Chapter Text
It all began with a letter. A plain white envelope slipped into my family’s mailbox—innocent on the outside, ominous within. The sender? Something called the Japan Football Union. The message? That I, Nishioka Hajime, had been “selected as a designated player for training”.
From the moment I read those words, I knew something was wrong. After all, I’m not on the soccer team. I’m on the After-School Club—which is a fancy way of saying I sprint home the second homeroom ends.
But maybe… this was divine punishment catching up to me.
You see, because I’ve always been naturally good at sports, I’ve become the school’s go-to substitute. Baseball, basketball, volleyball, even kendo—I’ve been drafted into every sports club when someone was absent. “Oh, we need a warm body? Nishioka, you can do it.” And somehow, I always end up doing it well.
Too well.
Which is why that one time I filled in for the high school soccer team, everything went… horribly right. I scored a goal, completely by accident, and the whole school—including the soccer club, alumni, and even our advisor—praised me like I was some sort of prodigy. They called me Aomori’s Messi with pure and unfiltered admiration. People still whisper it when they see me. I only played once. Once! And yet somehow, my name carries weight I never asked for.
So when this letter showed up, I thought: Ah, so the Football Association really has heard of Aomori’s Messi. This is how it ends.
But it was too suspicious—a national association scouting a guy who isn’t even in the soccer club? No way. It's definitely a scam. I even checked with the actual soccer team, and not a single one of them got a letter. When I showed it to my friends, instead of worrying, they all gasped like I’d been chosen by the gods. “That’s amazing!” they said. “You have to go!” they said.
I refused. They pressured me anyway. Against my better judgment, I caved.
And so I found myself on a train at the crack of dawn, bleary-eyed, travel expenses burning a hole in my wallet, muttering complaints the entire way. Am I too gullible? Or are my friends just way too persuasive? Probably both. All I knew was that once I arrived, I would just explain everything. “Sorry, I’m not actually on the soccer team. Wrong guy.” Problem solved.
By the time I reached the venue, there were only a handful of people. Too early. And I, bored, exhausted, and secretly terrified, let out a long yawn and closed my eyes. I’ll just rest here before the death games begin.
Yes, the death games. You heard that right.
How did I know I had been reborn into the world of a soccer death game manga? It started with something my friend told me. Apparently, there’s this manga called Blue Lock. I had never read it, but my friend described it: “It’s, I guess… like soccer death games.” He also mentioned that the protagonist idolized a soccer player named Noel Noa. That was enough for me to understand the premise.
This protagonist must be just like me—an average high schooler who played sports. Except unlike me, he got roped into the Blue Lock project, without knowing it's true dark and lethal nature.
Now, sitting alone in the corner, I could feel it—the tension in the air, the faint hum of anticipation, the way the shadows seemed to twitch at the edges of my vision. Everyone around me was probably sizing each other up, waiting for the first move.
And me? I had no plan, no strategy, and no desire to take part.
My only goal was simple: find a way to back out, avoid getting dragged into this “training”, and escape before the death game even starts.
A few days have passed since I was locked in this absurd death game venue. I’m still stuck here, and all I want is to escape back to the countryside.
Weirdly enough, life here isn’t entirely miserable. Even in a death game, someone went to the trouble of providing three proper meals a day, futons, showers, and proper working toilets. The gym facilities are practically luxurious. If you’re going to run a government-approved death game, I guess this is expected—but seriously, I just want out.
Comfortable, yes.
Fun? Absolutely not.
The only activity allowed here is soccer. And apparently, your performance on the field determines whether you live or get eliminated. Soccer… in the form of a death game. Whoever planned this has obsession issues. Fine, enjoy your sport this much, but don’t drag me into it.
Of course, I’m not the only one here. Three hundred high school students have been gathered: all active soccer players, all forwards, and all of them willingly signed up for this madness. Are they out of their minds? They’re volunteering to risk their lives just to kick a ball. You don't need to risk your life in high school just for a career.
