The Promised Play
When Kim Hyungyun's spectacular tackle snuffed out Suwon's attack, a collective sigh of relief burst from the Seoul Citizen bench.
But Manager Park Sangmin's expression remained frozen.
He had watched, just moments ago, as Lee Doyoung—the man who proudly boasted the best physique on the entire Seoul squad—was utterly, helplessly overpowered by Kim Hanbin in an aerial duel.
This match... is going to be a lot harder than I thought.
Anxiety gnawing at him, Park chewed on his lip.
If not for Kim Hyungyun's super tackle just now—or if Enzo hadn't gotten greedy for the goal himself and had calmly laid the ball back off to Kim Hanbin instead—the scoreline might already read nil to one.
It had been that dangerous.
Hoo... I guess I have no choice but to cut off the long ball as much as possible. That's their main route of attack.
Thankfully, aside from Cha Kangmin, none of Suwon's other players had produced anything remotely as threatening in the air so far. They attempted the occasional long pass, but most were inaccurate, or sailed high over Hanbin's head—so-called "garbage balls."
If we can just hold the line through the first half, we'll go for the kill in the second...
Manager Park murmured the thought to himself.
But one corner of his mind refused to let go of its simmering anger.
Section Chief Yoon...!
Kim Hanbin—the very man causing Seoul Citizen such a massive headache right now—could have been wearing a Seoul kit until only recently. When Scout Section Chief Park Cheolmin first discovered him, Hanbin had expressed his desire to join Seoul above all else, showing up at the club house in person to take a trial.
And the results of that trial had been quite impressive.
Of course, Park himself hadn't been particularly aggressive about signing Hanbin back then either. The fact that Hanbin had no playing history after middle school—a Bohyeon Middle School football club career that amounted to barely existing—was a sticking point. And Seoul already had strikers proven in the K League.
But at the very least, he'd intended to give the kid a chance after signing him and see what he was capable of. And then...
If it weren't for that bastard Section Chief Yoon...!
Yoon—since expelled from the club—had opposed Hanbin's signing tooth and nail when Park tried to bring him in, dredging up every flimsy excuse imaginable. Doping suspicions, steroid use, his physique being the product of a collapsed system—nothing but utter nonsense.
In the end, even the club's director had been swayed by Yoon's talk, offering Hanbin the bare minimum salary, and the negotiation collapsed.
Should I have pushed harder back then...
Regretting his lukewarmness now was useless, but the ache of what might have been was impossible to shake. If he'd made the choice to sign him, Kim Hanbin might right now be threatening Suwon's goal in a red Seoul uniform instead of that blue one.
WAAAAAH—!!
The roar of the Suwon home fans crashed over the pitch.
"Lee Doyoung! Get your head in the game?! Mark him!"
Manager Park bellowed at his rattled center-back.
That had been close too. Suwon midfielder Kwon Yeongdae had slipped a through ball in, and it had nearly connected with Kim Hanbin. Only the sheer power of the pass—which made it untrap-able—had saved them; at a speed Hanbin could have actually controlled, they'd have been carved open straight through to the goal. A dizzying moment. Park felt cold sweat trickle down his back.
Suwon is honestly full of mediocre players aside from Cha Kangmin and that Kim Hanbin... but those two are the real problem.
Chewing his lip raw, Manager Park sank deep into thought about how to untangle this mess.
Past the twenty-minute mark of the first half, the match briefly settled into a lull.
Seoul Citizen's offensive surge had cooled, and Suwon, too, seemed content to manage the game steadily rather than force attacks.
It appeared Suwon was gradually losing the battle for the midfield, little by little.
The ball... just isn't coming to me.
Since the opening stretch—when he'd received Cha Kangmin's razor-sharp long pass and created a golden chance for Enzo—no real opportunities had come his way.
Seoul Citizen's midfield had seized complete control of the center, effectively cutting off Suwon's buildup.
Suwon's long balls, too, were being smothered by Seoul's defenders' concentrated attention, failing to connect properly.
When Hanbin, frustrated, dropped deeper to collect the ball himself and try to build something, Manager Kim Seongcheol or the coaches would frantically wave him back up to the front line.
Presumably they wanted him pinning the opposition fullback line so they couldn't push up, while also serving as the outlet for long balls on the counter.
A player can't simply ignore his manager's orders, so Hanbin had no choice but to linger up top among Seoul's defenders.
Hmm... do they think it's about stamina management?
Truthfully, Hanbin was confident he could run the entire first half—no, the full ninety minutes—without tiring under almost any circumstances. The training in the stopped-time space, along with the change in his body's constitution he'd recently discovered, had pushed him far beyond human limits.
But the coaching staff couldn't know that.
An untested young player barely into his professional debut burning himself out on pure eagerness and picking up an injury was an all-too-common story in football, and their cautiousness was entirely understandable.
Still frustrated, Hanbin swept his gaze across the midfield.
There he is... Choi Sang-won.
Number 6. Seoul Citizen's captain, hailed as the finest midfielder in the K League.
Though he plied his trade in the K League now, the experience of years spent as an ever-present starter for a mid-table English Premier League side hadn't gone anywhere.
Once Choi Sang-won began locking down the center, Suwon's midfielders—Kwon Yeongdae and the grizzled veteran Go Hyunseung—found themselves struggling just as badly.
Then, around the 35th minute, after long minutes of this suffocating stalemate, the chance finally came for Suwon.
Enzo, driving forward through the midfield, was brought down by a Seoul midfielder's tackle, and a free kick was awarded.
Yes! Here it is!
Kim Hanbin's eyes lit up. The foul had been called just past the halfway line, a short distance into Seoul's territory.
The distance to goal was considerable—even for Hanbin, a direct shot from here was out of the question.
