The clouds over Raimon Jr. High hung low, like they were thinking of raining but couldn't be bothered to commit. On the soccer field, that same energy applied to most of the club.
"Oi, Kabeyama, stop pretending your shoelaces are alive and tie them properly!"
Heigorou Kabeyama flinched and nearly fell backward. Teppei Kurimatsu laughed behind his hand, but his ball-handling was just as bad. Handa was fiddling with his phone. Shourinji was doing yoga. Shishido hadn't spoken since he arrived.
And standing in the center, with fists on hips and eyes burning, was Endou Mamoru.
"We're a soccer team!" he shouted, pointing toward the rusty goalposts. "We should train like one!"
"No offense, captain," Kurimatsu muttered, "but we've got seven people. That's not a team—it's a book club with exercise."
"Correction," Sakuragi Hanamichi piped up from behind the goal. "You have eight. I exist, baldy."
"You still don't know what offsides is," Shourinji pointed out.
"Do you know how to shatter the crossbar with your head?" Sakuragi retorted.
"Technically, no one's supposed to do that," Handa mumbled.
Endou sighed, dramatically throwing his arms up. "We've got talent. We've got heart. And we've got the Football Frontier coming up! Don't you guys care at all?"
Silence.
Even Someoka, the only one who might've backed him up, leaned against the fence and stared off at the clouds.
"I've got better things to do than lose," Someoka muttered. "Especially against Teikoku."
"Wait, what?" Sakuragi blinked. "What's this Teikoku thing?"
Endou didn't answer. Not yet.
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That afternoon, Endou practiced alone at the riverbank. Or, more accurately, practiced while keeping an eye on Sakuragi, who was trying to juggle a ball and kept accidentally punting it into orbit.
"Almost got it this time!" Sakuragi yelled, shielding his eyes as the ball plummeted down behind a group of small kids.
One of them, trying to show off, charged the ball and launched a surprisingly strong kick. It veered off-target—straight toward a pair of high school punks who were walking by.
The older of the two barely dodged it, his cigarette flying out of his mouth.
"Oi! Watch it!" he snarled.
Endou ran up and bowed deeply. "Sorry! He didn't mean to—"
WHAM.
The punk's knee drove into Endou's stomach, knocking him down.
"Don't mouth off when your team's garbage," the other one spat.
Sakuragi cracked his knuckles. "Say that again, punk?"
The second one chuckled and kicked the ball. It sailed hard toward the youngest kid—a girl no older than six.
And that's when he appeared.
A blur of white and orange shot across the scene. A foot met the ball with absolute precision, launching it straight back into the punk's face.
Sakuragi blinked.
"Who the hell…?"
The boy stood tall in the fading light, scarf fluttering behind him. Cool, calm, and completely uninterested.
"You okay, kid?" he asked the girl gently, before turning and walking away.
"Wait!" Endou called after him. "You play soccer, don't you? Want to join our club?!"
The boy didn't answer. He didn't even look back.
Sakuragi tilted his head. "I know a pretty boy when I see one, he reminds me of Rukawa ,Tch"
Twelve to Dream
The next day brought news—and not the good kind.
Endou stood in the principal's office, flanked by a skeptical Natsumi Raimon.
"Teikoku Academy has requested a friendly match," the principal said with a forced smile.
"Amazing!" Endou beamed.
"If you lose," Natsumi added, "the soccer club will be disbanded."
Endou stopped beaming.
Back on the field, he explained the situation to the others. Someoka scoffed.
"They've been undefeated for forty years, Captain."
"That's just motivation!"
"That's suicide."
But Endou was already sprinting across campus. "If we don't have a full team, we're disqualified before we even lose! We need three more!"
"Four," Sakuragi corrected.
Endou blinked. "You're not officially on the roster."
"You never gave me a jersey!"
Scouting Missions
Endou recruited like his life depended on it.
At the track, he approached Kazemaru Ichirouta, star sprinter. Kazemaru ran like the wind, smooth and fast.
"Wanna join?" Endou asked between pants.
Kazemaru raised an eyebrow. "You're the goalkeeper, right? The one who practices until sundown?"
"That's me!"
"…Alright. I'll think about it."
Elsewhere, Aki, Shishido, and even Sakuragi (begrudgingly) scouted students.
A boy named Kageno appeared silently beside the goalpost during one of Endou's solo sessions.
"You play?"
"I… observe," Kageno murmured. "But yes."
He was in.
Then came Max Matsuno, who joined because "soccer jerseys look sick." And finally, Kakeru Megane—who demanded to be striker, despite tripping over his own feet.
"He's hopeless," Sakuragi muttered.
"He counts," Endou insisted.
By Thursday, they had twelve.
Twelve players. Twelve mismatched puzzle pieces.
But somehow, it fit.
The Fire Within
Kazemaru approached Endou that evening. "That notebook you keep reading. It belonged to your grandfather?"
Endou nodded, opening it. Strange symbols filled the pages. Only Endou could read them—techniques, tactics, moves that defied common sense.
"He believed soccer was more than a game," Endou said quietly. "He called it the beautiful power."
"…You really think we can win against Teikoku?"
Endou didn't hesitate. "If we believe, we can do anything."
Sakuragi kicked a ball from across the field. It soared over both their heads and slammed into the goal net like a cannon.
"Belief's good," he smirked, "but I'll take raw power any day."
To the Storm
On Friday morning, the team gathered at the field in full uniform.
Sakuragi stared at his jersey, grinning. "Number twelve, huh? Should've been number one."
Endou slipped on his gloves. "Ready, everyone?"
From across the pitch, a black bus pulled up.
The doors opened.
Teikoku Academy stepped out, perfectly synchronized. Cold eyes. Strong builds. Immaculate uniforms.
Sakuragi whistled. "They look like assassins."
Someoka cracked his neck. "Good. I've been meaning to hit someone."
Endou stepped forward.
"Twelve players," he said, voice steady. "Twelve dreams."
Gouenji Shuya leaned against the fence, scarf fluttering. He watched the team from a distance, unreadable.
He didn't move. Not yet.
But the fire was already kindling in his eyes.