The plane descended slowly through a blanket of clouds, the city of Barcelona unfolding beneath them in a mosaic of lights and structure.
From above, it looked calm—almost peaceful. But everyone on board knew better. This wasn't a place of peace. This was a battlefield disguised as a city, where the strongest players in the world carved their names into history under the eyes of millions.
Not soft light—but sharp, golden sunlight that poured over the streets and bounced off glass, stone, and skin alike.
The air carried warmth, the kind that settled into your clothes and stayed there, alive with the noise of a city that never slowed down.
Cars moved in steady rhythm. Vendors called out to passing crowds. Somewhere down the street, a group of children chased a ball between parked cars, their laughter rising above everything else.
One of them slipped, got back up immediately, and kept running—no complaints, no pause.
Football.
Everywhere.
The Blue Lock boys didn't rush.
For once, there was no schedule pressing down on them, no voice barking orders. They moved through the city at their own pace, drifting from street to street, drawn by whatever caught their interest.
Bachira stopped near a street performer juggling a ball with absurd control, his grin widening as he watched. "That's fun," he muttered, before trying to copy the rhythm himself with a nearby spare ball, laughing when it bounced away from him.
Chigiri slowed near a storefront window, watching a replay of a sprinting winger on a mounted screen.
His eyes tracked every step, every shift of balance, instinctively measuring speed against his own.
Barou walked ahead of the group, hands in his pockets, clearly unimpressed by everything—and yet, his gaze flicked constantly, taking in details he'd never admit mattered.
Rin said nothing, but he didn't miss anything either. His eyes moved like a scanner, reading positioning, structure, even in something as simple as a street game.
And Isagi—
He was so excited that his body begun to tremble.
By the time they reached the hotel, the sun had begun to dip slightly, painting the building in warm gold.
It wasn't just large.
It was overwhelming.
Tall glass panels reflected the sky like a mirror, while polished stone framed the entrance in clean, sharp lines.
Inside, the space opened into a vast lobby of marble floors and soft lighting, the air cool and controlled—a complete contrast to the lively streets outside.
Aiku gave a faint whistle.
For a moment, even Barou paused.
"…Not bad."
Rooms were assigned quickly, and for the first time in a long while, they were left alone.
Some headed straight for the pool, diving into the clear water without hesitation, the sound of splashes echoing through the open space.
Others disappeared into their rooms, letting hot water wash away the fatigue of travel.
The energy of the day lingered, but it softened.
Later—
Isagi stepped outside.
The evening had settled gently over the city, the heat easing just enough to make the air comfortable.
Streetlights flickered on one by one, and the noise shifted—from busy movement to something more relaxed, more alive in a different way.
He walked without direction.
No destination.
Just moving.
From that room…
To here.
Blue Lock.
The selections.
The matches.
The pressure.
And now—
Spain.
The world stage.
Isagi stopped briefly, looking up at the sky, now painted in fading orange and deepening blue.
"…I'm not done."
His voice was quiet, but steady.
"I'll go further."
Then he kept walking.
A small restaurant caught his eye.
Warm light spilled from inside, accompanied by the sound of quiet conversation and the clinking of utensils. The smell hit him before anything else—rich, unfamiliar, and impossible to ignore.
He stepped in.
The menu was a problem.
Isagi stared at it for a long moment.
Every word.
Unreadable.
"…What even is this…"
He glanced around, trying to match dishes to what people were eating, but nothing looked familiar. Everything smelled good, everything looked good—but choosing felt impossible.
Then—
He noticed him.
A boy.
About his age.
Sitting alone.
A dark cape draped loosely over his shoulders, unusual enough to stand out. A faint scar traced across his face, not deep—but noticeable.
He was eating something.
And whatever it was—
It looked incredible.
Isagi hesitated.
Then walked over.
"…Hey—what is that?"
The boy looked up.
Said something.
"Hola."
Isagi blinked.
"…Uh…"
Isagi tilted his head slightly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small earpiece, sliding it across the table toward Isagi.
"Put it on."
The boy did.
"…Can you hear me now?" Isagi asked.
The boy 's eyes widened slightly.
"…Yeah."
Isagi nodded toward the plate.
The boy understood he was asking for food name.
"Paella."
Isagi repeated it slowly.
"…Paella."
"Rice. Seafood. Simple."
Isagi looked at it again.
"…Looks good."
"It is."
"Where are you from?"
"Japan. I came to see Real football."
A TV mounted on the wall flickered with a football match, drawing Isagi's attention immediately. His eyes locked onto the screen, watching the movement, the spacing, the decisions being made in real time.
Without thinking—
He spoke.
Isagi leaned forward slightly, eyes lighting up almost immediately.
"…This is so good…"
The boy across from him glanced at him.
"Football?"
Isagi nodded quickly.
"Yeah—yeah!"
He didn't even realize how fast he answered.
"I love this part—the way they move off the ball, how they create space before they even receive it… and then the timing—like, just one second late or early and the whole play collapses."
He pointed slightly toward the screen, completely absorbed now.
"And the dribbling—look at that, look at that! It's not just speed, it's how they shift their weight, how they bait the defender first—then break them."
A small laugh escaped him.
"…And the shooting—when it's clean, you can feel it, right? Like the moment the foot connects, you already know it's going in."
He paused—
then smiled.
Not calm.
Not controlled.
Just genuine.
"I want to do that."
"No—more than that…"
"I want to be at the top."
His eyes sharpened slightly—but the excitement didn't disappear.
"Maybe not the best yet…"
A small grin.
"…but I'll get there."
The boy stared at him for a moment.
Then—
He smiled.
Silent.
Then—
"…When I see someone like you," he said slowly,
"…this excited… this happy just talking about it…"
His expression didn't change.
"…it makes me want to die."
Isagi blinked.
The words didn't match the mood at all.
"…That's… kind of creepy" he said awkwardly.
A pause.
Then more gently—
"…You sound really lonely."
The boy didn't respond.
Didn't deny it either.
"…Do I?"
Then he stood.
"Thanks for the conversation. I had a good time."
And just like that—
He left.
Isagi sat there, still processing.
"…That was weird."
He looked back at the plate in front of him.
"…Paella."
He took another bite.
Paused.
"…Okay, it's not bad…"
A second bite.
"…but it's not THAT good…"
A realization slowly crept in.
"…Wait…"
"…did he just say that so I'd stop talking to him?"
Isagi leaned back, scratching his head slightly.
"…Yeah… that's definitely what happened."
A small, embarrassed laugh escaped him.
"…Man…"
But even then—
His eyes drifted back to the TV.
To the match.
To the movement.
Because no matter what—
That feeling hadn't changed.