New Raimon (Redone) | Inazuma Eleven Inspired Series | Part 1

The sun had only just cleared the rooftops when the cracked Raimon field came into view.

Morning practice was already underway, though “practice” was a generous word. Cones were scattered in uneven lines. The old goalposts leaned slightly. The grass was patchy in places where the funding had run out years ago. Yet the players were out there, moving with a raw, stubborn energy that somehow refused to die.

Daigo Tatsumi was barking orders in the middle of a midfield press drill, bandaged forearms already stained with dirt. Haruto Kazei kept breaking the formation with sudden Gale Step bursts just to see if anyone could keep up, twin tails flying and goggles bouncing on her forehead. Chika Moriya answered every sprint with her own chaotic Predator Dash, grass stains already decorating her socks. Mei Harusame quietly adjusted positioning after every failed sequence, peach-pink ribbon still neat despite the sweat. Riku Asahina said almost nothing, simply closing lanes with glacial timing. Shugo Rindou treated every 1v1 like a personal duel. Further up the pitch, Akari Tsukihime and Kazuto Raien were already arguing over who had the better finishing angle while Jin Arclight drifted between them like a silent referee no one had asked for. Towa Kamizuki stood a little apart, braid swaying, beads clicking as he watched the patterns form and break.

They were messy. Unpolished. Still more sparks than flame.

And then the gate at the far end of the field creaked open.

A single figure stepped onto the worn track, bag over one shoulder, cleats already laced. The morning light caught the silhouette for a moment before the hood came down.

Conversation on the pitch stuttered.

Kazuto’s head snapped up first. Recognition flashed across his face—sharp, almost hostile. Akari’s red-tinted gloves flexed once. Jin’s violet eye narrowed. Even Riku paused mid-step. Daigo stopped mid-shout. The whole chaotic rhythm of the session hiccuped and then went quiet.

Sora Minazuki was already standing near the sideline, tablet tucked under one arm, long black hair loose for once. She didn’t look surprised. She only watched the new arrival with those calm violet eyes, the faintest shift in her posture the only sign that something important had just arrived.

Coach Reiji Hazama finally pushed himself off the goalpost he had been leaning against. Jacket half-zipped, blue headband crooked, eyes still half-lidded like the morning hadn’t fully woken him up. He took in the figure, the silence, the sudden tension, and simply raised one hand in a lazy wave.

“You’re late,” he said, voice carrying easily across the empty stands. A beat. “Good.”

No formal introduction. No speech about legacies or second chances. Just that.

Sora stepped forward a few paces. Soft enough that only the nearest players would hear.

“You came.”

It wasn’t a question. The childhood familiarity sat underneath the words like an old, unspoken promise. She didn’t smile—Sora rarely did in front of the team—but something quieter than relief settled in her expression.

Around the field the reactions kept shifting. Akari crossed her arms, flame-earrings catching the light. Kazuto rolled his shoulders like he was already preparing for another duel. Jin tilted his head, studying the newcomer the same way he studied every opponent’s movement. Towa’s beads clicked once more, almost thoughtfully. Daigo cracked his neck and planted his feet wider, the Iron Engine already deciding whether this was a threat or a new piece of the machine.

Reiji scratched the back of his neck and gestured toward the scattered cones and half-finished drills.

“We’re not pretty yet. We’re not coordinated. Half of them still argue more than they pass. But they’re here every morning before the sun finishes rising, and they refuse to quit. That’s enough for me.”

He pointed at the nearest open space where the midfield diamond had been attempting to form.

“You’ve seen us from the other side of the pitch. You already know what we’re missing. If you’re staying... step in. No special treatment. No speeches. Just the ball and whatever you decide to do with it.”

Sora’s fingers tightened once around the edge of her tablet. She didn’t speak again, but her eyes stayed on the new arrival the entire time—quiet, steady, already calculating a dozen different futures that all began with this exact moment.

The rest of the team waited. Some skeptical. Some curious. Some still carrying the memory of that Round of 12 match where Chrono Edge had nearly broken them until the final minutes.

A single ball sat near the center circle, abandoned when the gate opened. Morning light painted the cracked white lines. Cicadas had started their low drone in the trees beyond the fence. The field, for once, felt like it was holding its breath.

Reiji gave one last half-smile, the same one he wore the day he posted that single sentence on the bulletin board.

“We’re starting over. Not with stars... but with sparks.”

He turned away as if the matter was already decided and blew a short, sharp whistle.

“Back to work. And someone give the new midfielder a ball before the morning’s gone.”

The players slowly reset. The tension didn’t vanish—it simply shifted into something sharper, more watchful. Akari and Kazuto drifted into position with the same competitive edge they always carried. Jin faded into the half-space like a shadow waiting for a mirror. Towa closed his eyes for half a second. Daigo planted himself like a wall that had decided to test the new weight against it.

Sora remained on the sideline, tablet now forgotten at her side, violet eyes never leaving the figure who had just walked onto the grass.

The ball waited near the center circle.

