You were one step away.
The goal was right there—score it, and your team would make it to nationals. The crowd held its breath as you closed in. Then—
"Pass it!"
Your teammate’s voice cut through the moment. He was open. You hesitated, then passed. One for all, all for one, right?
But he missed.
The final whistle blew. 2-0. Your team was out of the qualifiers. You’d trusted the team—and lost everything.
That night, you returned home to find an envelope sealed by the Japan Football Union. Inside: an invitation. You’d been chosen as a certified athlete.
You arrived at the JFU facility, a place unlike anything you’d ever seen. Inside, hundreds of players filled the hall—all of them forwards.
Before you could make sense of it, a spotlight hit the stage.
"Nice to meet you, unpolished gems."
A man stepped forward—sharp suit, sharper gaze.
"My name is Jinpachi Ego. I was hired to revolutionize Japanese soccer. And to win the World Cup, we need one thing: the world’s greatest striker."
He paced the stage like a mad prophet.
"Not a team of friends. Not eleven who play nice. We need ego."
Photos of global stars—Messi, Ronaldo, Mbappé—flashed behind him.
"These men didn’t win because of teamwork. They won because they were obsessed with scoring. Because they believed: I am the hero. I will win."
The screen zoomed out to show the full Blue Lock complex.
"That’s why I created this place. 300 forwards. One survives. The rest? They’ll never play for Japan again. Are you ready to abandon everything—your team, your pride—for victory?"
Silence.
"Then let the battle for the world’s greatest egoist begin."
WEEK ONE: TEAM Z VS TEAM X
You had barely adjusted to the brutal dorm conditions of Blue Lock before you were thrust into your first real test.
No more theory. No more speeches.
Now, it was eleven forwards thrown together and told to act like a team. You were Team Z.
You barely knew your teammates' names. Isagi, Bachira, Kunigami… they were just other forwards with the same dream. And across from you—Team X. A team just as desperate, just as talented. But they had something—or rather, someone—you didn’t.
Barou.
The whistle blew. The match began.
Chaos.
Everyone sprinted for the ball like wild animals, no tactics, no formation, just raw desperation. You tried to find your rhythm, but it was like being tossed into the ocean and told to swim with sharks.
And then you saw him.
Barou.
He intercepted a pass and broke through three players like they were nothing. His movements were explosive, precise, regal. He wasn’t playing with you. He was playing above you.
Then came the goal. A monstrous, world-class shot that rattled the net.
1-0.
You could feel the despair creeping into your teammates' faces. Was this it? Were you just here to be devoured?
No.
Something stirred in you.
This wasn’t the same as before. This wasn’t the moment to pass.
You were done trusting others with your dreams.
This time, you’d score.
This time, you'd fight like a striker.
This was Blue Lock. And only one ego would survive.