Blue Lock: Machiavellian

Months passed, and without realizing it, football had become Shiro's greatest passion. Compared to academic subjects like math and science—fields where answers were absolute, where logic dictated every outcome—football was an entirely different beast. It wasn't confined by rigid equations or predictable patterns. It was chaos and order intertwined, a battlefield where brilliance was forged in the heat of struggle.

In school, he had mastered every subject with ease, solving complex problems in mere moments, yet feeling nothing in return. The numbers, the formulas, the theories—they all led to the same dull conclusion. Predictable. Boring. There was no challenge, no thrill, no uncertainty.

Football was different.

It was a game where intelligence alone wasn't enough. Where physical limits had to be shattered, where emotions ran wild, where even the greatest minds could crumble under pressure. It was a world ruled by ambition and ego, where talent meant nothing without the will to impose it. A world where the strongest devoured the weak.

And Shiro found himself addicted to it.

He loved the uncertainty, the way a single moment could decide the fate of an entire match. He relished the despair that flickered in the eyes of those who failed, the crushing weight of defeat that reduced dreams to nothing. Unlike academics, where success was guaranteed with effort, football had no such mercy. It was ruthless, unforgiving—beautiful.

For the first time in his life, Shiro wasn't just learning for the sake of knowledge. He was chasing something more. Something beyond logic, beyond intellect.

For the first time, he was truly alive.

Shiro's training evolved once more. He had honed his control, perfected his passing, and sharpened his dribbling. Now, it was time for the most decisive weapon in football—the shot.

Unlike passing, which was an act of control, or dribbling, which was an act of manipulation, shooting was absolute. It was the final blow, the execution that determined victory or defeat. A single shot could make or break a player's legacy. It could turn hope into despair, dreams into nightmares. And Shiro wanted to master it.

He found an old can of red paint behind the orphanage, pried it open, and dipped his fingers inside. Walking up to the wall he had used for passing, he drew a circle the size of a football in its center. This would be his target. His execution point.

Standing a few meters away, he took his first shot. The ball slammed against the wall, missing the mark entirely. Shiro narrowed his eyes. That wouldn't do.

He adjusted his stance, recalling the shooting techniques of the greats. He analyzed every factor—angle, power, follow-through. Again, he struck the ball. This time, it was closer. Still not perfect.

And so, he repeated the process. Over and over.

Each time he missed, he recalibrated. He experimented—striking with his instep for power, using the inside of his foot for precision, testing volleys, chipping the ball. Every variation, every possible shot he could think of, he trained relentlessly.

The days blurred together, and his foot ached from the countless strikes. But he welcomed the pain. Pain meant progress.

Then, one evening, with the sun setting behind him, he fired a shot. The ball struck the dead center of the red circle with a resounding thud.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

Perfect.

But perfection wasn't the goal. Consistency was.

So, he did it again. And again. And again. Until hitting the mark was no longer an achievement—it was an expectation. Until the act of scoring became as natural as breathing.

Because in football, there was only one truth.

The weak feared failure.

The strong made failure impossible.

Shiro's training became an obsession. Every day, he returned to that wall, his crimson target standing as a silent challenge. His shots grew sharper, his precision deadlier. He practiced until his body moved on instinct, until his brain no longer needed to calculate—his feet already knew.

But he wasn't satisfied.

Mastery of technique meant nothing if it crumbled under pressure. If he wanted to truly dominate, he had to condition himself to perform in any situation, no matter the circumstances.

So, he pushed himself further.

He shot while fatigued, forcing his body to maintain precision even when his legs burned. He trained in the rain, on uneven ground, challenging his balance and adaptability. He tested different distances, different angles, different velocities.

Mistakes became rare. Perfection became his baseline.

Yet, deep inside, he knew something was missing. Power.

Accuracy was a weapon, but without force, it was incomplete. A perfect shot meant nothing if the goalkeeper could simply block it. He needed a shot so strong that it wouldn't just evade defenders—it would break them.

To build strength, he sought out heavier objects to kick—stones, bricks, even logs. The pain was excruciating at first, his muscles screaming in protest. But Shiro didn't stop. Pain was temporary. Weakness was unacceptable.

And then, one day, the results showed.

He fired a shot at the wall—CRACK!

The impact sent a violent tremor through the bricks. Pieces of paint chipped off. The sound echoed through the orphanage courtyard.

Shiro exhaled, lowering his foot. His gaze flickered with something rare. Satisfaction.

He had taken another step forward.

But he wasn't done.

Not yet.

Recognizing that skill alone wouldn't carry him to greatness, Shiro turned his focus to conditioning his body. He understood that in the unforgiving world of football, agility, flexibility, and speed were as vital as technique. A well-honed body could be the difference between scoring a goal or being left in the dust.

Every morning before dawn, Shiro awoke in the dim light of the orphanage. He embraced the quiet, knowing it was the perfect time for training. He began with basic stretches, working to enhance his flexibility. Each stretch was deliberate, pushing his limits as he reached deeper, aiming to keep his muscles supple and ready for the demands of the game.

As he progressed, he incorporated agility drills into his routine. He used markers he found in the orphanage—a few pieces of wood, some rocks—creating a makeshift obstacle course. He weaved through them, focusing on quick, sharp movements that forced his body to respond instinctively. He practiced lateral movements, sprinting to one side and then the other, honing his ability to change direction at a moment's notice.

Shiro ran laps around the orphanage grounds, gradually increasing his speed. At first, he gasped for breath, but he pushed through the discomfort. Every stride was a testament to his determination. He imagined himself on the pitch, dodging defenders, racing past opponents. The thought of outpacing anyone who dared challenge him drove him to go further.

He supplemented his training with strength exercises, using his body weight for resistance. Push-ups, sit-ups, and squats became part of his daily ritual. At first, the strain was intense, but soon his body adapted. Muscles he never knew he had began to emerge, sculpting him into a powerful weapon. He set milestones for himself—ten more push-ups, an extra lap, a faster time—and relentlessly pursued each one.

As the weeks turned into months, Shiro transformed. His once-slight frame became lean and strong, muscles taut and defined. His agility improved, allowing him to pivot and dart with the finesse of a skilled player. He could feel the strength coursing through him, a confidence building alongside it.

He began to relish the physical challenge, embracing the pain as a necessary sacrifice.

With each drop of sweat, Shiro felt a sense of purpose solidifying within him. Football was no longer just a passion—it was a mission. Every early morning, every painful stretch, every drop of blood, sweat, and tears were investments in his future.

As he stood in front of his target wall, the red circle a testament to his progress, he knew he was no longer just a boy watching from the sidelines. He was evolving into something more—a force to be reckoned with. And with every kick, every pass, every shot, he took one step closer to his ultimate goal: domination in the world of football.