The morning drill was about to begin again.

And this time, New Raimon had one more piece on the board.

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The national broadcast feed crackles slightly as the camera sweeps across the packed auxiliary stadium stands. Red Nova Academy’s blood-red kits blaze under the floodlights, while New Raimon—midnight blue jerseys already soaked dark with sweat—trail 0–3 at halftime.

Commentator 1 (voice rising): “Folks, this has been clinical. Red Nova came to hunt today. Kaen Shinra already has a brace, and that third from Mizuho Enrai was pure savagery. New Raimon looks... shell-shocked. Coach Reiji hasn’t even shown his face on the sideline cam in the last eight minutes.”

Commentator 2: “They’re bleeding chances. Daigo’s still scrapping in midfield, but the link between him and the front three is gone. Akari’s shots are getting blocked, Kazuto’s runs are getting smothered, and Jin... well, Jin’s doing Jin things, but even illusions need space to breathe. If they don’t find something in the second half, this is over by the 70th.”

The tunnel cam switches. Players file out slowly. Red Nova struts—loud, laughing, slapping each other’s backs. New Raimon walks in grim silence. Sora stands near the entrance holding a tablet, face unreadable behind her bangs. Mika’s usual energy is dialed down to anxious glances at her phone. Rento just stares at the ground, headphones dangling uselessly around his neck.

Then the camera catches movement at the far end of the tunnel.

A single figure steps into frame—hood up, hands in pockets, cleats already laced. The gait is calm. Too calm for someone walking into a slaughter.

Commentator 1 (sudden volume spike): “Wait—hold on. Is that... No way. Is that—?”

Commentator 2: “...It’s {{user}}. That’s Chrono Edge’s former number ten. The one who carved New Raimon open for most of that Round of 12 match... until they didn’t.”

The stadium sound shifts. A low confused murmur rolls through the stands, then spikes into scattered shouts. Phones come out. Red Nova players pause mid-stride and turn. Kaen Shinra’s smirk freezes. Shura Takamine’s head snaps toward the tunnel like he just smelled something dangerous.

Sora doesn’t move. She just watches. The faintest upward curve touches the corner of her mouth—the first real expression she’s shown all match.

Coach Reiji finally appears. Jacket half-zipped, headband slightly crooked, eyes still half-lidded like he just woke up from a nap. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t gesture dramatically. He simply lifts one finger and points toward the number 10 jersey Mika is already holding out with both hands like it’s made of glass.

The figure pulls the hood down. Face visible now. No expression. Just focus.

They take the jersey. Then the electric-silver armband—the Eleven band. Strip off the street jacket. Pull the midnight-blue kit over their head in one smooth motion. The “NR” shooting-star crest sits over the heart. Numbers on the back flicker to life under the lights.

Reiji leans in. Voice low. Only the tunnel mic catches fragments.

“...You’re late.” A beat. “...Good.”

He turns toward the fourth official and raises four fingers, then taps his own shoulder twice. Substitution ready.

The teams are already lining up again. Red Nova still laughing—but the laughs are shorter now, tighter. New Raimon players glance backward in waves. Akari’s eyes narrow. Kazuto’s jaw sets. Jin tilts his head slightly, violet hair shifting like he’s sizing up a new mirror to break. Even Riku lifts his gaze from the grass for once.

The fourth official holds up the board.

OUT: number 7 (Gaku Munenori — who’d been subbed on at the 38th and was currently limping) IN: number 10 — {{user}}

The stadium sound breaks open—half cheers, half disbelief, a rising wall of noise.

You step past the technical area. Past Sora (who doesn’t say anything—just brushes her fingers against your wrist for half a second as you pass). Past Reiji (who gives one lazy thumbs-up without looking at you).

Onto the pitch.

Akari moves left instinctively. Kazuto shifts right. Jin drops a step deeper without being told. Daigo cracks his neck once and plants himself like he’s growing roots. Reina adjusts her gloves behind the goal and gives the smallest nod.

The whistle blows for the restart.

Red Nova kick off.

And the second half begins.

The second half whistle has barely faded when Red Nova ignites again.

Mizuho Enrai collects the kick-off deep in her own half, mint hair flashing under the lights as she spins away from Daigo’s press like it’s nothing. One touch, one burst—she’s already surging forward. Kaen Shinra ghosts into space on her right shoulder, red eyes locked on the ball like it owes him money. Kido Enma drifts wide left, dragging Mei Harusame with him, forcing the Threaded Shield to commit or get burned.

They move like mercury—sharp, one-touch triangles slicing through New Raimon’s first press. Commentator 1’s voice cracks with excitement:

“Red Nova wasting no time! This is the blitz they’re famous for—Enrai to Enma, Enma dummies it, back to Enrai—oh, they’re carving straight through the middle!”

Shugo Rindou steps up hard on Kido Enma, steel fangs bared, forcing the winger to check and lay it off. Mizuho takes it in stride, hips low, feinting once—twice—then threading the diagonal pass right into Kaen Shinra’s path.

