Karasu’s pupils contracted.
He recognized it before any conscious process could put a name to what he was seeing.
The way it had been used to create separation and create space for a dribble.
The way the hands had been used to hold and maintain distance.
Even the angles.
Even the timing.
The technique was his.
Or at least, it should have been.
“That’s impossible.”
The words escaped before there was time to decide whether they should be spoken, leaving his mouth with the inevitability of things that exist before they are verbalized.
Haise glanced over his shoulder.
“No.”
His smile widened with that particular quality that surfaced whenever something pleased him on a level beyond the immediate result.
“If it’s me, it’s very possible.”
Karasu’s jaw tightened.
The purple aura surrounding Haise’s arms fluctuated violently as he continued advancing with the ball at his feet, every step carrying a familiarity that was uncomfortable precisely because it was exactly the same.
It wasn’t a cheap imitation.
It wasn’t even a rough approximation that merely resembled the original from a distance.
It was real.
The same principles.
The same execution.
The same purpose.
He had copied Karasu’s handwork.
Even the timing seemed identical.
‘What the hell is this…?’
Karasu’s mind raced with the processing speed that had been his advantage in countless situations before.
‘Did he study me?’
No.
Impossible.
Even if he had studied him, reproducing it wasn’t a matter of observation and repetition.
Karasu’s handwork wasn’t a trick that could be learned simply by watching.
It was a habit forged through thousands of repetitions, the product of specific abilities that had developed over time in a very particular direction.
It was a weapon created according to specifications that belonged to him and no one else.
And yet, Haise was using it.
Perfectly.
Otoya appeared beside Karasu with the silence that had always defined his presence, and for a moment the two stood side by side, staring at the same point on the field.
“…You’re seeing this too?”
“Yeah.”
For the first time during that match, neither of them seemed at ease.
Otoya’s serenity had reached its limit.
Karasu’s usual smile had vanished.
Because what they were witnessing was not a common adaptation, not talent operating within the known parameters of what talent can do, not genius expressing itself in surprising yet comprehensible ways.
It was something that left them both deeply unsettled in a way neither of them had experienced since joining that project.
Ahead, Haise dribbled with that fluidity which had ceased to be surprising by sheer volume of times it had appeared and which remained surprising all the same, eyes burning with an excitement that was making no attempt to be contained.
“Do you know what the difference is between understanding something…” The smile stretched even further at the corners.
“…and owning it?”
The players didn’t answer as they tried to stop him from advancing.
“My talent allows me to understand.” Haise touched his own temple with a gesture that held nothing performative, only directness.
Then pointed to the field ahead of him.
“My technique allows me to reproduce.”
The purple aura expanded.
Not just around his hands, not just around his arms.
Around his entire body, growing and pulsing with that irregularity which was the visual signature of something not yet fully tamed, something that still carried the raw energy of what was being revealed for the first time in its complete form.
The shape floated and shifted, forming different figures that rose and dissolved in a sequence with no fixed pattern — because what was being displayed was not a movement but a capacity.
Karasu felt a shiver run down his spine, for he had finally understood.
A sudden clarity struck him, allowing him to see where each piece stood and how to fit them into a picture that had been incomplete until that very moment.
He understood why Haise’s growth was terrifying in a way no isolated technical ability could be.
He understood why Nishioka had broken.
And he understood why the fifteen goals had happened and why the number had not seemed enough for the one who had scored them.
It was not because Haise possessed countless weapons.
It was because every weapon he witnessed could, potentially, become his own.
“Copy Technique.” Haise’s voice echoed across the pitch with calm and serenity.
“The ability to reproduce and integrate techniques into my own football.”
Haise swept his left leg behind his right, gently nudging the ball through his opponent’s legs.
With the space now open before him, he reached for one more copy.
A familiar image overlaid reality for everyone watching — Luka Modric.
Haise wore a smile on his face, almost brazen, as though he was enjoying himself far too much with all of it.
“The brighter the talent… The more beautiful it is to steal it.”
Striking with a trivela, the ball flew curving to the right and dropped into the corner with absurd precision.
GOAL!
Team Z [1] — [0] Team X
Haise leaped as he spun through the air, and upon landing on the pitch he turned his back to the crowd — as though he knew exactly what everyone wanted to see.
The number on his jersey.
Number 9.
“So.” His violet eyes fixed on Karasu.
“Show me more.”
The pressure intensified.
“Show me everything you’ve got.”
Karasu held his gaze without blinking.
And, for the first time since he had entered Blue Lock, he understood exactly what Ego had said.
Not with his head — with instinct.
Something deeper than any reasoning.
Before him stood a player who seemed capable of devouring football itself.
‘Copying…
Normally, despite being something dangerous, it doesn’t need this much fanfare — the most a copy can reach is 99% of the original skill.’ Karasu thought, but then something crossed his mind.
‘That’s assuming a normal human body.
But that guy’s body is simply supernatural.
So maybe he can copy a true 100%, making an identical reproduction of any technique he’s observed.’
Karasu Tabito’s assumption was correct.
People with a talent for copying could reproduce 99% of the movements they saw — a limitation imposed by the copier’s own physicality.
However, when the talent for copying and the right physique align perfectly, the barrier disappears.
And yet, it was still an incomplete assumption.
Because Haise’s weapon went beyond that.
His Copy Technique allowed him to replicate any movement or technique he had observed at a perfect 1:1 ratio — not an approximation, not a slightly inferior version, but a flawless reproduction.
His growth was abnormally rapid precisely because he skipped the one step no one could ever bypass: time.
And all of this was only possible thanks to the rare combination of his vision, his capacity for analysis, and a body capable of executing what the mind reproduced — without any one of those three pillars, the perfect copy simply would not exist.
