The ball came faster than Shu remembered.
Not because it was kicked harder—but because no one waited.
Blue Lock didn't pause for anticipation or rhythm. The moment the ball reached his feet, someone was already there, cleats snapping at space that didn't exist.
Control it.
That instinct was carved into him. Years of training screamed the same command—kill the ball, own it, make it obey.
Shu tried.
His foot softened the pass, but the half-second he took was enough.
A shoulder slammed into his side. Another foot jabbed forward. The ball slipped away as it had never belonged to him at all.
"Too slow," a voice muttered.
Shu didn't look up.
The drill continued without mercy. Short fields. Narrow lanes. No room to breathe. Every touch was contested. Every mistake is punished instantly.
He received another pass.
This time, he moved quicker—too quick. The ball bounced off his instep and skidded wide. A defender pounced, clearing it before Shu could recover.
Again.
His chest tightened.
Around him, players adapted. They didn't trap the ball—they stabbed it forward. They didn't aim—they fired. Efficiency replaced elegance in real time.
Shu felt like a relic.
Sweat dripped into his eyes as the next sequence began. His lungs burned, but worse than that was the feeling crawling up his spine—the realization that he was being left behind.
On the sideline, Ego Jinpachi watched without expression.
"Blue Lock isn't about how well you play when things go right," Ego's voice echoed through the speakers. "It's about what you do when everything collapses."
The words struck Shu harder than any tackle.
He knew collapse. He'd lived it—injury, the bench, the silence.
But this was different.
This was happening now.
Another ball came.
Shu rushed the control, tried to force a clean movement. His touch popped the ball up slightly—just enough.
A defender intercepted.
A whistle blew.
Drill over.
Shu bent forward, hands on his knees, gasping. Around him, players talked, argued, and laughed. He heard none of it.
I'm already behind.
That thought settled deep in his chest, heavy and undeniable.
Talent hadn't saved him. Reputation hadn't helped. Even effort felt insufficient here.
As Shu straightened, his gaze drifted toward the goal at the far end of the field.
Messy. Crowded. Unforgiving.
If he wanted to survive, he couldn't wait for perfection.
And for the first time in his life, Kurogane Shu wondered if the thing he was best at—being beautiful—was the very thing that would destroy him.