And then there’s me—the anomaly. I belong to the after-school club. My soccer experience is limited to gym class and that one prefectural tournament. I’ve memorized positions and rules, nothing more. I have zero desire to gamble my life over a ball. I just want to go home.
Does this even make sense? Everyone here is trained, experienced, and ready to compete—and somehow, I’ve been thrown into the mix. Clearly, the organizers messed up. It has to be a mistake.
I thought about asking to leave, but that’s too risky. Death games are unpredictable, and any misstep could get me penalized. Better to stay silent, keep a low profile, and avoid drawing attention. Survival first, questions later.
What’s the point of this government-sanctioned death game anyway? I didn’t choose to be here. Unlike the others, I have no reason to be in this place. Complaining won’t change anything. There’s still too much I want to do, too many things left unfinished. And more than anything, I refuse to die here for no reason.
So, what’s left? There’s only one thing I can do.
If I want to survive, I have no choice but to play… soccer.
I don’t care that the other 299 participants are skilled, experienced forwards. I’m not here to cooperate or impress anyone. I’m here to stay alive, plain and simple. My only goal is my own survival. If that means turning everyone else into my stepping stones to make it through, then so be it.
I will endure.
I will survive.
For the first selection round, the setup was simple: eleven people in a room made up a team, and the five teams in the building would face each other in a round-robin format. Basically, it was a team competition. I ended up on Team W in Building 5. My individual ranking? 264th.
At first, I thought that sounded low—but compared to the rest of the participants, it was actually higher than I expected. After all, I’m just in the after-school club. I wouldn’t have been shocked if they’d placed me dead last—300th. What exactly are their criteria for these rankings?
There were a lot of questions buzzing in my head, but the game wasn’t waiting for me to figure them out.
Observing the first selection round, my impression… well, how do I put it? “Are these people even trying?” seems to sum it up. Neither my teammates nor the opposition showed any skill. Passes were sloppy, possession was lost instantly, and scoring? Forget it. They were worse than me—a complete beginner at soccer.
It reminded me of my high school soccer team back in the prefectural tournament. Now that I think about it, they played the same way. Honestly, it would probably be faster for me to just run with the ball myself than risk botching a pass to a teammate.
Watching them stumble around, I started to question everything I’d been told. Active strikers? Really? Are these people even good at soccer? Maybe it’s all a bluff. Maybe the organizers exaggerated their abilities. Could it be possible that actual soccer players, summoned by the Football Union, are worse than me—a mere after-school club member?
There’s something deeply off about this whole death game… but, then again, the fact that this is even a death game is already completely insane.
The more I thought about it, the clearer it became.
Of course—this is a death game. And if this is a death game then maybe… this is a trap.
Think about it. Death games are all about deception, trickery, and betrayal. Could the path that seems so convenient for me really be that simple? No, it's simply too convenient—almost like it was designed specifically for me. Wouldn’t it make sense to assume it’s a trap?
…It's highly likely.
Every other team member probably has some secret agenda—to eliminate me, to trick me, or… something even worse. When I look back at their behavior, it starts to make sense. They’ve kept their distance, dodged me whenever I got close, whispered among themselves… excluding me while plotting. And now? Now they’re pretending to trust me, giving me the “important” forward role, just to lull me into a false sense of security before striking.
That has to be it. I can tell.
Betrayal is inevitable in a death game! Their intentions are screaming at me!
…I almost let my guard down just because they acted like teammates. Dangerous.
Fine, I’ll play along. I’ll take the forward position. But let it be known: this is the last time I obey silently. I’ll outthink them, outmaneuver them, and survive this twisted game. Don’t think for a second that this will go your way. You’ll have to try your hardest to stop me from turning the tables.
With that resolve, we dove into the matches. Eventually, it was time for our final game: Team V, the top squad in Building 5. Both Team W and Team V were undefeated up to this point, meaning that no matter the outcome, we were both guaranteed to advance to the next stage.
However, just because the outcome was already secured didn’t mean we could slack off. In a death game, anyone who let their guard down—anyone who got complacent—would be the first to fall. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to be one of them.
