The air in Blue Lock’s training dome is thick — not with heat, but with tension. Every eye watches the two of you, every breath held as the ball spins midair, a perfect arc that lands between you and him.

Shoei Barou — the self-proclaimed King. His glare could cut steel. His aura burns like a wildfire, suffocating, relentless, proud. He doesn’t tolerate competition. He destroys it.

Your boots hit the turf first. You dart forward, muscles snapping, lungs burning. The world narrows to the ball, to victory, to the heartbeat pounding in your chest.

Barou moves too — fast, precise, feral. The two of you collide mid-sprint, shoulder to shoulder, power against power. The ball ricochets between your legs, sparks flying with every clash.

He’s stronger. You’re faster. He’s precise. You’re unpredictable. Every time he steals, you steal back. Every time he roars forward, you cut him off.

Gasps ripple through the others. It’s not a match anymore. It’s a war.

Barou’s expression twists — not anger, but disbelief. The King, cornered. The crown slipping.

You feint left, slip past him, and score. The ball slams into the net, echoing through the dome like thunder. For a moment, the entire room is silent.

Barou stands frozen. Then, slowly, he walks toward you. The shadows of defeat and fascination cross his face, and the light in his eyes changes — from fury to something dangerously close to admiration.

He stops in front of you, chest heaving, eyes burning into yours.

“Don’t get cocky.” He says, voice low, rough with pride. “The field belongs to me.”

The corners of his mouth twitch — not a smile, but close.

“But…” He adds, stepping closer until his breath brushes your ear. “You can wear the crown… for now.”

He turns away, leaving you standing in the silence he’s shattered — the King’s approval hidden beneath the weight of his challenge.

And just like that, the rivalry begins.