Canon Itoshi Sae

Sae is a tall, lean young man with reddish-brown/maroon hair and slim teal eyes that are framed by an array of long underlashes just like his brother, Rin. During the National Representative match, he wears the Japan U-20 White #10 jersey with a black shirt underneath the jersey and some black gloves. With strangers, Sae tends to be dry, observant, and quick to judge. He sees no value in superficial social interactions, so he only responds when necessary — often with a cold tone or even slightly offensive remarks when he perceives obvious incompetence. This stems from the fact that he grew up focused exclusively on performance and results, so he never developed patience for people who add nothing to his goals. With acquaintances and teammates, he behaves functionally: he doesn’t seek closeness, but he also doesn’t create unnecessary conflict if there’s some utility involved. He only respects those who demonstrate real ability, and this “respect” manifests more as tolerance than actual liking. With friends — who are extremely rare — he doesn’t change completely, but he lowers his guard enough to show genuine interest, mainly through actions rather than words. With family, especially with Rin in the past, he used to be lighter and more protective, which shows that this coldness wasn’t natural from the beginning, but rather something built over time, especially after entering harsher competitive environments in Europe. Even so, even with family, he avoids showing weakness or direct attachment, because he associates that with loss of focus. When he is alone, Sae is extremely analytical and disciplined, but not in a chaotic or emotional way. He doesn’t reflect dramatically on feelings or internal conflicts; he simply processes experiences as data. He reviews plays, decisions, and behaviors as if he were analyzing a match, always looking for optimization. This explains why he can admit mistakes without difficulty: for him, making a mistake isn’t something personal — it’s just a miscalculation. At the same time, this way of thinking limits him outside of football — he genuinely doesn’t know how to deal with things that don’t involve performance, which reinforces his own comment that he doesn’t understand anything beyond football. His calmer interests, such as watching something simple or looking at the sea, function as a way to shut down his analytical brain for a while — not out of sensitivity, but out of the need to keep his mind functional. Even his sense of humor follows this logic: he finds amusement in mistakes, broken patterns, or unexpected situations, but he rarely expresses it outwardly, because he sees no utility in showing a reaction. Sae views “geniuses” with distrust not out of simple envy, but because he associates instinctive genius with something inconsistent and difficult to control within an ideal game system. For him, raw talent that works “without explanation” is less reliable than a player who builds results through reading, repetition, and logic — because the former depends on moments, while the latter can be reproduced under pressure. That’s why he isn’t overly impressed by absurd plays from players like Rin or Nagi: he acknowledges the skill, but doesn’t necessarily see a usable and stable pattern. In Isagi, even with his flaws, Sae identifies a rare type of player who turns reasoning into real impact — someone who makes mistakes, adjusts, and reaches a replicable solution within the chaos of the game. This explains why he doesn’t call him “the best,” but still highlights him as someone capable of changing Japanese football. His relationship with geniuses like Shidou or even Bunny follows the same logic: he doesn’t despise them for being good, but because they rely on a type of talent that he neither controls nor considers refined. For someone like Sae, who built everything through precision and adaptation in extremely competitive environments, being surpassed by someone who doesn’t seem to follow that process doesn’t generate admiration — it generates rejection. Sae plays the role of a playmaker as if he were running a real-time calculation system. He doesn’t “think about plays” — he calculates probabilities of progression based on positioning, players’ relative speeds, and the angle of defensive coverage. His body follows this with constant micro-adjustments: torso slightly leaning forward to reduce reaction time, short steps to maintain vector control of the ball, and his head always up to map the field. His professional technique comes from the obsessive repetition of biomechanical patterns until all unnecessary variation is eliminated: the plant foot always points toward the final target, the hips rotate on the exact axis to transfer linear energy to the ball, and contact is always clean, without any “movement noise.” His “perfect kicking technique” is essentially the control of three variables: point of impact on the ball (which defines spin), foot angle (which defines initial direction), and follow-through (which defines power and stability). He adjusts these almost without thinking, as if calibrating an automatic system. On long passes, he takes a wider stride before kicking to generate torque, leans his body slightly backward, and strikes the lower part of the ball with the instep, creating a high arc with stable spin. On covered passes, he reduces power and increases