Blue Lock :Reborn Rose Emporer

"The Wolf Among Lions"

Day One – Bayern Munich U-18 Facility, Säbener Straße

The morning air in Munich was sharp and clear, like it had been filtered through steel. Bavarian winds curled through the trees with disciplined quiet, unlike the free-swinging chaos of Rio's beaches. This wasn't a vacation anymore. This was war prep.

I stood beneath the towering gates of Bayern's training complex—marble walls, glass corridors, red banners fluttering against the alpine sky. Behind them? One of the most efficient machines in football history.

The gates hissed open.

This was the new crucible.

No excuses now.

I adjusted my hoodie, my ribs still sore from the last round of therapy, and stepped inside.

The Wolves of Munich

"Yo," a familiar voice called out. "Took you long enough."

Alexis Ness—smirking like he owned the continent. His platinum hair glinted under the sunlight, that thin band around his wrist pulsing with bio-feedback sensors. He wasn't just training—he was optimizing every micro-movement. The prototype of a player built for the future.

He jogged up to me, fist bump ready. "Welcome to the jungle, Kaiser."

"Appreciate the greeting," I said flatly, eyes narrowing on the pitch behind him.

Twenty-two players. All older than me.

Bigger. Stronger. Sharper.

Alexis turned toward the field, voice low. "That's the U-18 squad. You'll be training with us. Not them."

I followed his gaze across the smaller pitch off to the side. There, five players warmed up. Each had a different rhythm to their movement. One juggled the ball without looking. One was doing lateral hops on one foot while balancing a medicine ball on their head.

"These," Ness said, "are the Wolves."

I nodded. "So I guess I'm the lone wolf?"

Alexis laughed. "Nah. You're the bomb we're hiding in the sheep pen."

New Names. New Targets.

He introduced them one by one:

Benedict Grim- forward for the U-18 Germany national team a tacticaland brute playing style for him one destiny is over death

Matthias Kron – defensive midfielder. Thinks like a general. Tackles like a boulder with arms.

Ryoga Tanaka – winger. Wind-speed movement, deceptive control. Not flashy. Just surgical.

Amadou Femi – forward. Built like a boxer. One-touch destroyer. Raw talent, barely refined.

Tobias Klein – center-back. Reads passing lines like a hacker. Barely speaks. Just sees.

And the last one… Alexis saved him for last.

Lucien Varga. "Captain." Tactical prodigy. Fluid in three languages, fluent in football math. They called him the Wall Whisperer—because he never cracked under pressure, and when he moved, the defense folded like paper.

"He's your bar," Alexis said. "Beat him, and Bayern knows you're real."

I didn't speak.

Didn't blink.

Just absorbed.

Each name became a marker.

Each face, a future rival.

The Gym – Iron and Discipline

After a round of passes and light drills—nothing too harsh, not yet—I followed Alexis into the facility's private gym. All chrome, red accents, and digital readouts. High-tech. Clinical.

"Time to test that body," he said, nodding toward the bag room.

I changed, stripped to shorts and tape, and stood barefoot in front of a heavy punching bag.

I didn't punch.

I kicked.

High roundhouse. Left.

Spinning heel. Right.

Low sweep with the instep.

Then I shifted.

Muay Thai mechanics. Brazilian capoeira flow. A bit of Alina's father's brutal close-range tempo mixed with something that was mine. A style that didn't belong to the ring or the street.

It belonged on the pitch.

Each strike hummed with the rhythm of cleats on grass, of defenders crashing in, of moments where instinct beat intellect.

The USB – Kaka's Legacy

That night, after recovery and a light meal, I sat in my room, the only light coming from the flat-screen monitor as I plugged in the small USB.

"Only study this when you've seen the field at full speed," Alina's father had said.

The video opened with a shaky cam shot of Kaka in training—in youth but moving like poetry.

Footwork so close to the ball it was like the leather loved him.

But it wasn't just highlight tape. It was raw sessions—failures, tweaks, micro-adjustments. A master deconstructing his own technique. Frame by frame.

He ran faster with the ball than without.

His torso barely shifted. His center of gravity never left his spine. Every feint looked real because it was.

I paused. Rewound.

Over and over.

"Glued to his feet," I whispered.

That was the next evolution.

The Calm Before the Storm

One week left until full-contact training.

Two days until my debut against Napoli's U-18 squad.

I pulled up the livestream schedule and scrolled.

There it was.

PXG vs Roma – 3 days away.

Two prodigies were about to clash:

Aloe Dybala – the "Saige Rhythm," a controller who moved like jazz, bending tempo to break formations. A Future sight like vision and play The boy who saw the game three seconds early. His every run made defenders doubt their own senses. Watching him was like watching time itself betray logic

Julian Loki – Godspeed. Unnatural speed. The boy who moves the game on his own seconds fly in motion. His every run made defenders frozen their own senses stuck. Watching him was like watching space itself warp logic.

Their match would be a map of what football could become.

Mine… would be proof of whether I deserved to be in the same standing .

Final Scene – Shadows and Firelight

I stood in front of the mirror. Shirtless. Wrapped wrist. Healing scars across my chest like painted warnings.

I could feel it now.

That quiet pulse under my skin.

Not a skill.

Not a trick.

Something older.

A rhythm I was still learning to hear.

I lifted my phone, and recorded a voice memo—not for anyone else, but for me.

"I'm almost ready. The system says one week. My mind says now. I won't rush. But I won't wait forever. The field is where the truth lives. And I have something the world hasn't seen yet…

…the version of me that learned to fight, not just play."

I watched the screen go black.

Tomorrow, it begins.

And if Napoli's defense wants a look at the future…

They'll see the eyes of a predator, reborn from silence, shaped in fire, wearing the number 11. This time I will be in control