Ten Million

Ten million.

By this point, I had succeeded in ransacking every last corner of the stadium's facilities.

It all started with the maddening boredom that came flooding in whenever training ended.

The office, the gym, the storage room, the locker room... every drawer in sight, plus the locked cabinets and lockers.

I wonder what's inside those?

I'd just crack them open and see. This space reset itself every day anyway — who was going to say anything?

I went to work on the locks.

Combination locks? I'd spin them from 0000 all the way to 9999.

If it didn't work, you kept spinning until it did. That's all there was to it.

Yeah, it was grunt work. But time was the one thing I had in endless supply.

Click. Click.

My fingers ached from turning the dials, but I kept spinning and pressing anyway. One lock had been set to 9989, which meant a full day of grinding from 0000 before it finally gave.

Click. Click.

When I finally pried open the very last locker, a strange emptiness washed over me. The contents mattered, of course — but what stung more was the loss of that small, gacha-like thrill of never knowing what might come out.

Losing one of my few games was a critical blow in a place where there was truly nothing else to do.

The cabinets held mostly nothing — empty shelves, battered old training gear, miscellaneous junk.

"Damn it. Not a single thing about soccer tactics in here, huh?"

The tactical manuals and training books I'd secretly hoped for were nowhere to be found. For a place that called itself a soccer academy, that seemed like a pretty sorry state of affairs.

Still, it wasn't a total bust. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I dug up two genuinely useful books from the office lockers: an infant-level vocabulary book and a beginner's Spanish primer. Those were definite wins.

If I was aiming for a team abroad, language was non-negotiable. These were keepers.

And then it hit me... the computer!

All this time I'd dismissed it as useless since there was no internet connection — but wait, didn't computers come with built-in games?

Pinball. Solitaire. The classics.

Or maybe one of those salary-thieves had downloaded an offline game and left it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠behind?

I was combing through the desktop, opening folders one by one, when—

"... Huh?"

Inside a folder labeled Drama, video files with familiar names stared back at me.

"Sherlock?!"

The words burst out of me before I could stop them.

The British detective drama Sherlock — the friend who'd been hounding me to watch it had sworn it was amazing.

"Grind my English listening with Sherlock, then finish off my vocab with the wordbook? Ooh, that's a perfect combo."

In an instant, the ideal language-study plan painted itself across my mind. If I was targeting teams overseas, language was a must — and with nothing but free time on my hands, there was no reason I couldn't do it.

From that day on, I began memorizing the English and Spanish vocabulary books cover to cover.

The first time I watched Sherlock, understanding it without subtitles was impossible. But after about ten full viewings, I started hearing what the characters were saying without them.

Even after that, whenever there was nothing left to do after training, I rewatched the whole series again. Eventually I'd memorized which scenes featured which characters and who delivered which lines.

I've probably watched that show more times than its own director.

Slotted between my shooting, weight training, and dribbling drills, a new pastime was born: the ping-pong table tucked into the corner of the gym.

With no one to play against, I started by shoving the table flush against the wall and bouncing balls off it — wall rally, as they call it.

Having never played before, I kept fumbling the ball thanks to the quick, erratic bounces only a ping-pong ball can produce.

But nothing beats repetition. I don't know how many days passed, but before I knew it, I was returning every ball that came off the wall.

Serving to myself, then sprinting through insane footwork drills to receive my own returns.

"At this level, I could toy with just about any average Joe."

It felt like I'd pushed every ping-pong skill a lone player could hone to its absolute limit.

Around this point, my body had become something like a walking tank.

I'd stand in front of the gym mirror and strike bodybuilder poses, checking out the muscles I'd packed on.

Steadily swelling, bulging muscle. The result of pushing my training weights to outright absurd levels, session after session.

The combined total of the big three lifts — squat, bench press, deadlift — had blown past not the fabled 500kg mark but 650kg, and without breaking a sweat.

A figure unimaginable back in middle school, and frankly unimaginable for most adults, period. The kind of weight only the powerlifters I used to watch on YouTube could handle. Pride swelled in my chest — and then, out of nowhere, a flicker of unease crossed my mind.

Doesn't more muscle usually mean slower, though?

Take Adebayo Akinfenwa, famously the strongest-built footballer in the world. His monstrous physique made him a legend, but he was equally famous for being rated as slow as he was huge.

What if the same happened to me? What if my muscle mass ballooned past a certain point and I sacrificed my agility and speed? Soccer wasn't a sport played on strength alone.

But having come this far, I couldn't bring myself to give up this muscle. Even so, that seed of doubt stayed lodged in the back of my mind.

The answer to that nagging worry — whether my sheer bulk might be costing me speed — finally arrived.

Long story short: it had been a completely groundless fear.

Word has it that an athlete's muscle splits broadly into two types.

Fast-twitch fibers, which deliver explosive power and speed. And slow-twitch fibers, which let you keep moving without tiring over long stretches.

