Prologue: Wings of Destiny
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Joshua Bobilon's POV
I'm Joshua Bobilon—friends call me Josh—the Golden Angel of soccer. Galaxy-white hair frames my face; galaxy-blue eyes burn with a light that no defender can withstand. Born into unimaginable wealth, I grew up in a sprawling manor on the outskirts of Madrid. My family name opened every door—except the one that led to genuine belonging. My parents, consumed by boardroom battles and glittering soirées, saw me only as an heir, never as a son.
At eight years old, I met Kaiser. She was a year older, fierce and unbroken despite a childhood of abandonment—her own story darker than most could bear. Yet even her cruelty-attempting tears paled beside the truth of my upbringing: tutors who whipped me for missed passes, a father who punched me for daring to dream of mercy on the pitch, a mother who bartered my friendships for business alliances. I learned early that power was everything—and to wield it, I had to become more than human.
I honed my gift in secret: Metavision, the ability to calculate trajectories, opponents' tendencies, and spatial fluctuations all at once. From any corner on the field, I could bend reality and place the ball exactly where I willed. I called it my "Divine Shot" because none could stop it. Yet these skills were mere tools. My true masterpiece was the Angelic Drive—a strike so pure that, when unleashed, golden wings unfurled from my shoulders. In that instant, I transcended mortal limits, entering the Zone.
Tonight, under the sparse light of a private floodlit pitch, I'd push myself beyond every boundary. Rumors had already spread: a new prodigy in Madrid with hair like starlight, eyes like nebulae; whispers of a phantom who could score blindfolded. But the real target I coveted was Yoichi Isagi—the quiet boy from Tokyo whose name was already on every team scout's lips. They said his instinct rivaled mine. Good. I wanted him to chase me.
A single drop of sweat trickled down my temple as I closed my eyes and let everything else fall away. Heartbeat slowing, breaths deepening. I was no longer Joshua Bobilon, pampered son of privilege. I was the Golden Angel—a god of soccer.
When I opened my eyes, the world snapped into hyper-clarity. Angelic Vision—every blade of grass, every sinew in the goalkeeper's neck, every puff of breath rendered in vivid detail. My foot cocked back.
Angelic Drive.
The ball left my cleat in a blinding arc of gold. The goalkeeper dove, instinct screeching too late. The net bulged, the crossbar trembled—and for a heartbeat, there I was, suspended: wings of pure light beating against the cool night air. Time itself seemed to bow.
When I landed, chest heaving, the rush of divinity lingered. I smiled—satisfied, hungry for more. Blue Lock awaited. And I would arrive not just as a contender, but as a god among mortals.
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Yoichi Isagi's POV
I used to dream in numbers—running patterns, minute shifts in defenders' spacing, angles of attack. Growing up in Tokyo's foster system, hope was a luxury I couldn't afford. Adoption agencies shuffled me from grim apartment to grim apartment; my only constant was soccer. On makeshift courts beneath buzzing neon signs, I chased a tattered ball with nothing but instinct and raw determination.
Compared to Kaiser—abandoned, abused, yet unbroken—my past was a quiet ache. But like her, I learned to survive. Every goal I scored during street scrimmages was a plea: "See me. I exist." At sixteen, I snatched victory from older boys, proving that precision and patience could triumph over brute force.
Yet the night I first heard of Joshua Bobilon, something tightened in my chest. A golden angel? A man who bent reality with a flick of his cleat? I didn't know if I believed it. But when the official Blue Lock communiqué arrived—promising to forge the world's greatest striker by any means necessary—I knew I had to go. Not for fame. Not for glory. But to test myself against that blazing force named Josh.
Standing on Tokyo Station's platform, ticket in hand, I forced my heart to slow. Next to me, teenage hopefuls buzzed with fear and excitement: Meguru Bachira, the white-haired dribbler chasing euphoria; Hyoma Chigiri, whose lightning pace was spoken of in hushed tones; Seishiro Nagi, the prodigy turned slacker who could strike fear with a single touch. And beyond them, the Itoshi twins—Rin and Sae—whose cold, surgical assaults on defenses had already earned them legends.
I didn't belong with these stars. But I had something neither Bachira's flair nor Rin's ruthlessness possessed: unwavering belief. If Joshua Bobilon was the god of soccer, then I would be the one to tear him from his throne. I would force him beyond even his own limits.
Clutching my duffel bag, I thought of the faces I'd left behind—the blank stares of orphanage caretakers, the fleeting grin of a foster mother who treated me like a son, even if only for a while. For them, and for every second I'd been told I wasn't enough, I'd play.
Blue Lock's gates loomed on the horizon. Inside lay the promise of creation—and destruction. And somewhere in that crucible, Joshua Bobilon awaited.
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The night sky above Tokyo shimmered as two destinies hurtled toward colliding orbits—one bathed in golden light, the other forged in quiet calculation. Before the world would know their names, before they donned the stark white jerseys of Blue Lock, they were simply a boy chasing survival and an angel chasing supremacy. But soon, they would reshape the future of soccer itself.