‘Copying doesn’t depend solely on the body.
It demands an absurd level of analysis and vision, capable of perceiving every detail of a movement with perfection — and only then replicating it using a body that synchronises with the mind.’ Haise already knew what Karasu was thinking.
It was obvious to him.
‘Anyone can refine form, precision and movement until they become the best at their skill.
I can replicate all of that effort simply by watching once.’
Hiori approached Haise as he calmly made his way back to Team Z’s side.
“That weapon of yours — why didn’t you use it before?” Hiori asked, curious.
If that absurd weapon had been used earlier, everything could have been different.
“Were you saving it for this moment?”
“Huh? No, I simply didn’t have it yet — I believe I already told you that.” Haise said without breaking stride.
“Remember when I told you I was on a journey of discovery?”
Hiori remembered that time.
Haise had said he had focused entirely on his strengths and set his Ideal aside.
“I remember.”
“Then that’s your answer.” The naturalness with which Haise said it made it sound self-evident.
“All this time I was searching.”
“Searching?”
“For a conclusion.” Haise’s gaze remained fixed ahead.
“An answer. There was still a piece missing.”
Hiori’s curiosity grew.
“And you found it?”
A small smile appeared on the number 9’s face.
“Yes.” His answer carried absolute conviction.
“During my outburst against Team W.”
“In that moment…” Hiori murmured almost to himself.
“Yes.” Haise remarked as he raised his fingers, listing his points one by one.
“In that moment, my body, talent and technique synchronised. And so my weapon was born.”
In Hiori’s mind, the three points began to exist — separate and independent, like three distinct pillars.
Then they began to move, drawing slowly closer, converging until they collided and created something entirely new.
Haise’s Copy Technique.
“So you finally completed your discovery.”
Haise nodded.
“Exactly.” His answer came without hesitation.
He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the pitch and everyone on it.
“For the first time since I arrived at Blue Lock, I’ve completed the first stage.”
“First stage?” Hiori frowned.
A confident smile appeared on Haise’s face.
“Of course.” As though the answer were obvious.
“Discovering a weapon isn’t the objective — don’t confuse things, evolution will never be a conclusion. It’s only the beginning.”
Because he knew that tone.
It was the tone Haise used when he spoke about dreams, about ambitions, about what truly drove his football.
“And now?” The question slipped out before he could stop it — Hiori was quite curious, perhaps too much so.
“What’s left to do?”
Haise stopped.
Just for an instant.
And in the next instant, violet flames began to escape his body once more, with shards of mirror floating around him.
His eyes took on that familiar purple glow — the glow that appeared when his ego overflowed.
“Crush the world.” The words came out laden with absolute conviction.
“And fulfil my dream.”
…
Restart!
Team V restarted the game with Karasu and Otoya advancing across the pitch.
But the one who stepped into their path was the supreme striker — Haise Sasaki.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Haise asked with his trademark smile, brimming with conviction, as his ego overflowed.
“Tsk, don’t think you’re invincible just because of your weapon!” Karasu lunged forward raising his hand, but Haise countered and turned his hand game against him using Karasu’s own copy.
“Tsk!”
“I never said anything like that.” Haise spun his body while holding Karasu, stretching his foot out to steal the ball.
“You made that up in your head. It’s nothing more than your own truth, crow.”
BAAM!
In desperation, Karasu passed the ball to Otoya, who brought it under control with ease.
“Go on then, extraordinary one!” Karasu shouted.
“Leave it to me.” Otoya answered calmly.
And then he vanished — or at least that was how it felt.
His centre of gravity shifted, his body tilted, and his acceleration exploded.
One moment he was there, and the next he was somewhere else entirely, advancing with the speed and subtlety of a true ninja.
But as he moved forward, a strange sensation crept in.
Because even without looking directly, even without facing him, Otoya could feel it.
Shards of mirror spun around Haise, and his smile had grown wider.
His eyes tracked every movement of the ninja with careful attention.
A small shiver ran down Otoya’s spine.
And then —
ZOOM!
Haise simply vanished.
One moment he was pressing Karasu, and the next he was gone.
The void left by his burst was so sudden that Karasu stumbled forward, as though trying to lean against a wall that had ceased to exist.
Karasu snapped his head around immediately trying to locate him, but it was useless.
His heart quickened.
Because that feeling was familiar — far too familiar.
‘Wait…’ The Crow’s eyes widened.
‘Is this…?!’
BAAM!
Without Otoya expecting it, another shadow appeared and swept past him, taking the ball along with it.
“Thanks, Ninja.” Haise spoke with the ball at his feet, without even glancing back.
“I liked the softness you use in your off-ball movement.”
Otoya froze for an instant.
Karasu understood that feeling of familiarity.
It was a copy — a perfect copy.
Haise had just reproduced Otoya’s stealthy movement, not merely the high-speed infiltration or the off-ball positioning, but also the way he simply disappeared from people’s fields of vision.
Karasu’s eyes narrowed.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me…’ A drop of sweat ran down his face.
Because this was worse than he had imagined.
Far worse.
Copying a technique was one thing — but copying an entire weapon was something else entirely.
Meanwhile, Haise kept advancing, his smile growing with every step as shards of mirror spun around him.
“Interesting.” He murmured to himself.
“Truly interesting.”
Behind him, Otoya finally found his voice again.
It was the first time his serene expression had shown anything close to surprise.
“You…” He said.
“Did you just copy my movement?”
Haise glanced over his shoulder, and the smile remained.
“Obviously.” His violet eyes gleamed.
“My speciality is copying yours and making them my own.”
…
No matter who it is, those eyes steal talent!
NEXT CHAPTER → The Predator That Learns