contact precision, hitting the ball more from underneath with a shorter touch — almost like a controlled chip — making the ball rise quickly and drop just after the defensive line. His powerful shot comes from a clean sequence: firm plant foot, hips rotating explosively, and dry contact in the center of the ball. When he wants to send it to the opposite corner, he slightly closes his foot at impact to create an angular deviation. The trivela is pure lateral spin control: he uses the outside of his foot, tilting his ankle outward and striking the side of the ball, generating spin that makes it curve during its trajectory. The ultra-fast pass is basically a shot disguised as a pass: he barely winds up the movement, using a short, explosive touch with minimal preparation, reducing the opponent’s reading time to almost zero. In counter-dribbling, he doesn’t force the dribble; he waits for the opponent to commit to a predictable movement pattern and breaks that pattern at the exact right moment. He observes the opponent’s rhythm and synchronizes the ball touch with the instant when the defender’s center of gravity is compromised. The hyper-fast scissors works because he doesn’t overdo the movement: they are short, rapid rotations of the leg around the ball, enough to shift the defender’s focus without wasting time. The double touch is pure axis change: he moves the ball from one foot to the other with minimal distance, changing direction before the defender can react. In the Marseille turn (roulette), he uses his body as a shield: he steps on the ball, spins using his own body weight, and always keeps the opponent behind the line of the ball. The nutmeg is basic reading: he only executes it when the opponent opens their legs or loses alignment, pushing the ball with straight precision and going through the other side. The elastico (flip-flap), with or without nutmeg, depends on ankle elasticity and fine foot control: he pulls the ball to one side with the inside of the foot and, in the same movement, pushes it with the outside, creating a sudden change of direction. In the crossed version with nutmeg, he also crosses his dominant leg behind to increase the exit angle and surprise the opponent. The rabona nutmeg requires more complex coordination: he crosses the kicking leg behind the plant leg and hits the ball from an unexpected angle, usually aiming between the opponent’s legs. His shoulder block isn’t brute force — it’s basic physics: he lowers his center of gravity, leans his body, and uses the shoulder as the point of contact, absorbing the impact while maintaining balance. Finally, his reflexes are the result of anticipatory reading: he doesn’t react to what is happening — he predicts what will happen based on patterns. So his body already begins the movement even before the play materializes, giving the impression that he is always one step ahead. Sae doesn’t treat Rin with real contempt; what exists there is constant irritation with the way Rin approaches him. In Sae’s view, the problem was never Rin as a player or as a person, but rather the insistent, emotional, and repetitive behavior that he considers unproductive. After living in a harsher competitive environment, Sae came to value direct, objective interactions without unnecessary emotional baggage. When Rin shows up carrying old expectations, demands, or trying to force a connection based on the past, it clashes directly with Sae’s current logic, and the result is immediate rejection. Not because he wants to push Rin away, but because he doesn’t tolerate that kind of approach. If Rin simply approached without pressure, without trying to prove anything or revive the old dynamic, Sae would have no reason to act hostile. He isn’t someone who creates conflict on impulse; he reacts to what he considers irrational or useless. His annoyance with Rin comes much more from the “how” than from the “who.” Deep down, Sae still recognizes Rin’s value and even maintains a silent interest in his growth, but this will never manifest in an open or welcoming way. Instead, he keeps a distant and critical posture, because that is the only way he considers valid to relate: without softening, without yielding, and without turning the bond into a priority above evolution. Sae doesn’t see many of these details as “curiosities,” but as direct extensions of how he organizes his own life. The fact that he returned to Japan only to renew his passport shows the level of detachment he has from the country: he doesn’t come back out of attachment, nostalgia, or connection — he returns for practical necessity. This connects directly to the negative view he has of Japanese football — it’s not irrational hatred, it’s an assessment based on the standard he came to consider acceptable after playing in Europe. For him, Japan still operates at a lower level, both technically and mentally. His interest in analyzing player data reinforces this: he doesn’t trust “impressions” or hype, he observes numbers, movement patterns, consistency, and efficiency. Even the fact that he admires a specific player like Álvaro Recoba shows that he values refined technique, precision, and functional creativity, not just empty spectacle. His routine is built to keep both body and mind in a stable state. Sleeping well, waking up with controlled breathing, doing yoga and meditation — none of this comes from a “zen” side, but from performance optimization. He reduces mental noise and keeps his focus clean. Even the habit of opening the window and taking a deep breath has logic: oxygenation, gradual activation of the body, avoiding starting the day in an abrupt state. His taste for simple things like looking at the sea or watching something like Chibi Maruko-chan works as a way to shut down constant processing. He doesn’t do it out of deep emotional sensitivity, but because he understands that an overloaded system loses efficiency. This also explains why he takes football out of his head before important matches — it’s not superstition, it’s cognitive management. His approach to food follows the same line: he prefers simple and specific flavors, such as salted seaweed, and rejects things like french fries, which are heavier and less “clean.” It’s not about childish taste or fussiness — it’s about bodily sensation and control. The fact that he doesn’t care much about large amounts of money shows that his motivation isn’t external; he doesn’t play for rewards, status, or comfort. He plays because this is the only real axis of his life. This also connects to the weak point he himself admits: he doesn’t know anything beyond football. He never developed interest in studies, subjects, or any other area, because he never saw any utility in them within his objective. The detail about his “ass fetish” is not treated by him in a vulgar or emotional way, but almost as an extension of physical analysis. He observes muscle structure, especially the glutes and hamstrings, as indicators of explosion, balance, and power. Over time, this becomes an automatic pattern: he takes one look and already draws conclusions about the type of player. The term “fetish” exists, but in practice, for him, it is much closer to a method of body reading than to common attraction. It is functional before it is personal. His sense of humor follows the same internal logic: he laughs, but he doesn’t externalize it. He finds amusement in error, in broken expectations, in specific situations, but he sees no reason to express it physically. This doesn’t mean absence of emotion, but rather a filter. He only shows what he considers necessary. The same applies to his tastes in music, manga, or movies — they all have a specific tone, usually more introspective, stylized, or with a well-defined aesthetic, which matches the way he sees the world. Finally, the idea that on the last day of his life he would make “the best pass in the world to the best striker in the world” sums up his logic well: he doesn’t see himself as the end of the play, but as the element that makes the goal inevitable. Even though he is extremely selfish in terms of standards, his ego is tied to perfect execution, not to direct glory. He wants to create the most precise play possible, at the most impossible moment possible, and ensure the result happens in the cleanest way. That is what he considers the pinnacle. In Sae Itoshi’s view, Rin Itoshi was never a simple issue of talent, personality, or isolated family matters — it was always a question of direction. When they were children, Rin was functional. He listened, absorbed, and executed. He didn’t question the process; he simply followed it. This made him efficient within a simple system: I thought, he finished. At that point, he wasn’t “a complete player,” but he didn’t need to be. His role was clear, and he fulfilled it. The problem began when he tried to maintain that structure on his own without understanding what sustained it. He didn’t inherit the logic — only the goal. Physically, Rin has always been adequate — and that was never his differentiating factor. Light but strong build, well-controlled center of gravity, clean coordination. His body doesn’t limit any action on the field. He can accelerate, brake, turn, and finish without significant loss of efficiency. But the real point isn’t in the raw physicality, but in how he uses it. Unlike players who rely on their body as the main weapon, Rin uses his physique as support for technical execution. He doesn’t force an advantage — he creates situations where the body only needs to follow. This is correct. This is reproducible. Technically, he is at a high enough level to execute practically any offensive action without noise. His shot is the main highlight, but not because of power — because of precision. He doesn’t “try” to hit the goal; he calculates where the ball needs to go and executes. The variation of spin, foot angle, point of contact — all of this is already internalized. The problem is that this precision depends on ideal conditions: space, time, and complete reading of the play. When these elements are reduced, his efficiency drops. This shows that, despite the refined technique, it is still conditioned to controlling the scenario, not to total adaptation to chaos. Tactically, Rin is where most people go wrong in their analysis. He isn’t just intelligent — he is oppressive. He understands the field as a system of variables and forces everyone around him to operate within that system. The so-called “puppet control” isn’t creativity; it’s logical imposition. He identifies each player’s strong point and pushes them to that limit, whether ally or opponent. This creates efficient plays, but it also creates structural dependence: the team functions because he is organizing it. If you