And besides, that long-range knuckleball free kick he'd unleashed against Gangwon was already flagged and marked by every team in the K League.
Seoul's defenders watched Hanbin with eyes full of wariness, guarding against a direct strike.
Good thing I've got something prepared for exactly this. We drilled it in set-piece practice.
Hanbin exchanged a glance with Cha Kangmin and Kwon Yeongdae.
When the three of them looked toward the bench, the set-piece coach raised both arms. The agreed signal.
Kwon Yeongdae would take the free kick.
And Kim Hanbin, along with the towering center-back Cha Kangmin, walked slowly into the opposition penalty box.
The moment two men with dangerous heading ability entered the box together, Seoul's defense snapped taut and started shouting at one another.
"Hey! Kim Hanbin and Cha Kangmin! Do NOT lose them!"
"Lock down your marks! Especially number 50!"
Hanbin, flagged as the prime threat, now had a defensive midfielder added to his dedicated marker Lee Doyoung—one man in front, one behind, determined to smother any aerial contest before it could even begin.
Shrill—!
The referee's whistle blew, and every eye turned to Kwon Yeongdae standing over the ball.
Kwon Yeongdae raised both arms high—the agreed signal.
Right now, when every eye is locked on Kwon Yeongdae!
And in that exact instant, Kim Hanbin, standing inside the penalty box, made a move that shattered every expectation.
Instead of rushing toward goal, Hanbin sprinted swiftly out of the penalty area entirely, toward the far side away from the goal.
With their mark suddenly fleeing in the opposite direction from what they'd prepared for, Hanbin's minders lost their bearings for a moment, thrown into confusion.
At the same time, Cha Kangmin—who had been locked in a bruised-and-battered body battle with Seoul's defenders inside the box—shifted in a flash toward the left side of the goal, on the opposite end from the space Hanbin was fleeing into, dragging both of his markers along with him.
Thanks to Kangmin cleverly pulling the defenders away, a sliver of space—tiny, but real—opened up directly in front of the penalty area where Hanbin now stood.
Seoul's defenders, fully expecting the long ball into the box and a scrum of an aerial duel, hesitated at the two men's utterly unexpected movement.
Seizing the instant that brief hesitation created, Kwon Yeongdae—instead of lofting a long cross—played a short, sharp ball forward, threading a precise ground pass to Kim Hanbin, who had dropped out of the penalty area.
Hanbin didn't wait for the ball rolling quickly toward him. He wrapped his right foot around it and struck, first time.
PAAANG—!
The ball left Hanbin's foot tracing a gorgeous arc, sailed clean over the heads of Seoul's defenders who hadn't even managed a jump, and arrowed toward the corner of the goal.
The Seoul goalkeeper threw himself desperately through the air, but the ball skimmed past his fingertips and buried itself in the top right corner of the net.
WAAAAAAAH—!!!
Suwon World Cup Stadium erupted as Suwon's picture-perfect, rehearsed set piece came off without a hitch.
The Suwon fans leapt from their seats as one, embracing each other and screaming.
The Suwon bench was doing exactly the same.
The set-piece play they had drilled for days—and drilled to perfection in the all-important Super Match, no less—had worked flawlessly.
The set-piece coach flung both arms skyward and crashed into an embrace with Manager Kim Seongcheol beside him.
"Manager! It went in! It actually went in! Wah!! That Kim Hanbin, that kid is an absolute lunatic!"
In truth, when the squad had first run through this set piece in training, the coaching staff had been skeptical at best. It looked too intricate, with the odds of success too low.
But Kim Hanbin had pulled it off again and again in practice with unbelievable shooting accuracy—and now, in a real match, he'd produced the opener with this stunning strike.
Super Match score: one-nil. Now it was Seoul Citizen chasing the game.
The caster and commentator in the broadcast booth could hardly contain their excitement either.
In the VIP seats, U-23 national team head coach Baek Seungnam—watching the match—found himself setting his cup of cola down on the table without realizing it.
That kid... he's the real deal. And he's barely out of youth football?
When Baek had first seen Kim Hanbin, he'd rated him highly as a potential target-man striker built on physicality. His aerial duel ability, his decisiveness on headed goals from set pieces—he'd considered those his greatest weapons.
To be sure, the spectacular free kick from his debut had left an impression, but honestly, Baek had assumed a strike like that might be a once-in-a-blue-moon stroke of fortune.
That assumption had just been completely demolished by the goal he'd witnessed seconds ago.
A ball rolling at that speed, and he strikes it first time and produces THAT?
Coach Baek Seungnam replayed the moment in his head over and over.
Any ordinary striker would have trapped the ball first and worked himself a shooting angle. But Kim Hanbin was different. As if refusing to give the defenders even a heartbeat to react, he'd connected the rolling ball straight into a shot—into a course the goalkeeper could do absolutely nothing about.
If he traps it first, his accuracy goes up—but that also hands the defenders time to react. So he just hit it immediately...
Baek Seungnam turned to the tactical analyst seated beside him, who had been breaking down the match alongside him.
"Analyst. About that Kim Hanbin fellow on Suwon Blue Sky. Are we absolutely certain he has no playing record after middle school? No overseas youth registration, no—any other activity at all?"
The analyst looked up from his tablet and shook his head.
"Confirmed, Coach. We contacted the leagues and youth federations across Europe and South America and combed through everything they sent back... Nothing turned up. It's clean. The Bohyeon Middle School football club is his last recorded team."
"Hmm..."
Baek Seungnam looked once more at Kim Hanbin down on the pitch.
Where on earth did a monster like that suddenly crawl out of? Talent like that can't stay hidden...
Baek Seungnam made up his mind. The moment today's match ended, he would call Manager Kim Seongcheol of Suwon Blue Sky himself.