Blue Lock: Machiavellian

For the past two weeks, Shiro had immersed himself in football, absorbing every bit of knowledge he could find. He studied tactics, formations, and the intricate details that dictated the flow of a match. He memorized player movements, analyzed strategies, and deconstructed the very essence of the game. Football was no longer just a sport to him—it was a battlefield where intellect and skill determined victory.

Now, with an old, worn-out ball he had found in the orphanage's storage, he finally put his learning to the test. He started with the foundation of everything: ball control. It was the essence of dominance, the key to dictating the game. The players he admired—Ronaldinho, Zidane, Iniesta—moved as if the ball was an extension of themselves. That was what he wanted to achieve.

Yet, the moment he tried, reality struck. The ball did not obey him. It bounced away at the slightest miscalculation, slipping from his control, defying his will. No matter how many times he attempted to trap it, to manipulate it with precision, he failed. His footwork was sloppy. His touch was too heavy. He was nowhere near the level of control he had seen on TV.

For the first time in his eight years of existence, Shiro encountered true difficulty. A challenge that could not be solved with intellect alone. He was not used to failure. Every skill he had ever pursued—reading, mathematics, even chess—had come to him effortlessly, as if his mind was wired for it. But football was different. Football resisted him.

And yet, rather than frustration, it thrilled him. The more the ball defied him, the stronger his resolve became. Every failed attempt only ignited his determination further. The struggle was intoxicating. For once, something demanded more from him than just raw intellect. It demanded effort. Mastery would not come instantly. He would have to earn it.

With narrowed eyes and a burning excitement surging through him, he started again. This time, he did not expect perfection. He embraced the difficulty, treating it like a puzzle to be solved. He experimented, adjusted, observed every mistake with sharp precision. If the ball refused to yield, he would keep going until it did.

Hours passed, yet Shiro never stopped. His legs ached, sweat dripped down his forehead, but he did not care. He had found something worth his time. Something worth mastering.

After three relentless hours, his body screamed for rest, but Shiro ignored it. His mind was sharper than ever, analyzing each failure, recalibrating every movement. He had tried countless times—each attempt bringing him closer, each mistake a lesson. And then, it happened.

As the ball descended toward him once more, he adjusted his stance instinctively, his body reacting before his mind could process it. His right foot lifted, meeting the ball with the softest touch. For the first time, it obeyed. It did not bounce away uncontrollably, did not defy his will. It floated gently in the air for a split second before settling at his feet.

Perfect aerial control.

A rush of exhilaration shot through him, unlike anything he had ever felt. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his legs ached, yet his eyes gleamed with an unsettling satisfaction. He had conquered the first obstacle. Football had tried to resist him, to deny him mastery. But in the end, it had no choice but to yield.

A smirk tugged at his lips. This was only the beginning.

The next day, Shiro set his sights on the next step—passing. A fundamental skill, yet one that carried immense power. A well-placed pass could dismantle defenses, dictate the tempo, and control the very rhythm of the game. But there was a problem.

He had no one to pass to.

Not that it mattered. He never cared for the other children at the orphanage. To him, they were nothing more than background noise—predictable, shallow, and utterly useless. He had long understood that social interaction was just another game, one he could play if necessary. He could feign kindness, mimic emotions, and manipulate them with ease. But what was the point? None of them were worth the effort. They offered nothing of value. If they could not aid his pursuit, then they were simply nuisances.

So instead, he turned to the one thing that had never disappointed him.

A wall.

Silent. Unwavering. Relentless.

It became his training partner, his opponent, his test of precision. He struck the ball against it with calculated force, watching how it rebounded, adjusting his angle, refining his touch. Every pass needed to be sharp, accurate, controlled. If the ball returned unpredictably, it meant his technique was flawed. And flaws were unacceptable.

With each repetition, his control improved. The wall was merciless—it did not praise, did not complain, did not grow tired. It only reflected his skill with brutal honesty. And Shiro thrived on that.

He practiced for hours, his world shrinking to just the ball, the wall, and the rhythm of impact. Pass. Rebound. Control. Pass again. The monotony would have driven others to boredom, but to Shiro, it was intoxicating. Every perfect rebound, every precise trap, every flawlessly executed touch—it was proof that he was improving.

That he was getting closer to absolute control.

Days turned into weeks, and Shiro's training continued relentlessly. What began as simple passing drills evolved into a calculated process of refinement. He experimented with different types of passes—short, crisp touches, long curling balls, outside-foot flicks. Each pass had to be precise, each touch calculated.

The wall never faltered, never grew weak. It was the perfect opponent. But Shiro knew that football wasn't played against walls. It was played against people—weak, fragile beings who succumbed to pressure, who made mistakes when fear clouded their judgment. A wall couldn't feel fear. Humans could.

And that fascinated him.

As his skills sharpened, so did his awareness of the game's deeper mechanics. Passing wasn't just about moving the ball—it was a weapon, a tool of control. A perfect pass could uplift a teammate, make them believe in something greater. A cruel pass could set them up for failure, shatter their confidence, strip them of hope. Shiro found himself drawn to that power—the ability to dictate the fate of others with nothing more than a single touch.

But passing alone wasn't enough. He needed to evolve.

One evening, after the other children had long gone to sleep, he stood beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp in the orphanage courtyard, balancing the worn-out ball on his foot. He had spent the last few weeks mastering control and passing. Now, it was time for something more.

Dribbling.

The ability to weave through opponents, to make them dance to his rhythm, to strip them of their dignity one movement at a time. Shiro didn't just want to get past defenders—he wanted to dismantle them, to make them question their own worth.

And so, he began.

Every night, while the world slept, he practiced. He mimicked the movements of the legends he had studied—Ronaldinho's effortless feints, Messi's close control, Zidane's elegant turns. He analyzed every detail, every trick, every hesitation.

Failure was inevitable, but to Shiro, failure wasn't defeat—it was progress. Every time he lost control, every stumble, every misstep, it only fueled him further. He would do it again. And again. And again. Until perfection was no longer a goal, but a reality.

Because in football, like in life, only one truth mattered—those who failed faded into nothingness. And Shiro Tenma had no intention of fading.