. Each clash was a rebirth, a shedding of limitations, an unlocking of potential at an exponential rate.

They were no longer players, but forces of nature, their very essence evolving with each touch, each tackle.

Nakada attempted a dazzling rainbow flick, the ball arcing over Nagi's head in a defiant burst of color. But Nagi, quicker than the blink of an eye, contorted his body, sending the ball hurtling back with a chilling spin. It whizzed past Nakada, a dark comet grazing his cheek, leaving a trail of burning ice.

Undeterred, Nakada countered with a no-look pass, the ball splitting the defense like a laser beam. But Nagi, a phantom anticipating the future, intercepted it with his heel, his eyes blazing with inhuman intensity. "Your playground ends here,"

he rasped, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand battles.

But Nakada's grin never faltered. "Not yet," he roared, his voice laced with manic joy. "This dance has just begun!"

The ball became a blur, a contested prize in a celestial tug-of-war. Each touch, each interception, resonated with the thunderous echo of their evolving power.

This wasn't just a game; it was an ascension, a duel of gods unfolding on the emerald stage of the field. And the world watched, breathless, as two prodigies defied their limits, rewriting their destinies with every electrifying clash.

A surge of adrenaline jolted through Nakada as he glimpsed Chris Prince charging towards them out of the corner of his eye. Two-on-one? No problem.

This wasn't just about outplaying Nagi anymore; it was about proving himself, about etching his name in the annals of this match. His lips curled into a predatory grin. "Mine," he growled, a possessive claim that echoed in the tense silence.

Nagi, eyes narrowed like a viper's, met his gaze. "He's mine," he countered, his voice a frigid rasp that sent shivers down even Prince's seasoned spine.

The master striker's surprise morphed into a mixture of amusement and curiosity as he locked eyes with the teenage prodigy. He saw the burning ambition, the unwavering resolve, a mirror of his own younger self.

"Don't disappoint, prodigy," Prince chuckled, a low rumble that sent tremors through the air. But his gaze remained fixed on Nagi, a silent acknowledgment of the threat the young player posed.

Nakada scoffed. "Oh, the prodigy evolved? How cute." He launched into another attack, a kaleidoscope of feints, shimmies, and audacious nutmegs aimed at breaking through Nagi's stoic defense. But Nagi was a shadow, mirroring his movements with unnerving precision, his every tackle a chilling reminder of his own ever-evolving prowess.

The crowd roared, their energy pulsing in sync with the frenetic dance on the field. Each touch, each interception, was a testament to their growing power. They weren't just players anymore; they were forces of nature, locked in a cosmic duel that transcended mere tactics.

Nakada, his exitment was ascending, attempted a dazzling overhead kick, aiming to catch both Nagi and Prince off guard. But Nagi, anticipating the move with an almost precognitive instinct, leapt with impossible grace, blocking the ball with his chest and sending it hurtling back towards Nakada.

The teenager barely dodged, the ball grazing his cheek and leaving a searing trail in its wake.

"Not bad, prodigy," Nagi rasped, a hint of grudging respect lacing his voice. "But this dance is far from over."

The battle raged, a whirlwind of skill and determination. Prince, caught in the crossfire, found himself a mere spectator, mesmerized by the raw talent and unyielding spirit of the two young players. He knew, deep down, that he was witnessing something extraordinary, a clash that would etch itself into the very fabric of footballing history.

A/N So well yeah,One god of the field and one death god are at it,around same level of potential and growth