The bus ride home was quiet.
Too quiet for what was coming.
Seiko sat alone in the back, arms folded, head against the window. The world passed by in slow motion — rows of blurred rooftops, fading sunlight, people walking without a clue that something bigger was about to begin.
This is it, he told himself. No more waiting.
He stepped off the bus near his apartment complex, the neighborhood familiar and tired. The same cracked sidewalk, the same old man sweeping in front of the corner shop. He didn't stop to talk. There was no time.
Inside the apartment, the silence was heavy.
Photos still hung on the walls. Dust collected in corners. And in the next room, the heart of his mission lay resting in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines, her breaths light and slow.
Seiko stopped at the door. He didn't go in — not now.
He just looked through the small gap, saw her chest rise and fall, steady but weak.
"I'll come back with something real," he whispered. "I swear."
He stepped into his room, pulled open the closet, and took out the only athletic duffle bag he owned. Inside, a clean set of training clothes, black compression gear, cleats wrapped in cloth, and a small notebook — one page written on:
Destroy Rin. Save Mom.
He zipped it shut, slung it over his shoulder, and left.
No music. No distractions.
Just the sound of his heart, and the quiet beat of his steps.
---
The orientation wasn't being held at some flashy football facility — not yet.
Seiko followed the GPS to a barely-marked gate on the outskirts of town. A few others were there already, teenagers like him standing alone, confused. No one spoke.
Then the gate opened.
A black bus with tinted windows pulled up, silently. A tall man in a JFU windbreaker stepped off.
"Board. No questions."
The tone was cold, flat. No welcome, no briefing.
Seiko got on.
Inside, silence. Every player sat alone. No one dared speak.
The engine growled, and they were off.
---
They drove for hours.
Through city streets, through farmland, through nothingness.
Eventually, a facility appeared in the distance — massive, sealed off by tall fences and guarded gates. It looked more like a prison than a place to chase dreams.
But Seiko felt something in his chest as they rolled in.
Not fear. Not nerves.
Focus.
As they pulled up, the doors opened.
One by one, the players stepped out.
There had to be over a hundred of them now. Different builds, different styles. But all with one thing in common: they thought they were the best.
They weren't here to make friends.
Seiko stood among them, eyes scanning the entrance.
A giant screen flickered on above the main door.
The words BLUE LOCK glowed in sharp, ice-blue text.
Then, a face appeared.
Sharp eyes, blond hair, a twisted smile — the man known only as Jinpachi Ego.
"Welcome, strikers."
His voice rang out through hidden speakers, confident, loud, unforgiving.
"You are here because you believe you have what it takes to become the greatest striker in the world.
But greatness isn't born from teamwork.
It's born from ego, obsession, and war.
This place will destroy you.
And if you survive, it will remake you."
He paused, letting the silence hit.
"If you want to leave, turn around now.
But if you stay... prepare to be stripped of everything that makes you comfortable.
From this point on, you are no longer footballers.
You are weapons in the making."
The screen cut to black.
The doors opened.
A uniformed instructor stood just inside, clipboard in hand.
He didn't smile.
"Welcome to Orientation. Follow me. Don't fall behind."
The group shuffled in — hesitant at first, then tighter, more alert. No one wanted to look weak.
Seiko's footsteps were calm. Measured.
But inside, he felt it building — the slow burn, the edge.
He wasn't here to survive Blue Lock.
He was here to break it apart.
---
As they walked through the steel corridors, the fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly. The walls were clean, sterile — no posters, no logos, no color. Just blank white and silence. It felt more like a testing lab than a football academy.
The instructor led them into a wide room with metal benches and lockers. Dozens of sets of black training uniforms hung along the walls — each with a number printed in bold white.
"Find your number. Change. You have five minutes. Orientation begins immediately after."
Seiko found his uniform hanging under #119.
He stared at it for a moment. The fabric felt cold in his hands — a strange kind of weight, like putting on armor.
As he changed, he glanced around.
Most of the others were quiet, but a few stood out.
One guy, tall with bleach-blond hair, was already juggling a ball casually, like he didn't feel the tension.
Another kid with a buzzcut sat on the bench, glaring at everyone like he was memorizing faces.
There were whispers too — names dropped, local legends. Some had played for youth national teams. Others were street players from nowhere.
Seiko kept to himself. He didn't need to know them yet.
Not until it mattered.
He tied his cleats tight, stood up, and looked in the mirror.
#119.
That's all he was now. No name. No backstory. Just a number in a system designed to erase the weak.
They were led next into a dark auditorium where the screen from earlier blinked back to life.
Jinpachi Ego appeared again, now seated in front of a table covered in files.
"Let me make this very clear," he began, his tone sharper now.
"You are not special. Not yet.
Your past doesn't matter. Your high school trophies don't matter.
If you can't survive what's coming — you're nothing."
A tense pause. No one breathed.
"You'll be placed into teams shortly.
Each team will live together, eat together, and fight to outscore the others.
Every action, every failure, every hesitation — will be counted.
And when you fall behind, you will be eliminated."
Seiko leaned forward, eyes locked on the screen.
He wasn't rattled.
If anything, this was the most alive he'd felt in years.
Let them come, he thought. Let them chase glory...
He was chasing something bigger.