The facility didn't look like salvation.
Steel gates toward over Kurogane Shu, swallowing sound, swallowing sky. The air felt heavier the moment he stepped inside, as if Blue Lock itself was judging whether he belonged here—or if he should be crushed immediately.
Hundreds of players stood around him. Some nervous. Some cocky. Some are already burning with ego.
Shu said nothing.
He had stood on bigger stages before. Louder ones. But this place didn't care about history.
A screen flickered to life.
Ego Jinpachi appeared, legs crossed, eyes sharp behind his glasses. He didn't smile.
"Welcome to Blue Lock," Ego said. "I'm not here to make you famous. I'm here to erase you."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Ego continued calmly. "Every résumé you brought with you is worthless. U-18. Youth leagues. Past achievements." His eyes seemed to land directly on Shu. "All meaningless."
Shu's jaw tightened.
"So forget who you were," Ego said. "Only the striker who survives here matters."
The words cut deeper than any insult.
Shu had lived on refinement. On being chosen. Now he was just another body in a cage.
The first drills began immediately.
No warm-up. No easing in.
Sprint. Pressure. Limited space.
The ball came fast—too fast. A defender crashed into Shu's side the moment he received it. His instinct screamed to control, to soften the ball, to make it beautiful.
He hesitated.
The ball was stolen.
"Too slow," someone laughed.
Shu felt it then.
Beauty died first in Blue Lock.
Every elegant habit he relied on turned into a weakness. Players here didn't respect rhythm—they destroyed it. They didn't wait for openings—they forced mistakes.
Shu swallowed.
If I keep playing like this… I won't last a week.
Ego's voice echoed from the speakers, almost amused.
"This isn't football for spectators," he said. "This is football for monsters."
Shu clenched his fists as sweat ran down his spine.
Blue Lock wasn't hell because it was cruel.
It was hell because it was honest.
And honesty was stripping him bare.