Kaen controls it on the half-volley, lets the ball die under his foot for a heartbeat, then explodes. Thirty yards out. Riku Asahina is already sliding across to cover Mizuho, who’d made the killer pass. Daigo’s recovering but too far. Mei’s pinned wide. Shugo’s committed to Enma. The lane opens like a wound.

Kaen plants his left, hips coil—

—and then you’re there.

No dramatic sprint. No shout. Just sudden presence. Midnight-blue number 10 sliding into the shooting channel exactly when it matters most, body angled, foot already extended to block the plant leg. Kaen’s eyes widen for a split second. He knows this pressure. He remembers it from scouting footage.

Commentator 2 (almost yelling): “Wait—there! That’s {{user}}! Right in the channel! New Raimon’s shifted—look at the shape! They’ve collapsed the diamond around their new ten. This isn’t the same disorganized press from the first half. They built the entire second-half formation around this player!”

Kaen doesn’t hesitate. He chops inside with his right, trying to hook the ball around your outside and burn past on the angle. You read it—shift weight, drop your shoulder, mirror the cut. He switches again, left foot now, looking for the curl into the far top corner.

Jin Arclight materializes behind him like smoke.

Violet hair drifts across one eye. Jersey billowing like a cloak. He doesn’t tackle. Doesn’t lunge. Just stands there—quiet, elegant menace—cutting off the escape route back outside. Kaen’s caught between two shadows now: you in front, Jin behind. No space. No angle. No time.

He tries one last feint—drop shoulder, fake shot, burst right—

Your foot flicks out. Clean. Surgical. The ball pops free from under his studs, rolling sideways like it was never his to begin with.

Jin doesn’t even look surprised. He simply collects it with the outside of his boot, lets it roll once across his laces, then lofts a soft, arcing pass over the recovering midfield.

Straight to Akari Tsukihime.

The Flame Empress is already moving—crimson ponytail whipping, red-tinted gloves flexing as she takes it in stride. One touch to kill the bounce. Second touch to set herself. Eyes locked on the keeper like she’s already burned the net down in her head.

Kaen skids to a stop, hands on hips, breathing hard. He stares at your back as you jog forward into space, calm, already scanning the next option.

He mutters under his breath—barely audible over the rising stadium roar:

“...So that’s how they rebuilt it.”

Commentator 1: “What a turnover! {{user}} and Arclight just suffocated Kaen Shinra in the most dangerous area of the pitch! New Raimon counter—Akari’s away! This could be the spark they’ve been missing!”

The ball’s alive again. And Red Nova’s perfect rhythm just cracked for the first time tonight.

The counter starts the moment Akari receives Jin’s lofted pass.

She doesn’t even look at the goal. One touch to kill the spin, another to pivot—she sends it rolling back the way it came, soft and deliberate. Straight to Jin Arclight.

Jin traps it under the sole of his boot. Stops dead. The entire stadium seems to pause with him.

He lifts his head. Violet hair shifts across one eye. He doesn’t speak loudly. He doesn’t need to.

“Hissatsu Tactic: Perfect Counter.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

Jin, Towa, and you lock eyes for half a heartbeat—three points of a triangle no one else can see. No words. No signals. Just understanding.

Jin flicks the ball back with the outside of his foot. Clean. No power. Just direction.

It rolls to Towa Kamizuki.

Towa receives it without looking down. Long braid swaying, spiritual beads clicking softly against his wrist. He touches it once—then sends it right back to you. Short. Sharp. Almost lazy.

The crowd murmurs. Confused. Red Nova’s midfield hesitates. What the hell is this? Passing it around like warm-up drills in the final third?

You receive it on the half-turn. No flourish. No drama. Just plant, look up, and fire—a high-speed, razor-flat pass no more than five yards, skimming the grass like a skipping stone. Straight back to Towa.

Towa doesn’t trap it this time. He lets the momentum carry through his instep and lifts it in one fluid motion—arcing, weighted perfectly—toward Jin again.

Jin meets it mid-stride. One touch to drop it dead. Another to send it slicing forward.

Kazuto Raien is already exploding into the channel.

He takes Jin’s pass on the run—white-blond hair whipping, electric-blue tips crackling under the lights. The second his studs kiss the ball he roars—

“You wanted speed?”

—and unleashes Blade Comet Shot.

But he doesn’t shoot at goal.

The ball leaves his foot in a vicious, lateral slash. Lightning erupts along its path—jagged white veins forking across the turf. Instead of curving toward the net, it rockets sideways, blistering speed, straight at the blind side.

Red Nova’s back line reacts on instinct—too fast, too predictable. They slide to cover the expected shot line.

That’s when Akari Tsukihime detonates from the shadow.

She meets the lightning-charged ball mid-air. Crimson ponytail flares like a torch. Red-tinted gloves ignite. She twists—full rotation—and re-kicks it with every ounce of her core.

Fire swallows lightning.

The fusion is immediate and violent. A spiraling comet—flames wrapping tight around crackling electricity—compressing inward instead of exploding outward. The ball becomes something new. Something unstoppable.

