Blue Lock: Machiavellian

8 years later

Inarizaki High vs Senchinkan High

Shiro weaved through the midfield with effortless precision, his mind calculating at breakneck speed. Touch to the right. Spin to the left. Drag back. Flick up. Every movement was a chess piece sliding into place, orchestrated by his will alone.

This year, he had found himself at Inarizaki High, a school that held prestige in many areas—but football was not one of them. He hadn't chosen to be here; it was merely the most convenient option. A scholarship for his academic performance had secured his place, but his true battlefield was the pitch.

Unfortunately, his teammates were utter garbage.

He had dragged them to the quarterfinals of the Tokyo Youth Cup single-handedly, carrying their incompetence like a weight chained to his ankles. Without him, they wouldn't have made it past the first round.

And now, they were up against Senchinkan High, a team hailed as one of the best in Tokyo. To the world, they were a powerhouse. To Shiro, they were nothing more than overhyped amateurs.

As he glided past yet another opponent, his mind remained cold, detached. Pathetic. Slow. Predictable. His feet moved before defenders could react, dismantling them piece by piece.

Senchinkan may have been formidable to others, but to him?

They were just another team waiting to be crushed.

Shiro barely acknowledged the striker tugging at his shirt. Desperation. Weak. The fool thought physical restraint would stop him?

Ahead, two midfielders stood in his path, bodies tense, eyes locked onto him like prey cornering a predator. Predictable. Standard pressing formation. They think they have me boxed in.

Wrong.

His mind raced through possibilities at lightning speed. If I cut inside, they'll collapse. If I go wide, they'll shadow me. They expect hesitation. They expect me to pass.

A smirk tugged at his lips—just for a second.

Too bad for them, I don't play by their expectations.

With a sudden burst of speed, he dragged the ball back sharply, forcing the striker gripping his shirt to stumble forward. Using the momentum, he twisted his body, slipping past the first midfielder with a quick heel flick to his left.

The second midfielder lunged to intercept. Too slow.

Shiro feigned a drive forward before executing a roulette spin, his body pivoting smoothly as the ball glided between their legs.

By the time they reacted, he was already past them.

Shiro exploded forward, the ball glued to his feet as he surged into the final third. The Senchinkan defenders scrambled, their formation shifting to contain him.

Three defenders closing in. One trailing behind. Keeper stepping forward.

His mind processed everything in an instant. They're panicking. They expect a pass. That means… they're already beaten.

The center-back lunged—reckless. Shiro let the ball roll just out of reach before cutting sharply to the right. The defender's momentum carried him past, leaving him stumbling into empty space.

The second defender hesitated. He's waiting for me to commit. Too bad, I'm already ahead. Shiro stepped over the ball, feigning a shot. The defender took the bait, shifting his weight to block—wrong move.

A sudden Rabona flick sent the ball sailing over his foot, landing perfectly in Shiro's path.

Now, only the last defender and the goalkeeper remained.

Time to end this.

With a lightning-fast elastico, Shiro pushed the ball inside, forcing the final defender to react. The moment he lunged, Shiro nutmegged him with a delicate tap, leaving him frozen in place.

The goalkeeper rushed out, arms wide, trying to cut down the angle.

Too late.

Without breaking stride, Shiro chipped the ball over the oncoming keeper with pinpoint precision.

The net rippled. The stadium fell silent. Then—an eruption of cheers.

Shiro turned away without a hint of emotion, walking back to midfield as his useless teammates swarmed around him in celebration.

Boring. Predictable. Weak.

He barely felt anything.

But as he replayed the image of the defenders falling apart—their hope turning into despair—his lips curled into a small, fleeting smirk.

At least that was mildly entertaining.

As the roar of the crowd echoed through the stadium, Shiro barely acknowledged the hands slapping his back, the excited voices of his teammates praising his brilliance. Empty words. Worthless noise. They hadn't contributed to the goal, yet they basked in its glory as if they had.

The referee's whistle signaled the restart. Senchinkan moved with urgency, their players now desperate to reclaim control. But Shiro had already crushed their spirits once. They won't recover. Not fully.

From the center circle, Senchinkan's captain—a midfielder with sharp eyes and a tense jaw—locked onto him. So, you've realized I'm the problem. Took you long enough.

They kicked off, immediately shifting into a fast-paced attack. The ball zipped between their players with quick, precise passes. Trying to overwhelm us with speed? Pathetic. Shiro watched, analyzing their patterns in real-time.

One pass too slow. A moment of hesitation in their buildup. The tiniest crack in their play.

Found it.

Before their winger could turn, Shiro lunged. His foot snapped out, intercepting the ball cleanly. The Senchinkan player barely had time to react before Shiro pivoted, already driving forward with purpose.

A counterattack.

His mind raced ahead. Three defenders rushing back. A midfielder tracking me. The goalkeeper hesitating—should he come out or stay?

Shiro let out a slow breath. It doesn't matter.

