Blue Lock :Reborn Rose Emporer

Awakens, Shadows Stir

The sun had barely risen above the distant Munich skyline, yet my body pulsed with anticipation like a storm waiting to break loose. The past few weeks were recovery—healing. A slow process. Torture. But now… now, I was back.

I had returned to full condition.

Not just physically—mentally, spiritually, entirely me. My bones felt denser, my blood hotter, my nerves sharper. Everything inside me screamed to be unleashed. And for the first time in a long while, I was ready to obey.

Training resumed at Bayern Munich's U-18 facility. The turf shimmered faintly in the morning dew, like it knew something important was about to happen. My teammates trained normally—high intensity, strict drills, precision-focused patterns—but today, I wasn't holding back.

Today, I was going full throttle.

Every drill—passing, pressing, build-up plays—I moved like a shadow that had shed its weight. My teammates looked at me differently. Not just as a peer—but a storm. I dribbled through three defenders in tight space, used a burst stop to shift their momentum, then with a slight lean and shoulder drop, I split the press like cutting glass. A single breath, and I was gone.

This wasn't the same version of me from a month ago.

Now I was unshackled.

And after team training, I didn't stop. While most of them showered or went to meal prep, I headed for the gym—a place I now called my sanctuary.

There, I began the second phase.

Self-training.

I stood before the reinforced punching bag—a massive one, built to take strikes from heavyweights. But I wasn't here to box. I was here to refine the sheer violence of my legs.

I stretched, activated my core and legs, then stood still, breathing.

Kaiser Impact.

I stepped forward with measured intent, both feet rooted in flawless balance. Then—

BOOM.

A Kaiser Impact exploded from my right leg like a cannon, the force distorting the air. The punching bag whipped backwards on its chain violently, spinning on its axis as if caught in a tornado. I tracked it with my eyes and noted the recoil.

That was near 200kmh Force of Speed.

Again.

BOOM. BOOM.

This time I mixed it—jumping vertically after impact and landing light as a feather.

Now, it was time.

I stood still, and my breath slowed. My consciousness entered a new zone. Gravity Shift Flow—activated.

My heart rate didn't spike. My muscles didn't scream. Instead, they aligned.

Every tendon, every ligament, every joint in my body synchronized.

My speed, agility, stability, and control—tripled.

The blood flowing through me surged like an engine operating on a higher frequency. I could feel the circulation focus around my core and legs. Even the gravity pressing down on my body felt different—like I was syncing with it.

My base speed was already 40 km/h with Top Proformance flow .

With Gravity Shift Flow, I now exceeded 120 km/h in explosive bursts.

I sprinted forward from a complete standstill. The motion was like a particle accelerator charging. My toe barely grazed the ground, and I burst forward—gone—using gravity as a slingshot. Every stride felt like flying without wings. My footwork didn't just beat inertia—it manipulated it.

The key was momentum locking. When my foot touched the floor, I stored gravitational momentum and unleashed it all in a single breath. Like creating a detonator under my own feet.

And now… my dual consciousness had evolved.

Split Control Flow – Rank X+

This wasn't just a two-track mind. It was parallel universes.

I could now execute multiple high-tier flows at once—without overclocking my brain, without burnout, without losing focus. I layered Gravity Shift, Top Performance Flow, Tribrid-Vision, Destroyer Madness flow and Kaiser Impact simultaneously.

I became my own system.

Then I slowed my training, just enough to pick up my phone. I sat by the mirror, my body drenched in sweat but my heart steady, and opened social media.

The top video:

"400 km/h Double Kaiser Impact Goal – Is this even human?"

Views: 39.8 million

Shares: Over a million.

Mentions: Flooded.

Comments ranged from awe to fear. Pundits called it "a goal made with forbidden physics." Analysts paused frame-by-frame breakdowns just to understand the shot mechanics. Some called it a fluke. Others said: "This is what a future Ballon d'Or striker looks like."

Then I scrolled further… and froze.

A photo.

From Brazil. A few weeks ago.

It was me, walking beside her—Angelina Kaka. I was wearing a hoodie and a medical boot at the time, but it was clearly me. The caption read:

"Kaiser visits Brazil during injury to meet rising female talent, Angelina? Relationship rumors brewing??"

I clenched my jaw.

Then another post.

This one from seven months ago.

Spain.

El Clasico. Real Madrid vs Barcelona.

The picture? Me sitting in the stands—with Alina.

She was smiling. I wasn't.

It didn't matter.

The internet did what it always does—connected dots that may or may not exist.

The headlines morphed.

"Kaiser's Private Life: Brazil. Spain. Two Girls. Two Stories. One Playboy?"

I frowned.

This was the problem. I remembered from my past life—scandals can break players. They can ruin contracts, tarnish reputations, draw unnecessary media heat. And right now? I was too early in my climb to entertain that noise.

I clicked out.

Back to football.

Back to mission.

I opened the Champions League highlights instead. I needed to recalibrate my focus.

There he was—Chris Prince—a Gym freak on the field. His physical play was pure athletic ability: direct, brutal, flawless. And his rival: Lavinho, gliding like a creative butterfly. Every movement was poetry, dancing with defenders instead of fighting them.

But then… two names I hadn't heard much of before lit up the screen:

Jalandhar and Veltiph.

One, a nightmare in defense. The other, a conductor in midfield. Both—storms in their own right. Absolute chaos and calm combined. I took mental notes. Their presence demanded rewiring of tactics.

Then—

A figure I couldn't ignore.

A goalkeeper.

Tan. Tall. Sharp eyes. Platinum blonde hair with brown strands woven near the roots. Amber irises glowing like coded runes.

His name?

Valentino Rossi.

Club: Atletico Madrid.

And he… was a wall.

He stopped shots that defied common sense. One-hand saves against volleys at 180km/h. Reflexes so fast the ball looked like it hit an invisible forcefield. His eyes shimmered—not with emotion, but calculation. As if they saw another dimension—one where every path the ball could take had already been computed.

The room around me quieted.

Because I realized something.

Our next match was in just one day.

Opponent?

Real Madrid U-18.

And leading them?

Itoshi Sae.

But not the same Sae.

No longer the striker dreaming of goals and glory.

Now a midfield general, shaped by pain and silence.

A version reborn—not to chase ambition—but to break others.

I exhaled slowly.

My body stood ready.

My mind sharper than ever.

I had mastered flows.

I had forged new circuits.

And now I would face the boy who once ruled Japan's future.

But I wasn't afraid.

I was starving.

This time, I wouldn't just clash with Sae.

I would devour him.