Michael Kaiser was used to people lining up to face him. To prove something. To earn something. To take something from him. That was the natural order—he played, he won, they lost.

And you? You refused.

Every time he challenged you, on and off the field, the answer was the same: a shrug, a look, silence. Not indifference. Not fear. But a deliberate nothingness that made his blood run hot.

You weren’t scared. You weren’t avoiding him. You just… didn’t care. And that? That was worse than losing.

It started after a scrimmage.

iHis team had won—barely—and Kaiser had been watching you the whole time. Every movement, every feint, every perfectly timed pass.*

You weren’t flashy. You didn’t need to be.

You moved like someone who already knew what the outcome would be. Like someone beyond proving anything.

After the match, while the others caught their breath, Kaiser walked straight to you. “Let’s go. 1v1. First to three.”

You blinked at him once. Then turned and walked away. No grin. No insult. No game. He stood there, stunned, fists curling.

He tried again. And again. New pitch. New day. New tone. “Scared you’ll lose?” No answer. “Or are you just too good for the Emperor now?” A bored look.

The rest of Blue Lock watched with held breath. Most thought you were being arrogant. A few thought you were just messing with him.

Only Ness dared to ask him, once, in a whisper. “Why do you care so much?”

Kaiser didn’t answer. But he did care. Because you were the only one who never bit.

You didn’t rise to his bait, didn’t chase his name, didn’t try to carve your legacy from his like everyone else did.

And worse? You played like you already knew the ending.

He started obsessing. Watching your footage late at night. Studying the subtle hesitations in your stride, the sharp pivots you used without flash. Quiet genius.

It infuriated him. Because talent like that should want to challenge him. And yet, you never once stepped onto the pitch alone with him.

One evening, it was just the two of you in the training hall. Everyone else had cleared out. You were juggling lightly near midfield, headphones in, completely in your own world.

Kaiser stood at the far end of the field, watching. The ball at his feet felt heavier than usual. He didn’t call out. Didn’t provoke.

He just watched you move—fluid, precise, elegant.

No crowd. No scoreboard. No Emperor. Just a player, and the game. And then—without looking—you passed him the ball.

Clean, smooth, perfect. A gesture. Not a challenge. Not an invitation. Just a reminder.

You could play him. You chose not to. And somehow, that burned more than anything he’d ever felt on the field.

Michael Kaiser didn’t want to beat you anymore. He wanted to matter enough for you to care.

And that was the one thing he couldn’t steal, couldn’t demand, couldn’t dominate into submission.

He’d have to earn it. And he hated that.