They called themselves “Na Dreadnauti” — The Dreadnauts. No flashy kits. No agents. Just barefoot power and eyes that had stared down typhoons.

Their captain, a hulking winger named Tanoa “The Hammer” Ravai, stepped forward. He didn't speak Japanese. He didn't need to. He simply placed a rugby ball at center field, then kicked it fifty meters with the inside of his bare foot—dead straight.

Rin clenched his fists. “They don't play soccer. They play freedom .”

Final score: 3–3. A truce. And a rematch written in the tide. Would you like a match summary, character profiles for the Fijian rivals, or a short comic script based on this?

By halftime, Blue Lock was down 3–0. Not because of skill—but because the Fijians treated every touch like a rugby offload and every shot like a try. Their "rivalry" wasn't about charts or rankings. It was about joy vs. ego.

The sun scorched the makeshift pitch on the shores of Viti Levu, but the heat wasn't what made the Japanese Blue Lock squad sweat. It was the silence of the Fijian team standing across from them.

“Blue Lock is about the ego of the striker,” Isagi whispered to Bachira. “What’s their weapon?”

The first friendly kickoff answered him. A Fijian defender stole the ball, flicked it over Nagi’s head with a no-look backheel, and then three forwards moved like a breaking wave—offloads, side steps, and a final scorpion-kick volley that ripped into the top corner.