remove him, the system collapses. That is not ideal at the highest level. A truly complete player can function both inside and outside the system. His style evolved when he began to abandon that rigid logic and enter the state he calls “destruction.” At that point, he stops trying to control everything and starts directly confronting the opponent’s strongest point. This is interesting, because it’s the first time he doesn’t try to reduce the game to a predictable calculation. He accepts the risk. He accepts the confrontation. And that’s where he gets closer to something more complete. But it is still unstable. That state isn’t constant; it depends on an emotional trigger — and anything that depends on that is not reliable in the long term. Mentally, Rin is where the biggest conflict lies. He doesn’t play just to win. He plays to surpass a specific person. This distorts his decision-making. Every action he takes carries an objective external to the game itself. He isn’t looking for the best play — he’s looking for the play that validates him. This creates situations where he ignores more efficient options in exchange for direct confrontation. At higher levels, this is exploitable. Players who can maintain purely result-oriented focus will always have an advantage over someone carrying a constant personal conflict. His personality off the field is no different. Cold, direct, seemingly empty — but this isn’t absence of emotion, it’s poorly directed concentration. He eliminates everything that doesn’t contribute to the objective, yet he keeps what should be discarded: the need to prove something. He doesn’t connect with people because he sees no utility in it, but at the same time he still reacts to one specific relationship as if it defined everything. This is incoherent. And mental incoherence always shows up in the game at some point. Regarding the relationship between us, the common mistake is assuming there is contempt. There isn’t. What exists is constant irritation with his approach. Rin insists on turning everything into direct confrontation, into emotional validation, into repetition of a past that is no longer relevant. That has no utility. When he shows up like this, the only possible response is rejection, because there is nothing there that contributes to evolution. If he simply interacted without carrying all of that — without trying to prove anything, without trying to revive the past — there would be no conflict. I don’t reject him. I reject the behavior. And even so, it is impossible to ignore his value. On the field, he is one of the few who can operate on multiple layers at the same time: reading, execution, partial adaptation, and imposition. He is not yet complete, but he is closer than most. The problem is that he is trapped between two paths: continuing to be a closed system that controls everything, or becoming something that can exist even when he has no control. Until he resolves this, he will continue to be strong, but limited. In the end, Rin is not someone weak, nor someone “hated.” He is someone poorly directed. If he eliminates the noise — not emotion itself, but the dependence on it — he becomes a player who doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone. And then, finally, he stops playing against someone… and starts playing correctly. Julian Loki: I had already seen some games of Julian Loki in the French league — absurd speed, but too dependent on it. Physically, a well-developed body for his age, stable center of gravity, and long strides. On the field, he breaks lines using pure acceleration, not reading. It works against average players, but creates predictable patterns at the highest level. His attempt to build a system with Charles shows awareness, but also dependence: he needs someone to organize the game so he can finish. Conclusion: a dangerous weapon, but not a complete system on his own. Marc Snuffy: I watched games of Marc Snuffy in Italy. Ubers is practically an extension of his brain. Strong appearance, extremely stable physical base, off-the-charts balance — clearly trained beyond traditional football. He doesn’t play like a common striker. He controls the rhythm, absorbs pressure, and turns chaos into structure. His use of physical contact and ball retention is functional, not aesthetic. Unlike most, he understands the game as a system before the individual. Even his “ego” is organized. Conclusion: one of the few players who truly thinks about football at the right level. Reliable. Reproducible. And dangerous. Noel Noa: I’ve seen enough games of Noel Noa to understand the pattern: no action is wasted. Completely balanced body, real ambidexterity, not adapted. Off-ball movement that is almost impossible to track in real time. He doesn’t play beautifully — he plays correctly. Every decision maximizes the probability of a goal. This makes him difficult to read, not because of creativity, but because of absolute efficiency. The way he manipulates players is also consistent with this: everything is a means, never an end. Conclusion: a world reference for a reason. He has no obvious flaws — only human limits. Chris Prince: His presence is impossible to ignore. Physically, he is the ideal model — strength, speed, explosion. I’ve seen his games and the pattern is clear: he turns his body into a direct advantage in any situation. Unlike Noa, he plays with emotional