Chapter 68: Gradual Collapse of U-20
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U-20 Training Base – 5-a-side Ground
The match resumed.
After the White Team kicked off, all five players surged across the halfway line nearly in unison.
"This is getting serious," Zeya muttered, holding position at the top of the penalty box. He didn't rush in—charging recklessly would get him caught in a 2v1 trap.
From the sideline, Oliver Aiku nodded in approval.
"This guy's defensive awareness is no joke."
He kept his eyes locked on Zeya. "He plays like someone with five years of international experience… not someone under 18."
On the bench, Hōichi Yasumori scribbled madly in a small notebook:
Dribbling: Top
Shooting: Top
Speed: Top
Defense: Top
Awareness: Elite
Physical Duel: Still referencing, but excellent.
He closed the notebook with a grin.
"He is A complete monster."
Hōichi smirked to himself. "Good thing President Buratsuta was smart. If this genius had landed in Blue Lock, our chances of winning would've been toast."
But then… there's still Yūshin Seiichi inside Blue Lock…
Should we try to steal him next?
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Back on the field, Darai Miroku executed a brilliant off-ball run, slipping past the Red Team's left flank.
Bang!
Aiku's pass sliced forward like a laser and found Darai at the edge of the box.
"Nice one, Captain," Darai nodded as he trapped the ball, preparing to shoot.
But—whoosh!
In the blink of an eye, Itoshi Sae appeared in front of him like a shadow.
"W-What the—?!"
Darai's voice cracked. "He wasn't there just now!"
Tap!
Sae calmly jabbed the ball out of bounds with a perfectly timed toe-poke.
Aiku's eyes widened. So sharp… He anticipated the entire sequence—from Darai's run to my pass.
Darai gritted his teeth. "This match… won't be easy."
⸻
The ball was thrown back in. Aiku caught it, exchanged a look with Darai and Sendo.
Without a word, the three nodded in tacit agreement.
Shing!
The triangle attack was initiated.
Aiku whipped a high arc pass across the pitch—accurate, fast, deadly—and then accelerated forward like a missile toward the box.
Zeya didn't bite on the bait. Instead, he refocused on Darai's run and cut him off.
The ball dropped from the sky. Darai leapt—and so did Zeya.
Right before contact, Darai smirked. "You've been fooled, genius."
He redirected the ball not toward the goal—but back into the triangle zone.
Aiku met it with a clean strike, smashing it into the bottom corner.
Drop!
White Team scores! 2–1.
"Hell yeah, Aiku!" Sendo leapt onto his captain's back. "Let's gooo!"
"Just one goal, don't get cocky," Aiku shrugged him off. "And you're the striker. Maybe score one yourself, yeah?"
Sendo grinned. "Don't worry, I'll bag a hat trick next."
⸻
"…An open-net goal, and they're celebrating like they won the World Cup."
Zeya rolled his eyes.
"Let's wrap this up, Sae."
"Mm."
drop!
The match resumed.
Zeya passed to Sae, and the two began weaving upfield, slicing past Sendou in a blur of red-and-white.
"Perfect one-touch link-ups… they're unreal!"
But—
"There's still ways to shut down a two-man team."
Aiku gritted his teeth and spread his arms wide, boxing Zeya in like a hawk shielding its young.
"Your dance ends here, genius."
"I admit your talent. Even if we lose, I'll recommend you for the starting eleven…"
"Recommend me?"
Sae's voice dropped, eyes sharp as razors.
"Save your pity, trash. I don't need your praise."
And then—he moved.
Sae exploded forward.
Niō Kazuma stepped up confidently. "I've got backup. Let's shut him down."
A 1v1 might be dangerous—but with Hayate Haru behind him, he was confident.
Two meters out, Sae feinted right.
"Hah—predictable!"
"Close the gate!" Hayate roared.
tread!
Sae didn't stop—he froze, dropped his heel, and rolled the ball behind him—then instantly darted left.
Nutmeg.
"What?!" Niō turned too late.
Before he could recover—nutmeg again! Hayate's legs split as Sae slipped through.
"You've got to be kidding me… back-to-back megs?!"
Even the bench was stunned.
"This guy… he's not playing fair!"
Aiku hesitated. If he moved to stop Sae, Zeya would be unmarked.
And in that moment of indecision—
Sae curved a side-spin pass toward the far post.
Zeya sprinted, timed the bounce—
downward header, like a hammer strike.
BOOM!
The net shook.
drop!
Red Team scores. 3–1.
Silence.
Across the pitch, U-20 players stood frozen.
Shocked.
Defeated.