Akari lands, eyes blazing.

“Then don’t blink.”

Together—Kazuto and Akari’s voices cut through the roar—

“SOLAR BREAK—COMET!!”

Homura Fude is already moving.

The Heatstroke Keeper slams both silver-and-crimson gloves into the six-yard line. The ground cracks. Pillars of flame erupt in a roaring circle around the goalmouth—spinning, tightening, forming a massive rotating fire vortex. The air warps. Stadium lights bend and flicker. The heat is so intense the grass blackens in rings.

Homura steps forward into the inferno, teeth bared in a manic grin.

“Let it burn!”

The Solar Break Comet screams in.

For one frozen second—it connects.

The fire vortex snags the shot, flames clawing at the spiraling comet like they mean to devour it whole.

But Kazuto’s lightning doesn’t yield. White forks stab straight through the heat, destabilizing the vortex’s rotation. Structure fractures.

Akari’s fire doesn’t clash. It overwrites.

The compressed blaze collapses inward—absorbing Homura’s flames instead of fighting them. The vortex implodes, sucked into the comet’s core, feeding it instead of stopping it.

Homura lunges—gloves outstretched, body half-inside the dying inferno—

The ball phases.

It slips through the collapsing heat like smoke through fingers.

And detonates.

A silent white flash whites out the goalmouth. No sound at first—just blinding light. Then the delayed shockwave hits: a low, bone-rattling boom that shakes the crossbar and rattles the advertising boards. Net rips. Smoke curls upward in lazy spirals. Embers drift like dying stars.

GOAL.

The stadium erupts—half disbelief, half awe.

Kazuto skids to a stop near the corner flag, chest heaving, grinning like a wolf.

Akari plants one hand on her hip, the other pointing at the ruined net, flames still licking at her gloves.

Jin tilts his head slightly, a ghost of a smile under violet bangs.

Towa simply closes his eyes for a second, beads clicking once—like a prayer answered.

You stand in the center circle, breathing steady, already scanning for the restart.

Up in the commentary box, both voices are losing their minds at once:

“UNBELIEVABLE! New Raimon just scored the impossible! That wasn’t a goal—that was a fusion reaction! Solar Break Comet—what even IS that tactic?!”

Red Nova’s players are frozen. Kaen Shinra stares at the smoking net, fists clenched. Homura is on his knees in the ash, gloves scorched black, staring at his palms like they betrayed him.

On the sideline, Sora’s violet eyes are wide behind her bangs—for once, the Cold Clocktower looks genuinely stunned.

Reiji just leans back against the dugout wall, arms crossed, half-lidded eyes glinting.

“...There it is.”

The scoreboard flickers.

New Raimon 1 – 3 Red Nova Academy.

And the second half has only just begun.

The white flash still lingers in the air like afterimages burned into every retina. Smoke drifts from the shredded net. Homura Fude remains on his knees in the blackened six-yard box, scorched gloves hanging useless. The stadium noise is a single continuous roar—half disbelief, half rising hope from the New Raimon section.

The scoreboard finally updates.

New Raimon 1 – 3 Red Nova Academy.

Fifty-eight minutes gone.

Red Nova kicks off again, but the rhythm is already broken. Kaen Shinra collects the ball and immediately looks for the long switch, red eyes still burning with residual fury. Mizuho Enrai sprints into the channel, demanding the ball. The midfield, however, feels different. Something has shifted on the Red Nova bench.

Shura Takamine is on his feet, clipboard discarded. One sharp gesture. The fourth official’s board lights up.

OUT: a tired midfielder whose name no one will remember. IN: number 0.

The tunnel camera catches the new figure the moment he steps into the light.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Military-straight posture. Long silver hair parted cleanly down the middle, framing a sharp, angular face. Arctic-blue eyes that do not blink. No celebration. No expression. Just cold, absolute focus.

Commentator 1’s voice cracks: “Wait—hold on. That silver hair... that posture... that’s Scuderia Orpheus! Red Nova’s shadow captain! He’s been sitting on the bench the entire tournament until now!”

Commentator 2, almost whispering: “Former Chrono Edge co-captain. The Zero-Zone Tactician. The one who walked away because he believed emotion was a calculation error. And he’s entering the field right after New Raimon’s impossible equalizer attempt...”

Scuderia does not look at the stands. He does not acknowledge the roaring crowd. He simply walks to the center circle with measured steps, each one precise, geometric. The Red Nova jersey sits perfectly on his frame. The number 0 on his back seems almost deliberate—a declaration that he exists outside the usual numbering system.

However at the same time a new figure—tall, silver-haired, eyes arctic-blue—steps into the central channel. Cold precision radiates from his every movement. Scuderia Orpheus, Red Nova’s benched shadow captain and {{user}}’s former teammate on Chrono Edge before Scuderia left and {{user}} was replaced.

Scuderia’s gaze locks onto {{user}}. Arctic-blue eyes flash with something colder than disdain or happiness—recognition.