Generally, athletes develop whichever type their sport demands — powerlifters maximizing fast-twitch fibers for explosive strength, or marathon runners building slow-twitch fibers for endurance.

For an ordinary human body, pushing both to their limits at once is next to impossible. Gain one, and you have to sacrifice some of the other — that's the basic trade-off.

But me? I was different. This place played by none of those rules.

I had a recovery ability that restored everything the moment I slept, and I had infinite time.

There was no need to choose one or the other.

Why not just max out both fast-twitch and slow-twitch fibers?

A ruthlessly simple answer.

Fast-twitch fibers for explosive kick power and top speed. Slow-twitch fibers so I could sweep across the pitch without fading for the full ninety minutes.

I'd drive both muscle types to their absolute maximum — to whatever limit my body would allow.

Worried about the added weight? Simple. Make the entire musculature of my legs stronger still, enough to generate more output ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠than the extra mass could ever offset.

Power from my fast-twitch fibers to drive off the ground harder; endurance from my slow-twitch fibers to hold that speed.

And when I actually tested it, my speed hadn't dropped one bit.

So "heavier muscles make you slower" is just a story for the ordinary masses who can't train both types of fiber to their limits.

If anything, the sheer force I was exerting against the ground had improved my instantaneous acceleration and top-speed endurance even further.

Devastating physicality and blistering speed. Two qualities that were supposed to be mutually exclusive — and I'd claimed them both.

I raised my daily shot count from 1,000 to 1,500.

I tried to push to 2,000, but beyond that my ankle muscles simply lacked the strength to launch a proper strike.

The scoreboard stopped counting, too — apparently even that was my limit.

Left foot, right foot — 3,000 shots a day combined. But at last, I'd reached the halfway point. Fifty million shots.

The weight of that number hit differently.

A faint glimmer of possibility: the end was finally in sight.

And around this time, I found myself growing certain of something — that when it came to free kicks, I would hardly ever fail again.

No, more than that: I was pretty sure I'd never put one into the wall. Never commit what the slang calls hitting the wall.

Tens of millions of free-kick repetitions. Curlers arcing over the wall, dead-ball knuckleballs without a whisper of spin.

Even Carlos's famous UFO Shot — the one I'd only ever seen on YouTube — had come out of extensive practice with a success rate I couldn't complain about.

I could place the ball wherever I wanted from any distance, at any angle.

By now, "nine out of ten free kicks find the net" wasn't a figure of speech. It was simply my level.

The shots behind me now outnumbered the ones ahead.

The summit had begun to show itself in the distance.

The daily training loop had become nothing more than ordinary life. Shooting practice, weight training, dribbling, volley drills... as natural to me as breathing.

Not that the intensity had eased — it still pushed the limits every single day.

Pour every ounce of energy out until sleep claimed me, then wake with a body restored to start the cycle all over again.

Yet something was subtly different now. Where desperation and impatience used to fuel me, I'd come to lose myself in the process itself — the craft of completing my body, of perfecting my technique.

"Is the end finally coming into view?"

The once-vague number of 100 million had become a concrete, reachable goal.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

The summit was right in front of my eyes.

The training still pushed every limit, but it had come to feel as effortless as breathing.

And that was exactly when another thought began to creep in.

"... Isn't this good enough already?"

Seventy million shots and decades' worth of the same conditioning. Honestly, with my current ability, couldn't I go out there and make a living as a professional in the K League — even if going overseas was still a stretch?

Did I truly have to grind out all 100 million before I could leave? Wasn't there some other way?

Until now, my whole world had been pushing the number on that scoreboard higher. But no harm in trying — starting today, I decided to get serious about finding a way out.

My first attempt was upward. The sky, in other words.

Climb the stadium building and escape over the roof. Easier said than done — the outer walls rose nearly vertical, with barely a handhold to be found.

But the current me was different.

The insane grip strength forged through months of lifting, the explosive leaping power trained into my lower body.

Using the tiniest protrusions in the concrete, window frames, drainage pipes — I began to climb.

"... Whew!"

Just like a professional rock climber. My upgraded physique was paying off handsomely. I scaled the wall on movements the old me couldn't have dreamed of, inching up by the skin of my teeth.

But it was dangerous as hell.

CRASH!

Time and again, my foot slipped and I plunged several meters down.

Even mid-fall, I stayed calm. Falling was something I'd experienced plenty of times by now.

Damn it! Slipped again! Angle the fall toward my legs!

I twisted in the air, steering the impact into my lower body as best I could.

CRACK—!

I felt bone give way.

"Ghhk!!"

Agony, white-hot and total. But it didn't matter. Sleep, and everything would heal.

Next morning, right on schedule, I was back on that wall in a perfectly intact body.

Falls and broken bones, over and over. And somewhere in that repetition, a habit took root — a kind of self-talk, I suppose.

