The ninja (239)

The clock ticked relentlessly, each second echoing the desperation gnawing at Manchine's players.

They poured everything they had onto the field, a relentless assault against the Barcha defense. But the Barcha wall, orchestrated by the ever-composed Nakada, held firm. Frustration simmered in their eyes, their attacks disintegrating into a desperate scramble.

On the other side, a different kind of storm brewed within Nakada. He wasn't just satisfied with victory; he craved a challenge, a chance to push his own limits.

A breath escaped his lips, a silent declaration of intent. This wasn't just about winning the game anymore; it was about experimentation, about pushing the boundaries of his own skill.

With a glint in his eyes, dark as a black hole, Nakada closed his eyes for a fleeting moment. A torrent of data, gleaned from countless matches, countless opponents, flooded his mind. It was a library of movements, strategies, and counters, a vast repository of knowledge.

As he opened his eyes, the veins on his forehead throbbed, a testament to the immense processing power coursing through him.

The world around him seemed to slow down. The frantic movements of the players, the trajectory of the ball, the subtle shifts in formation – it was all laid bare before him, as clear as a well-worn book.

A feeling of exhilaration washed over him. It was like playing a game with unlimited cheat codes activated. He could anticipate every move, every pass, every attempt at a breakthrough by Manchine.

This wasn't just skill; it was a form of precognition, a terrifying glimpse into the future of the game.

A predatory smile played on his lips.

The remaining five minutes wouldn't just be about maintaining control; they would be a showcase of his newfound power, a glimpse into the terrifying potential that simmered within him.

Manchine might be fighting desperately, but against this new, enhanced Nakada, their attempts were fated to fail.

A manic grin stretched across Nakada's face as he surveyed the field. "I should thank Nagi for this," he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of twisted gratitude. "He pushed me, forced me to unlock a new level."

The data streamed through his mind, a torrent of information painting a vivid picture of every player's movement. He felt like a god, a puppeteer pulling the strings of the game.

Spotting Manchine's desperate attempt at a goal, Nakada laughed, a chilling sound devoid of humor. He could already see it unfolding: Agi, the naive fool, passing to Nagi, who was about to attempt yet another flamboyant bicycle kick. So predictable.

Just as Nagi launched himself into the air, a blur of white and green slammed into the scene. "Knew it," Nakada scoffed, effortlessly trapping the ball with his back even before his feet touched the ground.

Nagi, suspended mid-air, stared in disbelief as Nakada grinned down at him with an almost cruel amusement.

"Beautiful form, Nagi," Nakada said, his voice dripping with condescension.

"But a bit predictable, wouldn't you say? Perhaps next time, try something more…original."

The words hung in the air, a brutal dismissal that sent a fresh wave of anger coursing through Nagi. Here he was, laying it all on the line, only to be mocked like a child.

But before Nagi could even react, Nakada was gone, a blur disappearing down the field, the stolen ball glued to his foot. The Manchine players, their hopes momentarily lifted, were left in stunned silence.

The air crackled with a renewed tension, the final five minutes promising to be a showcase of Nakada's newfound power and a test of Manchine's ability to overcome not just a skilled opponent, but a precognitive monster.

Nakada rocketed down the field, the stolen ball a glowing orb in his enhanced vision.

The data stream surged through his mind, a real-time strategy guide projected onto his very perception. He was a general on a battlefield, anticipating every move of his enemy.

A glint of amusement flickered in his eyes as he saw Manchine's desperate scramble. It was as predictable as a child's game.

Kunigami, the physical threat, would undoubtedly make a run for the ball, a target for a hopeful cross. Agi, the opportunistic thief, would lurk in Nakada's blind spot, waiting for a chance to snatch the ball the moment his focus wavered.

Nakada's grin widened.

How transparent. He could see right through their plan, their predictable desperation a stark contrast to the symphony of information flooding his own mind.

But then, something unexpected caught his eye.

Chigiri, the blur of blue, wasn't making a run for the ball. Instead, he was positioned close to Nishioka, almost blocking him out of the play. Two Barcha defenders swarmed Bachira, effectively cutting him off from any potential pass.

"Blind fools," Nakada spat, his voice dripping with disdain. He weaved through the approaching Manchine players with the grace of a dancer, the ball seemingly glued to his foot.

Then, with a flick of his wrist that defied logic, he sent a pass sailing in a looping arc behind Kunigami.

Confusion contorted Kunigami's face.

There was no teammate there, only the empty green expanse of the field. Was this another one of Nakada's audacious gambles, a risky maneuver calculated to draw out defenders and open up space elsewhere?

However, just as Kunigami turned to track the seemingly errant pass, his eyes widened in shock. A flash of white and green materialized from his blind spot, a blur that defied his precognitive vision.

It was Otoya, the forgotten man, the one who had seemingly faded into the background of the entire match.

Like a ninja who had struck at the opportune moment, Otoya materialized perfectly to receive Nakada's audacious pass. The silence that descended on the stadium was broken only by the collective gasp of the Manchine players.

They had all been so focused on the dazzling display of Nakada and the predictable movements of their core players that they had completely overlooked Otoya.