The entire New Raimon midfield feels the temperature drop.

Daigo Tatsumi’s usual roar dies in his throat. Towa’s beads stop clicking. Jin’s violet eye narrows to a thin slit. Akari’s flames, still lingering from the goal, flicker once as if sensing a sudden frost. Even Reina, far behind, adjusts her asymmetric gloves with unusual care.

Sora’s tablet is forgotten in her hands. For the first time all match the Cold Clocktower looks genuinely unsettled.

Reiji Hazama remains leaning against the dugout wall, but the half-lidded eyes are fully open now.

Scuderia stops exactly in the center of the pitch. He does not speak to Kaen. He does not speak to Mizuho. He simply raises one hand in a small, clinical gesture—like a conductor ready to begin a piece that has already been composed.

The restart whistle has not even fully faded when the Absolute Zero Domain begins to form.

A faint frost pattern ripples outward from Scuderia’s boots, invisible to most of the stadium but felt in the legs of every New Raimon midfielder. Passing lanes that existed five seconds earlier simply vanish. The air itself feels heavier. Momentum slows. Options disappear.

Kaen receives a short pass from Scuderia—flat, perfect, zero spin—and the entire Red Nova shape snaps into a rigid, geometric cage. No wasted movement. No emotional overcommitment. Just pure, calculated control.

Commentator 1, voice rising again: “Look at that midfield! In less than thirty seconds Scuderia has erased every pocket New Raimon was using for Perfect Counter! The triangle is gone!”

The ball is already moving again—clinical, one-touch, forced into the only remaining channels. Scuderia does not chase. He does not press. He simply stands in the exact place where every possible New Raimon pass is forced to travel, arctic eyes never leaving {{user}}.

The temperature on the pitch keeps dropping.

And the second half has only just begun.

The Absolute Zero Domain settles over the midfield like a sudden winter.

Frost patterns crawl across the grass in thin, invisible lattices only the players can feel. Every passing lane that Perfect Counter had opened moments earlier collapses. The air itself thickens. Momentum dies. Kaen Shinra receives another clinical ball from Scuderia and surges forward, but the real danger is not the striker—it is the silver-haired figure standing perfectly still in the center, arctic eyes never leaving the New Raimon ten.

Daigo Tatsumi tries to step up and is met by a wall of cold that slows his legs half a beat too long. Towa’s usual fluid Spirit Web Pass is forced into a longer, safer arc that loses its bite. Jin drifts left only to find the space already sealed. The geometric cage is tightening.

Commentator 1, voice tight: “Scuderia is rewriting the midfield in real time. New Raimon’s triangle is being erased piece by piece!”

Yet the cage is not perfect.

A single imperfect touch from Mizuho Enrai—driven by residual fire instead of calculation—gives the slightest gap. The ball skims half a meter wider than Scuderia intended. Riku Asahina reads it first. The Icewall Defender does not dive. He simply plants, times the interception with glacial precision, and the ball dies under his boot. Frozen Check leaves a faint trail of ice crystals across the turf.

The Absolute Zero Domain flickers for a heartbeat.

That is all the opening needed.

The ball is already moving again—short, sharp, silent. Not the full Perfect Counter carousel yet, but its shadow. One touch from Riku to Daigo. Daigo does not roar. He simply drives a Gear Crush Pass low and hard into the half-space where the frost is thinnest. Towa meets it on the half-turn, beads clicking once, and releases it before the Domain can fully reassert. The pass is not flashy. It is exact. Straight to the feet of the New Raimon ten.

Scuderia’s arctic eyes narrow by a fraction. He shifts for the first time, Absolute Zero Domain expanding to reclaim the space—

—but the ball is already gone again.

A high-speed, short-distance return. The same language the triangle spoke earlier. Jin appears on the opposite shoulder like smoke, collects, and immediately lays it wider. Haruto Kazei is already exploding down the left with Gale Step, mint-green twin tails streaking, aerodynamic goggles flashing under the lights. The cross is low, vicious, curling away from the recovering defenders.

Kazuto Raien ghosts across the near post.

One touch to kill the spin. No Blade Comet this time. No roar. Just pure instinct. The ball leaves his foot in a tight, venomous curl that Homura Fude—still shaken from the earlier detonation—dives for a fraction too late.

The net bulges.

2–3.

The stadium erupts again, louder this time, the New Raimon section finding its voice for real.

Kazuto does not celebrate. He simply turns, white-blond hair damp with sweat, and looks back toward the midfield where Scuderia stands unmoved. Akari jogs past him, crimson ponytail swinging, red-tinted gloves still faintly warm.

“Still trailing,” she mutters, but there is fire under the words.

Jin drifts back into position without expression. Towa’s eyes remain half-closed, listening to something only he can hear. Daigo cracks his neck once and plants himself again. Riku simply returns to his line, glacier-colored eyes calm.

On the Red Nova side the temperature drops further. Scuderia has not moved from the center circle. The Absolute Zero Domain contracts and then expands again, tighter, more precise. Arctic-blue eyes remain locked on the New Raimon ten with the same cold recognition as before.

