Blue lock: Reborn Egoist

The next morning, Eito stepped onto the training pitch, still thinking about his conversation with Sayuri. Her words echoed in his mind.

You'll need to be more than just a striker who scores goals… You need to learn when to control the game and when to unleash it.

For years, he had honed his speed, power, and instinct to become a goal-scoring machine. But now, someone his own age was telling him there was another level to reach. The idea irritated him—and intrigued him at the same time.

As he started his warm-up, a shadow fell over him. Sayuri stood a few feet away, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

"You're late," she said.

Eito frowned. "I'm exactly on time."

Sayuri shrugged. "You should've been here earlier."

"You're not my coach."

"No," she admitted. "But I'm here to see how you handle challenges. I want to know if you can think outside your comfort zone."

Eito huffed. "I don't need anyone analyzing me. I'm here to train and win."

"Then prove it."

Before he could respond, a sharp whistle blew. Coach Anri had set up a high-intensity scrimmage among the top-ranked trainees. Every player on the field was skilled, eager to prove themselves. The competition was fierce.

Eito lined up against some of the toughest players at the facility. As the game kicked off, the ball zipped between teammates, possession hotly contested.

Wasting no time, Eito made his presence known. He darted through the defense, carving out space for himself. A well-placed pass came his way, and with a sharp touch, he controlled it effortlessly. He felt the defenders closing in but had trained for this moment a thousand times before.

He planted his foot, ready to fire a shot from outside the box—only for a defender to lunge in at the last second, deflecting the ball just enough to send it off target.

Eito clicked his tongue in frustration.

From the sideline, Sayuri called out, "Predictable."

His head snapped toward her, irritation flaring in his chest. Predictable?

The game continued, but now an extra layer of pressure weighed on him. Sayuri was watching, analyzing. The thought of being seen as anything less than exceptional grated on him.

A few minutes later, another opportunity arose. This time, instead of taking the shot immediately, he feinted, drawing the defender into overcommitting. With a quick pivot, he shifted directions and rifled the ball into the net.

Goal.

His teammates cheered, but Eito turned toward Sayuri, expecting some kind of reaction. She simply nodded. "Better."

He scoffed. "You always this hard to impress?"

A smirk tugged at her lips. "I just don't celebrate the obvious. You're talented, that much is clear. But if you really want to be the best, you'll have to stop thinking like just a striker."

Eito frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Sayuri stepped closer, lowering her voice slightly. "You score goals, but you don't control the game. The best strikers don't just react to chances—they create them. They manipulate defenders, dictate the flow, and make sure the game bends to their will."

Eito crossed his arms. "And you think I don't do that?"

She gave a small shrug. "Not yet."

Her words struck deeper than he expected. He had always been driven to prove he was the best, yet hearing Sayuri talk like this made him realize there was more to mastery than just pushing harder.

"Your opponents are adapting to your speed," she continued. "They're closing gaps faster. What are you going to do about it?"

Eito turned back to the game. She was right—every time he tried to make a run, the defenders were already adjusting to cut him off.

He exhaled sharply. Fine. If they want to shut me down, I'll give them something else to worry about.

Instead of pushing forward aggressively, Eito started dropping deeper into midfield, something he rarely did. The defenders hesitated, unsure of how to react. He linked up passes with his teammates, pulling the defense out of shape. Then, the moment they adjusted, he exploded forward—completely unmarked.

The ball arrived at his feet, and with one clinical strike, he buried it into the net.

The play had been his. He had dictated the defenders' movements.

From the sideline, Sayuri gave a small clap. "Now that's more like it."

Eito shot her a look. "Satisfied?"

She smiled slightly. "For now."

As the scrimmage ended, Eito walked off the field, his mind racing with new possibilities. He had always thought of himself as a pure striker, but maybe there was more to the game than just scoring.

Maybe, just maybe, Sayuri wasn't just here to observe—she was here to push him toward something greater.

And for the first time in a long while, Eito was excited to see just how far he could go.