The match against Team V had begun, and I was already on edge. Every glance from my teammates, every movement from the opposing team… it all screamed “trap.”
I couldn’t relax for a single second.
Team V was terrifying. They moved like a well-oiled machine, coordinated and fast, their passes precise and relentless. And at the center of it all was Itoshi Rin—the top scorer of Team V. Just knowing that one player could dominate the game made my heart thump like a drum. I was supposed to survive in a literal death game against someone like him? My palms were sweating just watching him.
The game kicked off. As expected, my teammates fumbled every pass I sent their way. They ran in the wrong direction, missed the ball, or hesitated at critical moments. I gritted my teeth. This is why I can’t trust anyone in a death game! I thought. I have to do everything myself.
I dribbled past one opponent, then another. Team V’s forwards lunged toward me, but I dodged, spun, and kept moving. Each second felt like a countdown toward my inevitable demise. Stay alive. Don’t die here. One wrong move and it’s over.
Then, an opportunity. Itoshi Rin was marking me closely, controlling the offense like he was the center of the entire team. My brain screamed at me: This is it. He’s going to crush me if I slip! But instinct took over. I feinted left, then dashed right, leaving Itoshi slightly off balance. My heart raced as I saw the goal open in front of me.
I struck the ball with everything I had. Time seemed to slow. The ball sailed past Rin, past the goalkeeper, and slammed into the net. Goal.
I froze. Did I just…?
I had scored against Team V’s top scorer. I barely processed the moment before my teammates cheered—though I could barely tell if it was genuine or if they were plotting to kill me in the next minute.
The rest of the match was a blur. Team V dominated possession, their attacks precise and relentless. My team—Team W—stumbled, mispassed, and scrambled to keep up. And yet, I held on, intercepting passes, dodging opponents, and trying not to die from sheer panic.
When the final whistle blew, the score was… a draw. 1–1. Somehow, against all odds—and mostly thanks to me—I had managed to score. And more importantly… I had survived.
But then something unexpected happened. My teammates erupted into cheers, genuinely smiling, clapping, and celebrating my goal. Their joy was… real. No hidden glint of betrayal, no subtle smirk plotting my death. I froze, trying to reconcile this with everything I’d believed.
Could it be that they’re celebrating because we all survived, not because they’re setting me up?
For the first time in days, I felt a strange, almost foreign sensation: relief. My teammates were genuinely cheering, clapping me on the back, even patting my head like I’d done something impressive. And for a fleeting moment… I believed them. Maybe they weren’t plotting anything. Maybe I wasn’t walking straight into a trap.
But then my brain immediately jumped to a new worry. No… this is too relaxed. They’re smiling, joking, and celebrating… in a death game! My palms started sweating again. Who acts this happy in a life-or-death situation? This is dangerous. They’re being far too open. If a real threat came at them, they’d get wiped out immediately.
I glanced at Itoshi Rin from Team V. His face was intense, eyes locked on me like he was about to strike but his body told a completely different story—relaxed shoulders, casual stance—even his legs didn’t seem tense. Wait… is he actually taking it easy? Or is this some insane strategy? My mind raced. In a death game, you cannot trust relaxed opponents.
Even my teammates’ passivity now felt like a threat. This is exactly the kind of complacency that gets people killed. I need to stay sharp. Everyone else is dangerously relaxed… and I can’t afford to be.
And yet despite my hyperactive suspicion, a tiny, stubborn thought whispered in my head: Maybe they’re genuinely happy. Maybe surviving together feels… okay.
It was strange and confusing. And honestly? Slightly terrifying. Should I trust that they won’t mess up?
I cautiously let myself breathe a little… but only a little. Because in a death game—even a government-approved one that provides futons and three meals a day—to be lax is to die.
“Hey.”
The word snapped me out of my focus on juggling the ball. I looked up and froze. There he was—Itoshi Rin—leaning casually near the gym entrance, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp enough to make me feel like I’d just stolen something from the government. My heart jumped. Oh no. He knows everything. He’s going to see right through me. My death is imminent.