Spending so much time utterly alone had bred a sort of incantation, maybe something I made up to keep myself in line. It always came out of me, unfailingly, whenever the urge to quit, the dread, the I don't want to started to bubble up.

With my whole body screaming in pieces, when the desire to give up hit its hardest, I would murmur it — quietly, but like a vow to myself.

"... A real man doesn't quit."

Online, it was just a throwaway joke — a phrase people tossed around as if mocking fools. But to me, right now, it meant something entirely different.

The moment those words left my mouth, it felt like a sworn oath to myself. No matter what happened, I would see it through. It was a kind of self-hypnosis — sealing off my own escape routes before I could bolt.

That's right. A real man doesn't crumble over some lousy wall. If it doesn't work, keep at it until it does!

After countless cycles of climbing, falling, and breaking, I could finally stretch my hand over the roof's edge.

"Got it!"

I wrung out the last of my strength and hauled myself up.

The rooftop at last. An unobstructed view spread out before me.

"Whoa!"

Not the stadium scenery I was used to, but roadside streets, buildings, mountains, apartment blocks. I stood gazing for a long while at scenery both foreign and familiar — then looked down at the road.

The cars are all frozen in place too... so time really has stopped, huh.

Enough sightseeing. Time to put the plan into action.

I reached up and felt around above me. Nothing was visible — but it seemed something like a transparent membrane, hard as solid glass, was blocking the way.

"... Damn it."

Deflating, yes — but a real man doesn't quit. If up wouldn't work, then down.

"Dig a tunnel."

Primitive, but it couldn't hurt to try. This time I went for the pitch itself. I fetched the groundskeeper's shovel I'd turned up in the storage room.

A few swings, and the turf came away easily. The physique I'd built was optimized for hard manual labor, too.

Sweat pouring off me, I dug like a madman. The hole grew deeper and deeper — one meter, two meters... I honestly lost track of how far down I'd gone.

... Tak!

The shovel's tip rang against something hard — not soft soil, but something solid. I brushed the earth away carefully, and there it was: gray concrete. The massive foundation slab holding up the entire stadium.

Boring through that with a single shovel was beyond even me.

"Well, then... no shortcuts in this place, huh?"

In the end, it seemed there was only one way.

I picked up the soccer ball again.

Twenty million to go. Reaching this number, it felt as though my body and my shooting technique had entered a plateau — the end of whatever talent I had to draw on.

Improvement had become nearly impossible to feel. Then again, I'd already taken 80 million shooting reps; if I still kept getting better, wouldn't that be the strange part?

By this point, I even caught myself feeling cheated.

"Seriously — if it was going to be like this, why not just hand me a status window or some skills? What's the harm?"

Time stops, superhuman recovery — this was already a full-blown fantasy setup. So why did growth have to come through such boneheaded, backbreaking labor? Lock up one poor soul and squeeze him for all he's worth — was that the plan?

Or was this some kind of trial? No way to know. All I could do was grumble.

"If I'd had a status window to pump stats and learn skills, this whole thing might've been over ages ago..."

I sighed and shook the thoughts away.

"Whatever. That's spoiled talk, isn't it."

Right. Without this opportunity, I might never have dared to dream of becoming a soccer player at all.

"Standing makes you want to sit, sitting makes you want to lie down — isn't that how the old saying goes? Our ancestors really never missed."

Ninety percent. Only the final ten million remained.

The instant I checked the number on the scoreboard, I could feel my heart beating a little faster.

The last ten million. So close now. Genuinely close.

And with my heart starting to flutter, I began preparing for what came after the escape.

"Once I'm out... first thing, I'll call my parents. Then down a piping-hot bowl of kimchi stew in one go."

Just picturing those small, ordinary moments put a smile on my face.

But I couldn't afford to drift off into daydreams. There was a pressing, practical problem to solve first: my body.

In less than a single day, an ordinary man's physique had transformed into something that would make a steroid-doped lab freak look like an amateur. How was I supposed to explain this? What if people found out? Beyond mere suspicion, it wouldn't be at all strange if I got hauled off to some research facility as a test subject.

First things first... I need to hide this body.

I made a plan. The moment I got out, I'd vanish somewhere no one knew me for a while — some quiet corner of the countryside, buying time while I figured out how to make the changes look even a little more natural.

Family and friends? I'd need a decent excuse. Something like, "A friend lined up a great job in the provinces, so I'm heading down on short notice."

For now, a plausible lie was all I had.

And of course, I hadn't forgotten the other practicalities — like my plan for returning to the world of soccer.

My mind was busier than it had ever been.

Match experience... that's the one thing I'll truly have to solve out there.

My physical tools and technique had grown past satisfying — but real match experience was still lacking. I'd built these skills alone, but as everyone knows, soccer is not a sport played alone. It takes many, and with it comes the need for genuine competitive experience.

No. A real man doesn't agonize over this stuff.

Get out first. Then figure it out.