Chapitre 218: The silent reaper, or the god himself? (218)
Bachira, a mix of annoyance and cheerful defiance, met Nagi's disrespectful words with a confident smirk. He brushed off the attempt to rattle him, responding with a playful yet determined tone.
"Oh, you think so?" Bachira chuckled, his eyes flashing with a competitive spirit. "Just getting warmed up, my friend. Let's see how you handle the next act."
In the midst of the fast-paced action, Nagi's mind raced with a fervent determination. As he effortlessly glided past Barcha's defenders, a hunger for more ignited within him. The whispers of self-motivation echoed in his mental monologue.
'Why settle for less when there's so much more to achieve?' Nagi thought, the desire for greatness burning bright in his eyes. He glanced at Nakada, who had recently showcased his individual brilliance, and a fire ignited within Nagi. If Nakada could weave through defenses on his own, why couldn't he do the same?
'They're not invincible,' Nagi mused, his mind dissecting Nakada's team. 'I've got the skills, the speed, and the ball control. I can take them on, one by one.' The challenge wasn't just against the defenders on the field; it was a personal quest to push his own limits, to transcend the boundaries of what was considered possible.
Nagi's mental monologue intensified as he approached the goal, the vision of success vivid in his mind. "I want more. I want to do better. If Nakada can, so can I. Their defense is not impenetrable; I just need to find the gaps, exploit their weaknesses.I can do so much better"
Nagi, a specter of blue and white, streaked across the field. Unlike Bachira's flamboyant dance, Nagi's movement was a tightly controlled storm. His touch, a whisper against the leather, held the ball captive, a satellite orbiting his will.
He closed in on Otoya, Nagi slowed, almost imperceptibly, his foot caressing the ball in a mesmerizing caress. Otoya lunged, but Nagi was a wisp of smoke, already gone.
The ball, a blur in Nagi's control, shifted direction with impossible speed. It cut left, then right, a dizzying oscillation that left Otoya flailing at air. Nagi, a phantom in his opponent's peripheral vision, moved with the untamed grace of a cheetah, his every step calculated, his every touch a brushstroke on the canvas of the field.
Suddenly, Nagi stopped. Dead stop. The ball, held hostage by his preternatural control, remained glued to his foot. Otoya, thrown off balance, stumbled forward, momentarily confused. It was then that Nagi pounced.
With an explosive burst of acceleration, Nagi rocketed past the bewildered defender. The ball, released from its temporary stasis, became a blur once more, following Nagi's every command. In the blink of an eye, Nagi had ghosted past Otoya, leaving him grasping at the afterimage of blue and white.
The roar of the crowd faded to a distant hum as Nagi ghosted past Otoya, a whisper on the wind. "One ninja down," he breathed, a predator's smirk flickering across his lips. But his gaze was already fixed on the next hurdle: a hulking defender charging in, anticipation etched on his face.
Nagi didn't hesitate. The ball, a loyal companion, obeyed his silent command. It darted forward, a phantom limb, before abruptly halting at the back of his ankle. The defender lunged, eyes widening in surprise, but Nagi was a phantom, already gone. With a flick of his heel, smooth as silk, the ball rocketed skyward, a mischievous wink in the afternoon sun.
Nagi didn't wait for its descent. He was a blur, a cheetah in human form, his powerful legs eating up the ground. The wind whipped past his ears, a symphony of speed urging him forward.
His eyes, once cerulean blue, had morphed into pools of molten steel, focused with laser-like intensity on the distant goal. The final defender, now a terrified silhouette, scrambled back, but it was too late.
The ball, its arc mirroring Nagi's trajectory, dropped perfectly back into his stride. A single touch, a caress of pure control, and it danced across the turf, an extension of his will. The net loomed large, a gaping maw promising glory. Time seemed to slow, the world compressed into this singular moment.
Nagi's eyes, already darkened by determination, became bottomless pits as he surveyed the field. His meta vision, a whirlwind of possibilities, scanned every blade of grass, every defender, every route to the goal. And then, it landed on Nakada, the immovable object, the stoic kingpin of the opposing defense.
For any other player, the temptation to weave around Nakada, find a safer path, would be strong. But Nagi wasn't just any player. Pride, sharp as a honed blade, wouldn't allow such a detour. He charged, not with reckless abandon, but with the focused intensity of a lion stalking its prey.
His touch on the ball was the touch of death, draining it of spin and power, transforming it into a silent extension of his will. He moved with the eerie stillness of a reaper, his every step a chilling whisper on the field.
The other players on the field, mere mortals in the face of this silent death god, knew what awaited them if they dared challenge Nagi one-on-one. It wouldn't be a battle, it would be an execution.
But Nakada wasn't a mortal. He was the "god of the field" himself.
This wouldn't be a dance with death, but a clash of titans, a battle for supremacy between two beings who transcended the limitations of ordinary men.
The air crackled with anticipation as the distance between them dwindled. The crowd held its breath, their senses straining to capture the coming collision. This wasn't just a clash of skills, it was a clash of wills, a duel to determine who truly reigned supreme on the field.
The silent reaper, or the god himself?
Only time would tell who would emerge victorious from this mesmerizing and deadly ballet.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone