How I Became The Best Striker In Blue Lock.

blurs. It's just me, the field, and the goal ahead. My teammates are shouting, but their voices are muffled, like they're underwater. Everything I've trained for comes down to this moment.

"I can do this."

I weave past one defender, then another. My legs feel like lead, my lungs are burning, but I push forward. The goal is so close now. I can see the keeper's eyes, wide with anticipation, daring me to try.

"This is my shot. This is my chance to finally prove them wrong."

I pull back my leg and strike. The ball leaves my foot with force, cutting through the air—

—and soars over the crossbar.

Time slows. My heart stops. The crowd erupts, but it's not for me. The final whistle blows, and their cheers turn into a deafening roar of celebration. It's over. I lost us the game.

---

After the Match

I fall to my knees, staring at the ball rolling away, like it's mocking me. My teammates come over, one by one, trying to say it's okay.

"It's not okay."

"Good try, Haru," someone says. A hand pats my shoulder, but I shrug it off. I can feel their pity. It clings to me like the sweat on my skin. They're lying. They think I'm useless.

I can't look at them. I can't look at anyone. My coach doesn't even bother to speak to me. He just shakes his head and walks off. The other team is celebrating like they just won the World Cup, and I can't blame them. I gave them the win.

"Why did I take that shot? Why didn't I pass? What the hell was I thinking?"

---

Walking Home

The streetlights flicker as I drag myself through the empty streets. My cleats dangle from my fingers, the studs clinking against each other with every step. The rain starts, light at first, but it quickly turns into a downpour. Perfect. Even the weather knows I'm a failure.

"Why am I such a goddamn loser?"

I keep replaying the moment in my head, over and over. The ball leaving my foot. The way it sailed too high. The sound of the other team's cheers. I feel like I'm suffocating, drowning in my own thoughts. No matter how hard I try, I can't escape it.

"I work harder than anyone else. I stay late at practice. I give it everything I have. So why does this keep happening? Why do I always fall short?"

The rain soaks through my clothes, but I don't care. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe this is what I get for thinking I could ever be more than a benchwarmer. I pass by a park where kids are kicking around a ball. Their laughter stings, cutting deeper than any insult. I pick up my pace, desperate to get away from the sound.

---

At Home

I throw my bag into the corner of my room and collapse onto my bed. The ceiling stares back at me, empty and unchanging, just like me.

"What's the point of all this? Why do I even bother? No one believes in me. I don't even believe in me."

My chest feels tight, like there's a weight pressing down on me. I close my eyes, hoping for sleep, but the silence only makes it worse. The image of that missed shot keeps flashing in my mind. I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms.

"I'll never be good enough. I'll never be like them. I'm just a waste of space. A waste of a jersey."

I want to cry, but I can't. Even my tears feel like they're mocking me, refusing to come. I turn over, burying my face in the pillow, and wish for the pain to stop. But deep down, a tiny voice whispers something else—a voice I'm not ready to listen to yet.

I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind drowning in the noise of my own failures. The rain outside taps against the window like it's mocking me, each drop a reminder of the shot I missed. My chest feels heavy, like I can't breathe. Why do I even try? Why am I such a—

Suddenly, a faint hum cuts through the silence. My room lights up with a strange blue glow. I bolt upright, my heart racing. In front of me, hanging in the air, is a glowing blue interface. Words appear on it, clear as day:

"Haru Nakamura. Do you wish to become the ultimate striker?"

I blink. Once. Twice. What the hell is this? I rub my eyes, convinced I've lost it. Maybe I'm so exhausted my brain's making things up. But the words don't disappear. The glow doesn't fade. It's real—or it feels real.

"Ultimate striker?"

"This is no dream," the text suddenly shifts, like it's answering me. "You have been selected. Answer the question: do you wish to become the ultimate striker?"

My breath catches in my throat. I can't speak. My hands tremble as I clutch the edge of my bed. Why is this happening? Why now? Why… me?

"I… I don't get it," I finally mutter, my voice cracking. "Why would you choose me? I'm a failure. I'm not good enough."

"Failure is a stepping stone," the interface responds. "Strength is earned. This system will provide you the tools to rise above your limits. The path will not be easy, but the rewards will be unmatched. Do you wish to proceed?"

The words hang in the air like a challenge. My mind spirals. I see the ball flying over the crossbar. My teammates' forced smiles. The other team celebrating while I stood there like an idiot. All I've ever wanted was to be better, to stop feeling like I'm dragging everyone else down.

"What if I fail again?" I think, my chest tightening. "What if this is just another way for me to let everyone down?"

But then something shifts. That tiny, stubborn voice inside me—the one I've ignored for so long—flares up.

"No. Not this time."

"If I say yes," I ask, my voice shaking, "will I really have a chance? A real chance to change? To become more than what I am?"

"Your success depends on your determination," the system replies. "The system provides opportunities. You must seize them. So, Haru Nakamura, I ask you I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind drowning in the noise of my own failures. The rain outside taps against the window like it's mocking me, each drop a reminder of the shot I missed. My chest feels heavy, like I can't breathe. Why do I even try? Why am I such a—

Suddenly, a faint hum cuts through the silence. My room lights up with a strange blue glow. I bolt upright, my heart racing. In front of me, hanging in the air, is a glowing blue interface. Words appear on it, clear as day:

"Haru Nakamura. Do you wish to become the ultimate striker?"

I blink. Once. Twice. What the hell is this? I rub my eyes, convinced I've lost it. Maybe I'm so exhausted my brain's making things up. But the words don't disappear. The glow doesn't fade. It's real—or it feels real.

"Ultimate striker?"

"This is no dream," the text suddenly shifts, like it's answering me. "You have been selected. Answer the question: do you wish to become the ultimate striker?"

My breath catches in my throat. I can't speak. My hands tremble as I clutch the edge of my bed. Why is this happening? Why now? Why… me?

"I… I don't get it," I finally mutter, my voice cracking. "Why would you choose me? I'm a failure. I'm not good enough."

"Failure is a stepping stone," the interface responds. "Strength is earned. This system will provide you the tools to rise above your limits. The path will not be easy, but the rewards will be unmatched. Do you wish to proceed?"

The words hang in the air like a challenge. My mind spirals. I see the ball flying over the crossbar. My teammates' forced smiles. The other team celebrating while I stood there like an idiot. All I've ever wanted was to be better, to stop feeling like I'm dragging everyone else down.

"What if I fail again?" I think, my chest tightening. "What if this is just another way for me to let everyone down?"

But then something shifts. That tiny, stubborn voice inside me—the one I've ignored for so long—flares up.

"No. Not this time."

"If I say yes," I ask, my voice shaking, "will I really have a chance? A real chance to change? To become more than what I am?"

"Your success depends on your determination," the system replies. "The system provides opportunities. You must seize them. So, Haru Nakamura, I ask you again: do you wish to become the ultimate striker?"

I stare at the glowing words. My hands clench into fists. I think about every failure, every moment I wanted to quit, and every time I told myself I wasn't enough. My jaw tightens, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel something different.

Hope.

"Yes," I say, my voice steadier now. "I'll do it. I'll become the ultimate striker."

The interface flashes brighter, flooding my room with light. Words appear again, sharp and clear:

"Initialization complete. Welcome to the Ego System."

The second those words appear, a surge of energy rushes through me. My heart pounds, but it's not fear this time—it's excitement. Determination. This is my chance. My real chance.

"Then let the journey begin," the system says.

I nod, gripping the edge of my bed with a renewed fire in my chest. I don't know what's coming, but one thing is certain.

"I'm done being a loser."