Bluelock

3 Days Later

Asura Shiro stood at the edge of the bustling city street, the towering building of the Japan Football Union looming in the distance. The morning sun reflected off the structure's sleek glass exterior, making it seem almost alive with light. Shiro adjusted his steampunk sunglasses, shielding his eyes from the glare as he took a deep breath. This was it—his next step.

Dressed in a crisp white hoodie layered beneath a fitted leather jacket, his black camo pants rustled softly with each stride. The city buzzed around him, but his focus was razor-sharp, each step deliberate. As he walked, his mind played over the events of the past three days: the match, the interview, and the moment Ego Jinpachi handed him that invitation.

In his pocket, the letter felt like a tangible weight of expectation and ambition. He pulled it out briefly, the crisp paper and bold insignia of the Bluelock Project catching the sunlight. Folding it carefully, he slid it back into his pocket and pressed on, his pace quickening.

As he reached the entrance of the Japan Football Union, a sense of purpose surged through him. The automatic doors slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing the pristine lobby within. Executives and players alike moved with a sense of urgency, their murmured conversations filling the air.

As Shiro entered, he noticed several young players scattered across the lobby, each wearing varying expressions of determination and focus. Among them were Nagi, Reo,Baro, Shidou, and Rin Itoshi. Their presence hinted at the immense talent filling the room, yet Shiro remained unphased.

Without drawing attention, he slipped past the crowd, making his way toward a quiet corner. Leaning against the wall, he folded his arms, his steampunk sunglasses hiding his sharp, calculating gaze. The sounds of the bustling room seemed distant as his thoughts ran through his mind, reflecting on the path that had brought him here.

The anticipation in the air was palpable, but Shiro remained calm, focused. He was ready for the next phase, for the challenge that would truly define him.

Ego Jinpachi stands before the players, his cold, calculating gaze sweeping across the room. His words slice through the air like a blade, each syllable deliberate and sharp.

"Football is a battlefield of egos. The greatest players—Pelé, Messi, Ronaldo, Noel Noa—they didn't rise to the top by playing for others. They played for themselves. Pelé once said, 'Don't compare me to the best attackers, defenders, or midfielders, because I am the best wherever I play.' Noel Noa, the man who just dethroned Messi and Ronaldo to win this year's Ballon d'Or, famously declared, 'I prefer scoring a hat-trick and losing the match than making a pass and winning 1-0.' And Eric Cantona? He didn't care what happened in a match as long as he stood out.

"Do you see the pattern here? Legends don't blend in. They dominate. They create moments that the world remembers. Football is not about teamwork—it's about individuality. About ego."

The room is tense, the players uneasy, but Ryosuke Kira steps forward, his face set in defiance.

"But what about players like Honda or Mitoma?" Kira argues, his voice firm. "They're idols to us. They've proven that Japanese footballers can compete on the world stage. Isn't that enough to inspire us?"

Ego smirks, the expression dripping with disdain. "Inspire you to what? To play in European leagues? To be supporting characters in someone else's story? Let me make this clear—Honda, Mitoma, Endo, and the rest, they're good players. But they've never lifted the World Cup. And until Japan produces a player with the ego to dominate, to claim the game as their own, that will never change."

The players shift uncomfortably, their idols suddenly cast in a less flattering light. Kira's fists tighten, his jaw clenched.

"This… this isn't football," he mutters. "Football is about working together, about unity."

Ego chuckles darkly. "Unity is a means to an end, not the end itself. The world's greatest players don't aspire to unity. They aspire to immortality."

As the tension builds, another voice cuts through the silence.

From the back of the room, Asura Shiro steps forward, his presence commanding, his steampunk sunglasses catching the light. He walks toward the door behind Ego, his movements deliberate, each step capturing the room's attention.

"You white hair brat," Shiro begins, his voice cold and sharp, "Ego's right. Japanese football has been chasing mediocrity for decades. If all you want is to idolize players who haven't even won a World Cup, then you're no better than a sheep grazing in a field, content and unaware of the wolves closing in."

The room freezes, all eyes on Shiro. He shifts his gaze to Ego, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Ego," Shiro continues, "you know the truth. These players? They're not at my level. If you want me to grow, then don't waste my time. Put me in the hardest group. I'm here to face real challenges, not to babysit mediocrity."