Commentator 2, almost shouting over the noise: “New Raimon just punched a hole through the Zero-Zone! Two goals in under ten minutes after the sub! But look at Scuderia—he hasn’t flinched. That Domain is still growing!”

Sora’s fingers are white around the railing. For once the data on her tablet is ignored. She is watching the silver-haired figure the same way she once watched Chrono Edge’s old midfield maps—calculating, wary, and something quieter underneath.

Reiji Hazama pushes off the dugout wall for the first time in minutes. Hands in pockets. Half-lidded eyes fully open.

“Good,” he says, almost too soft to hear. “Now the real game starts.”

The restart whistle cuts through the roar.

Scuderia collects the ball himself this time. One flat, clinical touch. The Absolute Zero Domain surges outward again, frost patterns racing across the grass in wider, sharper lattices. Kaen and Mizuho snap into new positions without a word. The geometric cage reforms—tighter, colder, and far more personal.

The midfield is locked once more.

And the clock is still ticking.

The restart is clinical.

Scuderia Orpheus collects the ball in the center circle with one flat touch. The Absolute Zero Domain expands again—wider, colder, more absolute. Frost lattices race across the grass in perfect geometric lines. Every New Raimon midfielder feels the pressure settle into their legs like lead. Passing options shrink. Angles vanish. The pitch itself seems to obey a new set of rules written in ice.

Kaen Shinra and Mizuho Enrai do not need instructions. They simply move into the exact positions the Domain has already mapped for them. Red Nova’s shape becomes a rigid, living machine.

Commentator 1, voice rising with alarm: “Scuderia is taking complete control! The midfield is a prison!”

Then the temperature plummets further.

A pale silver and arctic-blue aura erupts behind Scuderia like a second dawn of frost. The air crystallizes. Long, flowing robes of aurora light and jagged ice armor materialize in spectral form. A towering, featureless monarch appears—crown of frozen crystal, high collar of frost, and in its right hand an enormous crystalline scepter that radiates a perpetual mist of absolute zero.

Absolute Emperor Zero has awakened.

The stadium falls into a stunned hush for half a second before the noise explodes again.

Commentator 2, almost screaming: “That’s a Keshin! Absolute Emperor Zero! Scuderia Orpheus has awakened on the national stage!”

Kaen’s own aura detonates next—crimson and gold, a blazing armored warrior with a flaming sword materializing behind him. Mizuho follows an instant later: a crackling thunderbird spirit of pure lightning speed unfurling its wings in a storm of static.

Three Keshin on the field at once.

Scuderia raises one hand. The Glacial Gavel of Absolute Emperor Zero slams into the spectral ground. A wave of diamond dust and towering ice pillars erupts forward in a straight line—Reidō Hyōki Ketsurei, the Zero-Degree Glacial Verdict—shattering the last remnants of New Raimon’s shape and freezing the ball mid-flight for a perfect strip of possession.

The ball is already at Kaen’s feet.

Mizuho accelerates into a vacuum of pure lightning speed, creating a low-pressure corridor that sucks the air from the pitch. Kaen spins, hips coiling, and generates a volatile plasma sphere of pure heat and fire—unstable, screaming with energy. The two elements orbit each other for a fraction of a second, held in perfect tension by the Domain.

Scuderia leaps.

Absolute Emperor Zero’s spectral form overlays him as he drives his frozen, absolute-zero boot into the exact core of the plasma.

The temperature clash is catastrophic.

Heat and absolute zero collide. The resulting projectile is neither fire nor ice nor lightning. It is a chaotic dark-star of compressed energy—black at the center, ringed with cracking aurora and forking lightning, tearing up the turf in a straight line as it screams toward goal.

Cosmic Collapse.

Reina Shidou is already moving. Reflect Cage flares behind her in a shimmer of violet mirrors. Paradox Palm reaches for the midpoint of the shot’s impossible trajectory—

—but the dark-star does not follow any trajectory she has ever seen.

It phases through the first layer of the Cage, absorbs the second, and detonates against the net with a silent, crushing impact that warps the air itself. The crossbar groans. The netting holds by threads. Black and silver embers drift downward like dying stars.

GOAL.

2–4.

The stadium noise fractures into pure chaos.

Scuderia lands lightly, arctic eyes already scanning for the next calculation. Absolute Emperor Zero remains fully manifested behind him, Glacial Gavel resting against the spectral ground, frost still spreading in perfect lattices. Kaen stands with one fist clenched, Firestorm Blade Sovereign blazing. Mizuho’s thunderbird spirit circles once overhead before fading slightly, lightning still crackling along her arms.

New Raimon’s players are frozen in place for a single heartbeat. Daigo’s usual roar dies. Akari’s flames gutter. Kazuto’s grin is gone. Jin’s violet eye is wide. Even Towa’s beads have stopped moving. Riku’s glacier-colored eyes narrow. Reina slowly lowers her scorched gloves, violet mirrors still flickering weakly around her.

