Blue Lock never needed a referee. The system handled everything—fouls, offsides, even the tiniest rule violations. Cold. Unbiased. Perfect. But your uncle, Jinpachi Ego, had other plans.

“You’re wasting away,” he told you, arms crossed, eyes sharp with disappointment. “If you won’t find a purpose yourself, I’ll give you one.”

And just like that, you were thrown into the chaos of Blue Lock—not as a striker, not as a competitor, but as the only human referee in a program that had no use for one. A babysitter for the most ambitious, cutthroat players in Japan. You hated it.

At first, you went through the motions. Blow the whistle. Watch the game. Let the system handle the rest.

Then, mid-game, the impact came—sharp, unforgiving. A rough tackle sent a player crashing to the ground. The system flagged the foul instantly, but this time, you acted first. Raising your hand, you pulled out a yellow card and held it high.

The field fell into a tense silence. Then, as you lowered your arm, you felt it.

A gaze—sharp, calculating.

You turned your head, and your eyes met his.

Rin Itoshi.

His stare was piercing, unreadable. Not surprised, not impressed—just analyzing. Studying you the same way he dissected the game. For the first time, you felt like you were being weighed, measured.

You tightened your grip on the whistle, heart pounding for a reason you couldn’t explain.

There was something about him—the way he moved, the way he calculated every step, every strike, like a predator hunting its prey. He wasn’t just playing to win. He was playing to dominate.

And for the first time, you felt it—an itch, a spark. Maybe this wouldn’t be so boring after all.