Ego's smirk widens, his eyes gleaming with approval. "Asura Shiro," he says, his voice laced with intrigue, "your ego burns brighter than most. Very well. But arrogance without results is just noise. Prove that you're more than talk."

Shiro pushes past the door, his footsteps echoing as he leaves. The players are left stunned, their thoughts racing. Kira glares after him, frustration and doubt etched into his face.

Ego turns back to the room, his gaze as sharp as ever. "That," he declares, "is the ego I'm talking about. Now, the question remains—do any of you have what it takes to match it? Or will you fade into obscurity like so many before you?"

Asura Shiro disappears through the door, leaving an eerie silence behind him. The players exchange uncertain glances, the weight of Ego's words and Shiro's arrogance hanging heavily in the room.

Ryosuke Kira steps forward again, his fists clenched, his frustration finally boiling over.

"This is ridiculous!" Kira exclaims. "We're here to play for our teams, to win the Nationals. That's how Japanese football grows—through unity, through teamwork. How can you expect us to abandon that for… this?"

Ego turns toward Kira, his expression cold and unyielding, his tone razor-sharp.

"Nationals? Unity? Teamwork?" Ego's voice is laced with disdain. "Kira, you still don't get it, do you? This project isn't here to create major players for your precious national league or to help your high school teams win some second-rate tournament. Blue Lock exists for one reason only: to create a striker who will lead Japan to its first World Cup victory.

"Do you think Pelé, Messi, or Noel Noa cared about high school tournaments? Do you think they stopped at being 'good enough' for their local leagues? No. They aimed for the pinnacle of the sport. They became legends by crushing anyone and everyone in their way.

"Let me make this crystal clear, Kira: the World Cup isn't won by 'team players' or those satisfied with mediocrity. It's won by individuals with the ego and the skill to dominate, to seize every opportunity, and to create goals out of nothing. That's why you're here—not to play for some glorified high school title, but to become the best striker the world has ever seen."

Kira's face tightens, a mixture of defiance and doubt flickering in his eyes. "But football isn't a solo game," he mutters. "It's about the team—about working together to win."

Ego sneers, his gaze piercing. "Teams are tools, Kira. They exist to serve the striker, to elevate the one who scores. Without a striker who can lead, who can shoulder the burden of glory, a team is nothing. If you can't understand that, then leave now. But know this: if you walk out, you'll never touch greatness."

The room is silent again, the players visibly shaken. Some look down, grappling with Ego's harsh truths, while others, like Rin Itoshi and Shoei Baro, remain stoic, their determination steeling them.

Kira steps back, his fists trembling. Ego's words sting, but they resonate—a harsh, undeniable truth that refuses to be ignored.

Shiro Pov:

Shiro pushed through the heavy door and entered a dimly lit corridor. The echo of Ego's speech and the murmurs of the players faded behind him, replaced by the dull hum of fluorescent lights. His footsteps echoed as he made his way down the hallway, his mind only partially lingering on the chaos he'd left behind.

Emerging into the cool evening air, Shiro spotted a row of sleek buses lined up, their engines idling softly. He walked with purpose, his steampunk sunglasses glinting in the pale light as he adjusted his white hoodie and leather jacket.

Climbing into one of the buses, Shiro slipped into an empty seat near the back, pulling out his headphones. He scrolled briefly through his playlist before selecting a familiar track: "Do I Wanna Know?" by Arctic Monkeys. The smooth guitar riffs filled his ears, drowning out the noise of the world outside.

He leaned his head against the window, gazing out as the haunting melody of the song washed over him. The faint vibration of the bus engine was a steady counterpoint to the music. For a moment, it was just him and his thoughts.

But then, movement caught his eye. Through the glass, Shiro saw a surge of players spilling out of the building, sprinting toward the buses. Some were laughing, others were tense, but all of them carried a spark in their eyes—a determination ignited by Ego's speech.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Shiro's lips. He lowered the volume of the music just enough to hear the muffled sound of the players' footsteps and voices.

"Maybe this project isn't as hopeless as I thought," he murmured to himself, the words barely audible over the song. His gaze lingered on the crowd for a moment longer before closing his eyes, letting the rhythm of the music take over.