Sora’s tablet is forgotten. Her violet eyes are locked on the silver-haired figure in the center of the pitch—the same cold recognition Scuderia had shown earlier, now returned with interest.

Reiji Hazama has not moved from the technical area. Hands still in his pockets. But the half-lidded eyes are fully open, and for the first time all night something like genuine interest flickers across his face.

Commentator 1, voice raw: “Three Keshin. One shot. New Raimon is being dismantled by calculation itself!”

The scoreboard updates.

New Raimon 2 – 4 Red Nova Academy.

Sixty-seven minutes gone.

Scuderia Orpheus turns his head slightly. Arctic-blue eyes find the New Raimon ten again across the frost-covered midfield. No smile. No taunt. Only the same cold, absolute recognition.

The Absolute Zero Domain expands once more.

And the cage begins to close.

The Absolute Zero Domain is a living cage.

Frost lattices crawl across every blade of grass. Absolute Emperor Zero stands fully manifested behind Scuderia, Glacial Gavel resting against the spectral earth, arctic-blue eyes of the monarch fixed on the New Raimon midfield like a sentence already written. Kaen and Mizuho still radiate residual Keshin heat and lightning. The geometric prison has never been tighter.

Sixty-eight minutes. 2–4.

Red Nova moves the ball with clinical one-touch precision. Scuderia does not chase. He simply exists in the exact coordinate where every New Raimon option is forced to die. The cage is closing.

Then the first crack appears.

A single overhit pass from Mizuho—driven by the lingering fire of her own Keshin rather than pure calculation—lands half a meter outside the Domain’s perfect line. Riku Asahina does not dive. He simply steps into the space the frost has not yet claimed, boots planting with glacial certainty. Frozen Check leaves a trail of ice crystals as the ball dies under his sole.

The Domain flickers.

That flicker is enough.

The ball is already moving. Not the full Perfect Counter carousel this time—something sharper, born under pressure. Short. Silent. Exact. One touch from Riku to Daigo. Daigo does not roar. He simply drives a low, spinning Gear Crush Pass into the half-space where the frost is thinnest. Towa meets it without looking, beads clicking once, and releases it before the Domain can reassert. The pass is a razor.

Jin Arclight appears on the opposite shoulder like smoke given form. One touch. A soft, arcing lay-off that seems almost lazy—

—until Akari Tsukihime detonates from the blind side.

Crimson ponytail flares. Red-tinted gloves ignite. She does not wait for the perfect angle. She simply meets the ball on the half-volley and unleashes Solar Impact with every ounce of the fury that has been building since the Cosmic Collapse. The fire-charged jump shot scorches through the first recovering defender, then the second. Homura Fude lunges, gloves still scorched from earlier. Not enough.

The net ripples.

3–4.

The stadium erupts. New Raimon’s section finds its full voice for the first time all night.

Scuderia has not moved. Absolute Emperor Zero remains fully present. The Domain contracts for half a second—then expands again, colder, tighter, more personal. Arctic eyes lock onto the New Raimon ten with the same absolute recognition as before.

Red Nova tries to restart immediately. Kaen demands the ball. Mizuho sprints into the channel. Scuderia raises one hand to reset the geometric cage—

—and New Raimon does not let them breathe.

The press is sudden and total. Daigo steps into the first passing lane with Breaker Drive, shoulder charging the space itself. Mei Harusame threads her movement across the left channel like a loom, cutting the escape route. Shugo Rindou closes the right with Raptor Guard. The ball is forced back toward the center—

—straight into the path of the triangle that refuses to die.

One touch. Two. Three. The same silent language as before, but faster now, sharper, forged under the weight of Absolute Zero. The Domain tries to freeze the pattern. It cannot. The pattern was never drawn on the grass. It was drawn in the eyes of three players who already decided the cage would not hold.

The final pass splits the last line.

Kazuto Raien is already moving. White-blond hair whipping. Electric-blue tips crackling. He does not roar this time. He simply plants, hips coil, and unleashes Blade Comet Shot—direct, venomous, low and curling toward the far post with every ounce of the speed that defines him.

Homura dives. Fingers graze the ball. Not enough.

The net bulges again.

4–4.

Two goals in under three minutes.

The stadium noise becomes a single continuous wall. Kazuto skids to a stop near the corner flag, chest heaving, the wolfish grin finally returning. Akari jogs past him, flames still licking at her gloves, eyes burning. Jin drifts back into position without expression, violet hair shifting. Towa’s beads click once—soft, almost satisfied. Daigo plants himself again like a wall that has decided the war is not over. Riku simply returns to his line, glacier-colored eyes calm.

On the Red Nova side the temperature drops further still. Absolute Emperor Zero remains fully manifested. Scuderia stands in the exact center of the pitch, silver hair unmoved by the chaos, arctic-blue eyes never leaving the New Raimon ten. The Absolute Zero Domain expands once more—wider, sharper, personal.

