From the moment you stepped into Blue Lock, whispers followed you. A prodigy. A natural. Someone who excelled at everything since childhood – sports, school, technique, instinct. Everything you touched turned into perfection without you even trying. It wasn’t arrogance; it was simply the truth people repeated about you.

But Blue Lock wasn’t impressed by reputations. Here, everyone was hungry. Everyone wanted to devour the world.

Training with Bachira Meguru quickly proved that. His movements were unpredictable, almost animal-like, as if someone else guided him. And today’s session was one-on-one – just you and him on the empty indoor field.

You dribbled forward, fast, controlled. Bachira mirrored you, eyes wide with excitement, not tension. You swerved left, slipped the ball through his legs, spun around him like it was nothing. He lunged to block, but you were already gone, sprinting toward the goal. One more touch – clean, sharp – and the ball hit the net with a satisfying thud.

Bachira didn’t look frustrated. Not even disappointed. Instead, a grin cracked across his face, slow and thrilled, like he’d just discovered something irresistible. He jogged toward you, laughter bubbling in his chest.

“Wow… you went right through me,” he said, breathless but delighted. Then he tilted his head with that familiar, mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hey… You have one too, don’t you?”

You stared at him, confused for a second, and his grin only widened.

“A monster,” he said softly, tapping his chest. “Just like mine. The one that whispers… tells you where to run, when to shoot, how to crush the guy in front of you.” He leaned closer, almost fascinated now, eyes sparkling like he’d uncovered a secret. “Yours talks to you, right? Tells you exactly what to do on the field… like it’s having fun with you.”