Before I could even mumble a greeting, Itoshi cut in. “How long have you been playing soccer?”
Is this some kind of psychological ambush? My mind raced while he slowly approached, his footsteps silent but heavy, like a predator closing in on its prey.
“I’ve checked your match data,” Itoshi continued, voice steady, almost clinical. “In the first selection round, you made multiple mistakes—mistakes that a total beginner would make.”
I froze mid-juggle. Somehow, it had been that obvious. I had been playing like someone who had just discovered the concept of a soccer ball, and now Itoshi had come all the way to point it out. Definitely mean. Does he even have friends?
“There were moments during the game where the flow completely escaped you,” Itoshi added, his gaze drilling into me like X-ray vision. “You might fool others, but you can’t fool me.”
I swallowed hard. Excuse me? I didn’t do anything wrong! Blame the organizers, not me! I didn’t even want to be here!
“When did you start playing?” He asked again, his tone deceptively calm, yet loaded with judgment.
“…I played a little in PE class, and I joined the prefectural tournament this year to fill out our high school team.”
For a split second, I thought I detected the faintest flicker of surprise in Rin’s eyes—maybe my desperate attempt to sound competent had worked. But then his expression twisted violently, his face terrifying in its intensity.
“You’re basically a beginner!”
Somehow, my voice held steady despite being completely intimidated by this very angry person. “The question isn’t when you started. It’s how much you can do now.”
Yes. Skill in the moment is all that matters. Survival depends entirely on what I can actually execute. Years of playing soccer mean nothing if you fail here. Lose, and you die in this death game.
“Why are you even here?” Itoshi asked next.
Harsh. Very harsh. Or maybe he just has zero social skills. Honestly, I wanted to ask the same question. Why am I here?
“Why do you think you’re here?” he pressed.
I kicked the ball lightly, juggling to keep my hands off it. Can’t waste a second getting used to the ball. Seriously, why am I here? I should be at home, relaxing, watching TV. Instead, I’m in a gym in a death game.
And why? Because a letter came in from the Japan Football Union. Because I played in the prefectural tournament and somehow grabbed someone's attention enough to be invited to a death game. Because I got peer-pressured to come here.
Thanks, everyone.
Instead of answering, I decided to push back with my own question. “Have you ever played soccer with your life on the line?”
Itoshi scoffed and looked away. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
Finally, someone who takes this seriously! A sliver of relief passed through me, quickly buried under my paranoia, but it was there. He had observed over the last couple of weeks that everyone else in this building was stupidly relaxed. Sure, there were a couple that were worried, but they were more concerned about their soccer careers than actually losing their lives.
What a strange priority these high schoolers have.
“The reason I’m here… well, there’s someone I want to kill,” he admitted casually, as if discussing the weather.
I froze. Someone to kill… I can relate. There are people responsible for dragging me into this nightmare: my friends, the organizers, the system itself. My pulse quickened. Rage, frustration, and helplessness swirled together.
If my friends hadn’t forced me onto that train, I wouldn’t even be here. And the government—officially sanctioning a death game? Outrageous. Mental anguish doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m suing when I get out of here. I will get compensation.
I thought bitterly, Well, they probably don’t care about me at all. After all, I’m fighting an entire country. Can one person really win against that?
No, I can’t lose heart. If I allow this injustice to continue, someone else might be forced into a death game like me. I have to make sure there’s no second me. Not even a third me.
“I have someone like that,” I muttered under my breath. “And I’ll make them acknowledge me.”
Survive. Punish them. Expose the truth of this death game to the world.
Japanese government, beware. I will win!
Itoshi glanced at me, his expression calm but faintly approving as if he understood my internal turmoil. “You too, huh,” he said.
I'm glad I’m not the only one to treat this urgently as life or death. That thought was strangely comforting. I’m not completely alone in my paranoia here.
For a brief moment, I allowed myself a breath; but only a brief one.
After all, this is still a death game, and even a single second of hesitation could be fatal.