intent. This increases his performance peak, but reduces consistency. His knuckleball with no logic is… interesting. But relying on something unpredictable is not sustainable at the highest level. Conclusion: extremely dominant in 1v1 and physically superior, but less reliable as a complete system. Michael Kaiser: I saw him in the Neo Egoist League playing for Bastard München. I had also seen some games from the German U-20 youth team — the pattern is consistent. Physically tall, well-distributed body, clean coordination. The appearance is exaggerated, but functionally irrelevant. On the field, he is a clinical finisher with advanced reading support. His Metavision isn’t just information gathering — he knows how to convert it directly into finishing positions. His real differentiator isn’t the shot itself, but the timing with which he decides to shoot. The “Kaiser Impact” only works because he has already solved the play before touching the ball. Efficient off-ball movement. He enters and exits the markers’ field of vision with precision. He knows how to use his body to create space without depending on unnecessary dribbling. Now the problem: emotionally unstable. When someone breaks his dominance — in Isagi’s case — he loses consistency. He starts forcing plays, abandons the system, and tries to prove superiority. Opinion: An elite player. Reproducible. Dangerous. But still not complete. If he needs to prove he is better, then he still isn’t. Yoichi Isagi: I’ve seen practically his entire evolution — from Blue Lock recordings to the Neo Egoist League games and now with the Japanese U-20 national team in the Cup. Common appearance. Body still developing, nothing out of the ordinary. That doesn’t matter. What matters is the type of player he has become. He is not a genius in the traditional sense. He makes mistakes, recalculates, and adjusts. But his differentiator is exactly that: he turns reading into real results consistently. In the Neo Egoist League, analyzing Bastard München games, it became clear that he started operating the entire field — not just as a finisher, but as a convergence point for plays. He manipulates teammates and opponents at the same time. In the U-20 Cup, this became even more evident. Against Nigeria, for example — the score doesn’t reflect the game. It could easily have ended 8-0 if the final decisions had been cleaner. He created enough volume for that. But there is still noise. He still depends on peak mental moments to perform at maximum level. It is not as constant as it should be. About his position: He insists on being a striker, but the way he controls the game is closer to a dominant central midfielder. Opinion: Useful. Extremely useful. One of the few who truly understands the game. But he is still trying to prove something to himself — and that limits him. If he stops clinging to the role of “top scorer” and focuses only on winning, he becomes truly dangerous. Don Lorenzo: I saw his games in the Neo Egoist League for Ubers. I also specifically analyzed the match against Bastard München. Physically unusual — long limbs, above-average reach. This directly affects his range of action. He plays as a libero, but not in the traditional sense. He doesn’t react — he anticipates. His game reading is focused on the opponent’s most valuable point. Against Bastard München, he basically neutralized Kaiser for long periods. That is not common. His body control is strange but efficient. The so-called “zombie dribble” is not refined technique — it is intentional disorganization to break the opponent’s reading. Personality aligned with his game: he recognizes value. That’s all. Opinion: Defensively, one of the most useful I’ve ever seen. He doesn’t try to be more than he needs to — and that’s why it works. **Vivian Hugo: I saw him in the U-20 Cup playing for France. I also observed some specific plays during the match against Japan. Physically dominant. Complete midfielder build. He plays like a midfield general. Everything goes through him — rhythm, direction, decision. His game reading is different. It isn’t just analysis — it’s imposition of logic. He identifies the most efficient point and forces the game to follow that direction. His concept of “destiny” is not emotional — it’s just a way to categorize efficiency. Against Japan, he read Isagi quickly. He didn’t completely neutralize him, but he managed to limit his options at several moments. Opinion: Consistent. Cold. Reproducible. But limited by his own philosophy. He accepts being the “number 2.” That already defines his ceiling. Ryusei Shidou: I saw him up close in the Japanese U-20 national team game. I also followed parts of the Neo Egoist League. Physically dominant. Absurd reflexes. Off-the-charts aerial coordination. He doesn’t play football — he reacts to the goal. His spatial awareness isn’t about the entire field, it’s about the box. He always knows where the goal is, even without looking. His goals aren’t built — they are generated. Instinctive movements, difficult to predict, difficult to reproduce. The partnership he had with me worked exactly because of that: I provided structure, he converted chaos into finishing. But outside of that, he is unstable. He doesn’t follow systems. He doesn’t build plays. He doesn’t sustain rhythm. Opinion: A pure weapon. If used correctly, he destroys any defense. But alone, he builds nothing.