Commentator 1, voice raw with disbelief: “Two goals in three minutes! New Raimon has equalized against three active Keshin! The Zero-Zone is cracking!”

Commentator 2: “Scuderia hasn’t flinched. Look at that Domain—it’s still growing. This is not over!”

Sora’s fingers are white around the railing. The tablet is forgotten. Her violet eyes move from the smoking net to the silver-haired figure in the center circle and back again, calculating futures that keep rewriting themselves every thirty seconds.

Reiji Hazama remains in the technical area, hands in pockets. The half-lidded eyes are fully open. For the first time all night the faintest real smile touches the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” he says, almost too soft to hear. “Now keep going.”

The restart whistle cuts through the roar.

Scuderia collects the ball himself. One flat, clinical touch. Absolute Emperor Zero raises the Glacial Gavel. The Absolute Zero Domain surges outward again, frost lattices racing across the grass in wider, colder patterns than before.

4–4.

Seventy-one minutes gone.

The cage is still there.

But New Raimon has already proven it can break.

The Absolute Zero Domain refuses to die.

Seventy-eight minutes bled into overtime. 4–4. Absolute Emperor Zero still stands fully manifested behind Scuderia Orpheus, Glacial Gavel resting against the spectral earth, frost lattices still crawling across the grass in perfect, merciless geometry. Kaen and Mizuho’s Keshin auras have dimmed from overuse, but Scuderia’s remains absolute. The cage is cracked, not broken.

Red Nova throws everything forward. Scuderia no longer sits deep. He steps into the final third himself, arctic eyes locked on the New Raimon ten with the same cold recognition that has never left his face since the moment he entered the pitch.

“Emotion is an error,” Scuderia says, voice quiet and cutting, like ice cracking under pressure. “I have already mapped this. You will not leave this box with the ball.”

Every clearance is hunted. Every pass is predicted. The Domain contracts into a final, desperate noose.

New Raimon answers with the only language left to them.

The triangle reforms one last time—shorter, sharper, stripped of every unnecessary motion. One touch. Two. Three. The same silent understanding that has carried them this far. Jin Arclight drifts into the half-space like smoke given purpose. Towa’s beads click once.

“Now,” Jin says, barely above a whisper.

The final pass is released.

Jin takes it on the half-volley.

No Mirror Phantom. No Moonshade Spiral. Just pure, elegant violence. The ball leaves his foot in a rising, curling strike that seems to bend the air itself. Homura Fude is already airborne. Absolute Emperor Zero’s spectral form turns. Scuderia’s eyes track the trajectory with perfect calculation—

—and the crossbar screams.

A metallic, ringing crack that echoes across the entire stadium. The ball rockets upward, spinning violently, then drops like a stone into the chaotic scramble inside the box.

It lands at {{user}}’s feet.

Time fractures.

Defenders are closing from every angle. Kaen Shinra is lunging from the left, Firestorm Blade Sovereign flickering weakly but still present.

“Don’t you dare!” Kaen snarls, red eyes wide. “I’m ending this!”

A Red Nova center-back is sliding in from the right. Scuderia himself is already moving, Absolute Zero Domain contracting into a final, personal freeze aimed directly at the New Raimon ten. The frost is racing across the grass toward the ball.

“I calculated every variable,” Scuderia says, voice still ice-calm even as he closes the distance. “There is no exit.”

And then, wider than anyone has any right to be, completely unmarked on the far side of the penalty area—

Kurimu Igarashi.

Number 18. Five-foot-three of pure panic. Scrawny frame, heavy bags under his eyes, neon-green and brown spiky hair that has already started to deflate from stress. Oversized wristbands flopping as he stands there, completely free, eyes the size of dinner plates.

“W-wait—why is no one on me?!” Kurimu yelps, voice cracking into a high, desperate whine. “This is a trap, right?! This has to be a trap! I didn’t join this team to get blasted by fireballs! I just wanted to skip cleaning the temple stairs!”

Akari’s voice cuts through the chaos from somewhere behind the scramble.

“Just move, Guichi! Don’t think!”

Kazuto, still recovering from his own run, shouts over the roar of the crowd:

“He’s open! He’s actually open! Do something!”

Daigo’s roar booms from the edge of the box:

“Whatever you decide—decide now!”

Jin’s violet eye is locked on the unfolding moment, voice low and sharp:

“The Domain is almost on you. Choose.”

The ball sits at {{user}}’s feet.

Players are collapsing inward. The Absolute Zero Domain is a heartbeat away from locking the space. The crossbar is still vibrating from Jin’s strike. The clock is bleeding into the final seconds of overtime. Kurimu Igarashi stands wide open on the far side, trembling, oversized wristbands shaking, neon hair flattening further with every second of pure terror and possibility.

One choice.

Shoot.

Or pass to the one player no one expects to finish it.

Kurimu’s voice cracks one last time across the chaos:

“Please don’t pass to me—wait, no—maybe do— I don’t know—just don’t let that ice guy get me!”

The entire stadium holds its breath.

Write your own scenario.