The new transfer student arrived at Shirogane High on Wednesday morning, in a black school bag and a perfectly pressed uniform, and walked straight past the main office to the football pitch.
Ren was already there, taping his ankles on the bench. He looked up and saw a thin, straight-backed figure standing at the touchline with an ash-grey head and an expression like a closed door.
"Hoshigaki," Ren said.
"Kageyama."
"You came."
"I signed the transfer form on Monday. The Institute processed it on Tuesday." Shin bowed, a precise ninety degrees. "I am now a second-year student at Shirogane High School, enrolled in Class 2-B. I request to join the football club."
"Just like that?"
"I do not see a more efficient route."
There was a silence. Ren, who had been preparing a speech for two days, found that all of it had left him.
"Okay," he said. "Welcome."
"Thank you."
"Do you want to meet the others?"
"I have studied their positions. Nakagawa, goalkeeper. Ōshiro, right back. Kimura, left back. Hayama, centre half. Sawada, centre half or midfield. Sano, central midfield. Arakawa, defensive midfield. Mizuki, right wing. Narumi, left wing. Tachibana, striker. Endō, striker. And you." Shin paused. "I am not sure where you belong."
"Neither am I," Ren said.
For the first time, something flickered across Shin's face. It might have been surprise.
The rest of the squad arrived in a noisy, unruly stream, and the introductions did not go well.
"Hoshigaki," Takeru breathed. "From Seiryu? The Seiryu Hoshigaki? I saw you play in the regional cup! You didn't concede for forty minutes!"
"Forty-three," Shin said.
"WHY IS HE HERE?" Daichi roared.
"I wanted to see how you play."
"WHY?"
"Because Kageyama's pass cannot be measured."
Daichi opened his mouth, closed it, turned to Mikio, and whispered, very loudly, "Is he okay?"
"He's a genius," Mikio said. "It's a different kind of not okay."
Gōki stood at the back with his arms crossed. He had said nothing so far. His eyes moved over the newcomer with the slow, assessing stare of a bull sizing up a gate.
"So you're the wall," he said.
"I am a centre half."
"They say you never get beaten."
"I have been beaten fourteen times in my career. Nine of those were in my first year of middle school."
"Right." Gōki smiled with all his teeth. "Then I'll make it fifteen."
Coach Ishikawa arrived with his tea, took one look at the situation, and sighed.
"Hoshigaki. Tachibana. One on one. Ten attempts. Everyone else, sit down."
They sat.
Gōki set the ball at the edge of the penalty area and rolled his shoulders. Shin stood in front of the goal with his hands at his sides, feet exactly shoulder-width apart, eyes level and calm.
"Ready?" Gōki said.
"Yes."
He went.
It was Gōki at his most savage, a lowered shoulder, a driving run, the whole weight of him behind the ball. Ren had seen that charge flatten Hayama and send Daichi sprawling. Nobody could stop it.
Shin did not stop it. He simply was not where Gōki expected.
He moved a half-step to the left, so small it looked like a shift of balance. The angle changed. Gōki's run, aimed at a gap that was no longer there, carried him straight into empty air. The ball rolled off his boot. Shin collected it with an unhurried touch and sent it back.
"One," Shin said.
Gōki stared. Then he grinned, wide and dangerous, and tried again.
Second attempt. Third. Fourth. Each time, Gōki found a new angle, a new feint, a new burst of speed, and each time Shin was already there, silent, precise, perfectly placed. There was no effort in it. No struggle. It was like watching a man shut a door, over and over, in a room full of people trying to push through.
By the eighth attempt, Gōki was breathing hard. His shirt was soaked. He had not come within a metre of the goal.
"Zero Gap," Hikaru whispered, scribbling in his notebook. "That's what they call it at Seiryu. He closes every passing lane before it opens."
"It's inhuman," Takeru said.
"It's maths," Shin said, without turning round.
Gōki's last two attempts were the worst. He was angry now, and angry strikers are easy to read. Shin dispossessed him twice with a quiet toe-poke, and then stepped back and folded his hands behind him again.
"Ten," he said. "Ten successful defences."
Gōki stood on the penalty spot, chest heaving. For a long moment nobody spoke.
Then, to everyone's surprise, he began to laugh.
It was a big, hoarse, delighted sound, the laugh of a man who had been hit hard and enjoyed it. "Ten out of ten," he gasped. "Ten! I've never been stopped ten times in a row in my life!"
"I do not understand why you are laughing."
"Because I've finally found a wall I can't go through." Gōki wiped his face with his shirt. "Do you know how long I've waited for that?"
Shin looked genuinely confused. "No."
"Forever, man. Forever."
"I see," Shin said. He clearly did not.
Coach Ishikawa clapped his hands. "Good. Now we know what we've got. Hoshigaki, you start at centre half on Saturday. Hayama, you partner him. Sawada, back to midfield."
"Yes, Coach."
"One more thing." The Coach looked at the sky, then back at the squad. "The preliminary draw is at four this afternoon. We should know who we're playing. Everyone go and wash. Kageyama, a word."
They walked a few steps down the touchline together. The grass was wet, and the late morning smelled of cut turf and tea.
"Hoshigaki told me something about his old coach," Ishikawa said, very quietly.
Ren's heart gave a small, hard thump. "Danjō?"
"He told me what Danjō said. About your father."
"I didn't know he'd talked to you."
"He spoke to me this morning, in the staff room, before he went to class." The Coach's voice was calm, but his fingers had tightened around the cup. "He is a very honest boy. He thought I should know that the Committee has taken an interest."
"In me?"
"In the Kageyama name." The old man glanced over his shoulder, as if the school itself might be listening. "Be careful, Ren. I should have told you before. Your father and I knew each other."
"You knew him?"
"Briefly." Ishikawa's face was unreadable. "A long time ago. He was a better player than I was. I was ranked twelfth in the world for exactly one week. He was never ranked at all."
"Why?"
"That," the Coach said, "is a longer conversation. And I would rather have it when you are ready for it."
He turned and walked away, tea in hand, shoulders bowed.
The prefectural football office had posted the draw at four o'clock, in a glass case beside the main gate. By ten past, half the club was crowded around it, jostling for a view.
"I can't see!" Daichi shouted. "WHO'S IN OUR GROUP?"
"Wait," said Hikaru. He had pushed to the front, glasses sliding down his nose. "Wait, wait. Group C."
"Read it!"
"Group C. Shirogane High. Minami Commercial. Tōhoku Technical. And." He stopped.
"AND?"
Hikaru did not answer. He stood very still, staring at the paper.
Ren stepped forward and read the last name himself.
*Kuroshio Academy.*
A cold, quiet feeling settled over him. He thought of the dark-haired midfielder from the video clip, of the neat, patient eyes. Of Sera Kaito, who read the game better than anyone in the prefecture.
"Well," said Gōki, at his shoulder, cracking his knuckles. "That's the best news I've heard all week."
Behind them, Shin stood at the edge of the crowd, perfectly straight, perfectly still. His grey eyes were on the draw, and for the first time since arriving at Shirogane, he looked uneasy.
"Kuroshio is not Minami," he said quietly. "Kuroshio is a different kind of problem."
Nobody answered. The wind turned the corner of the notice on the glass, and somewhere across the city, in a spotless training ground, a dark-haired boy with narrow eyes was reading the same list.