Chapter 37: The Blueprint of a Predator
The transition from the dark stadium of his midnight session back to the reality of the facility was jarring. Eshan had ended that night with a clinical strike, a silent promise to the empty stands. But when morning came, the "vacuum" of the pitch was replaced by the suffocating pressure of Ego Jinpachi's presence.
The team was gathered in the strategy room. The air was thick with the scent of unwashed jerseys and the sharp, metallic tang of collective anxiety.
The screen flickered. Ego wasn't eating yakisoba this time. He was leaning forward, his eyes like two black holes behind his glasses.
"Team Z," Ego's voice was a dry rasp. "You've survived. You've scrambled together enough 'luck' to keep your lockers for one more week. But look at yourselves. You're shivering like children who just realized the monsters under the bed are real."
He tapped a key, and footage of Team V played. It wasn't a highlight reel; it was a demonstration of a higher species. Nagi Seishiro trapping a ball with his back turned; Reo Mikage dictating the flow like a conductor.
"Most of you are 'accidents' waiting to happen," Ego sneered. "Except for one. Sato Eshan is the only person in this room who isn't playing a game of chance. He is the only one who isn't relying on a 'miracle' to survive."
Eshan sat in the back row, his midnight black hair shadowed, his silver-gray eyes fixed on the screen. He didn't feel pride; he felt a weary sort of recognition. He knew what Ego was doing—he was stripping away their excuses.
"To beat Team V, you need a Goal Formula," Ego continued. "If you cannot explain the math of your goal, you are nothing but a fluke. (Your Core Weapon) + (The Environmental Variable) = A Repeatable Execution."
The screen cut to black. The gravity Eshan had brought to the team—the weight that had broken the Wanima twins—was finally taking hold.
Eshan didn't join the frantic huddles. He didn't have time for panic. He went to the training wing and claimed a corner, setting the ball-launcher to its most erratic, high-velocity setting.
He didn't just practice "shots." He spent the first six hours on The Orbit.
Using his Absolute Ball Feel, he didn't stop the balls. To stop a ball was to kill its momentum. Every time a ball hissed toward him at 90km/h, he used the rotation of his torso and the subtle tilt of his hips to "swallow" the momentum. The ball would hit his frame and, instead of bouncing, it would circle his center of gravity in a tight, centripetal arc before dropping into a shooting lane.
"Again," he muttered, sweat stinging his silver-gray eyes. He wasn't being a calculator; he was being an artisan. He felt the texture of the leather against his laces, the exact vibration of the ball's spin. He practiced the "Knuckle-Drive"—striking with zero spin so the ball vibrated through the air—and the "Inside-Curve", aiming not for the net, but for the iron of the post. Clang. Clang. Clang. He hit it ten times in a row.
But he wasn't the only one working. The "Absolute" standard he set was forcing the others to look into their own abyss.
Isagi Yoichi stood by the water cooler, his chest heaving, his eyes never leaving Eshan. He wasn't just watching the ball; he was watching Eshan's Awareness. He noticed that Eshan's head was constantly on a swivel, his eyes scanning not for the ball, but for the gaps between the defenders.
"He isn't reacting to the play," Isagi realized, his mind racing. "He's positioning himself in the blind spot of the entire field before the ball even moves. Spatial awareness... I need to see the 'smell' of a goal like he sees the physics of it."
Nearby, Kunigami was pushing his limits. He watched Eshan hit the iron of the post ten times in a row from thirty yards out. Kunigami began practicing his mid-range strikes, but instead of just blasting them, he focused on the "Top-Spin" to make the ball dip—the Environmental Variable needed to bypass a keeper who expected a straight line.
Raichi, fueled by a manic need to prove he wasn't just "noise," spent the two days shadowing Gagamaru. Every time Gagamaru moved, Raichi was there, his chest pressed against the striker's back. He was building his own formula: (Infinite Stamina) + (Zero-Distance Man-Marking) = The Erasure of the Genius
By the afternoon of the second day, he shifted to his Absolute Awareness. He joined a 5-on-5 "Chaos Drill" with three balls on the pitch at once.
there was Bachira.
Bachira didn't watch Eshan's logic; he chased his rhythm. During the "Chaos Drill," Bachira danced between three moving balls, his tongue out, a manic glint in his eyes. He wasn't looking for a formula; he was looking for a "Monster" that could keep up with Eshan's ghost-like movements.
"Hey, Eshan!" Bachira chirped after a particularly intense drill. He was drenched in sweat but grinning. "Your Monster is so quiet. It makes me want to play even louder! If I stir up enough trouble, will you be the one to finish it?"
Eshan looked at the boy. Bachira was the only one who didn't look at Team V with fear. He looked at them as toys.
"Don't just stir it up, Bachira," Eshan said, his silver-gray eyes narrowing. "Make it so they can't even remember the plan they started with."
Most players were dizzy, but Eshan moved with a terrifying lack of urgency. He wasn't just seeing the balls; he was mapping the echoes. He heard the displacement of air as Kunigami lunged; he felt the vibration of Raichi's sprint. He was expanding his mental screen, forcing his brain to process the entire environment as a singular, living organism.
"You're not waiting for it," a voice said.
Eshan didn't stop. He redirected a volley into the side netting before turning. Chigiri was there, looking sharper than ever.
"The ball doesn't wait for you, Chigiri," Eshan said, his voice steady despite the fatigue. He reached out and gave Chigiri a firm, stinging slap on the shoulder—the kind only athletes understand. "Zantetsu is a dragster. He only goes straight. Lure him into a space where he has to turn, and his acceleration won't mean a damn thing. Trust your legs, not the grass."
Chigiri nodded, a predatory light finally replacing the doubt in his eyes. For the first time, the team wasn't following a whiteboard; they were following a standard.
On the final night, Eshan stood alone in the center circle. He wasn't thinking about Nagi or Reo. He thinking about, the smell of his mother's cooking, the quiet of a home that didn't have blue LED lights. 24 hours...
The morning of the match arrived like a cold front. In the tunnel, Team Z stood on the left, a wall of focused black jerseys. On the right, Team V stood like royalty.
Nagi Seishiro was slouched against the wall, eyes half-closed. Reo Mikage was smiling, his purple hair perfectly in place.
"Hey, Reo," Nagi murmured, his eyes drifting toward Eshan. "It's the guy who told me not to sleep. He looks... serious. It's kind of a drag."
Eshan looked at Nagi, and for a second, a glint of genuine, competitive fire lit up his silver-gray eyes.
"Nagi," Eshan said quietly. The white-haired boy blinked, his dull eyes drifting toward him. "You said you were bored. I hope you enjoyed the rest. Because from the first whistle, I'm going to make sure you have hard time."
He stepped out into the blinding light of the stadium.
The blueprint was finished. The execution was about to begin.