He surged past the midfield line, the last three defenders closing in like a pack of starving wolves. But they weren't hunters. They were prey who didn't know they had already lost.

With the faintest flick of his eyes, he feigned a pass to the wing. The right-back bit, stepping out of position. A mistake.

Shiro capitalized instantly, threading the ball through the exposed gap. A sharp acceleration sent him between the remaining two defenders before they could react.

The goalkeeper came forward—too far. Good. That makes this easier.

Shiro didn't hesitate.

A delicate chip.

The ball arched over the keeper, dipping just beneath the crossbar.

Goal.

The silence before the eruption of noise was his favorite part. That fleeting moment when hope shatters into despair.

Shiro turned away once again, his expression unreadable. His teammates screamed in celebration. The opposing players stood frozen, disbelief etched on their faces.

Boring. Predictable. But at least, for a second, they thought they had a chance.

And watching that hope crumble?

That was the most satisfying part.

As the match continued, Senchinkan's movements grew more frantic. Their once-disciplined formation was now riddled with cracks—hesitation in their passes, slower reactions, misplaced positioning. Fear had set in.

Shiro could see it in their eyes, the way they glanced at him before making decisions, second-guessing their every move. They're broken. But they haven't realized it yet.

A long pass from their defense aimed toward their striker. Desperation. Shiro moved before the ball even reached its target, already predicting the trajectory. He intercepted it effortlessly with his chest, then rolled it forward with a casual flick of his foot.

The moment his foot touched the ball, three Senchinkan players lunged toward him. Predictable.

He dragged the ball backward, baiting them in further before using a sharp Cruyff turn to slip past. One of the midfielders stumbled, unable to stop his momentum.

Pathetic.

Now free in the center, he pushed forward. His own teammates tried to offer support, but they were useless. None of them understood the game the way he did. They were obstacles, not allies.

Four defenders left.

The first tried to press him early. Shiro feigned a rightward drive before flicking the ball to the left, completely fooling him.

Three left.

The second defender hesitated, unsure whether to commit. Hesitation kills. Shiro exploited it instantly, performing a double touch to glide past him.

Two left.

One was marking his striker, the other stepping forward to confront him. Shiro didn't need to look—he had already decided.

A sudden no-look pass—perfectly weighted, slipping between the two defenders—landed at the feet of his striker.

For a brief moment, everyone froze. His teammate, who had barely contributed all match, was now alone in front of goal.

The goalkeeper rushed forward. The striker hesitated. Fool. Shoot.

Too late. The window had closed. The keeper was already on him.

Pathetic. Do I have to do everything?

Shiro moved before his teammate could even react. He sprinted forward, snatching the rebound after the keeper deflected the weak shot.

With a simple tap, he sent the ball rolling into the empty net.

Another goal.

The stadium erupted again, but Shiro barely heard it. He turned away, ignoring the dumbfounded expressions of his teammates.

This isn't football. This is me carrying a team of deadweight.

His eyes flickered to the scoreboard.

3-0.

Minutes later

As the final minutes ticked away, the scoreboard displayed a merciless truth.

10-0.

All ten goals—his.

Senchinkan's players were no longer trying to win. They were merely enduring, waiting for the whistle to put them out of their misery. Their eyes no longer burned with defiance but with something far more satisfying—resignation.

Shiro stood in the center of the pitch, surrounded by teammates who cheered like they had played a part in this massacre. Delusional. Every single one of them. They had contributed nothing. They were mere spectators, wearing the same uniform as him by sheer coincidence.

The ball rolled towards him, passed weakly by a trembling opponent who just wanted the game to end.

Shiro let out a quiet breath. One last time.

He pushed forward, a slow, deliberate dribble. The defenders—if they could even be called that anymore—moved sluggishly, their bodies drained, their minds shattered. They weren't trying to stop him. They were simply existing in his way.

He accelerated. A feint to the left—two defenders stumbled. A quick step-over—another fell behind.

The goalkeeper didn't move. He just stood there, staring as Shiro approached, as if he had already accepted the inevitable.

Shiro stopped just before the six-yard box. He could score. Easily.

Instead, he turned his back to goal, resting his foot on the ball. He glanced over his shoulder, locking eyes with the keeper.

"Move." His voice was barely above a whisper, but in the empty silence of Senchinkan's despair, it rang louder than any stadium chant.

The goalkeeper flinched.

Shiro smirked. I don't even need to score. I've already won.

But he was here to finish what he started.

With a simple backheel, he rolled the ball into the net.

11-0.

The final whistle blew.

For a moment, there was nothing. No cheers, no celebration—just silence.

Then, the eruption. His teammates swarmed him, shouting, laughing, celebrating a victory they had no right to claim as their own.

Shiro didn't join them. He didn't even smile. Instead, he looked at the opposing team—collapsed on the ground, heads hanging low, their dreams crushed beneath his feet.

This. This was why he played football.

Not for the goals. Not for the recognition.

But for this moment—the exact second when hope turned into despair.