Chapter 82
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 82
Chapter Title: God Mode Park Si-hyun Sends the Villain to Heaven
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Bang! Bang! Bang!
The water bottle, tactical board, and chair smashed against the wall one after another, shattering into pieces.
In the Spain national team's locker room at halftime.
Coach Jose Antonio Camacho's fury was exploding.
"Do you even know what you've done?!"
"..."
"I'm asking if you know! You're the ones supposed to intimidate South Korea—no, that kid Park Si-hyun—and instead, you're terrified of him! Ignoring my orders! And getting scared yourselves?!"
His voice roared out roughly, digging into the players' pride one by one.
To make the Spain national team, a soccer powerhouse, they were naturally players brimming with pride and self-esteem. But this time, no one could lift their heads.
Before they could even follow the coach's orders, they'd been overwhelmed by that madman Park Si-hyun, and everyone knew they'd spent the end of the first half running around like they were fleeing the pitch.
"Ruben Baraja!!"
"Yes..."
"Ha... Unbelievable. A man—a Spain national team player—shedding tears because it hurt a little?"
"That was—"
"What do you think Park Si-hyun—no, South Korea—thinks of us now? They're mocking us as cowards!"
Camacho had no intention of listening to the players.
Whenever someone opened their mouth, he drowned them out with an even louder shout.
In this room, he was the most wronged one, and in his eyes, the players were all sinners.
"Fernando Hierro!"
"...Yes."
"What the hell are you doing? As captain, you should be rallying the scared players! But you got scared too, couldn't press, got embarrassingly nutmegged by that guy, and your mistakes let in two goals!"
Silence fell.
Park Si-hyun's opener, followed by his second goal less than three minutes later. Then, one minute before halftime, Lee Chun-soo's run connected with Yoo Sang-chul's killer pass for the third goal.
3-0 in the first half alone.
A score that all but sealed the defeat.
"Ah, right. Almost forgot... Puyol."
Puyol lifted his head at the words.
"Yes."
Camacho's gaze sharpened even more.
"What the hell were you doing? The others at least scrapped early on like I told them. But you? Not once."
"..."
"Why? Want to stay noble all by yourself? Play clean soccer alone? You think clean soccer and dirty soccer are worlds apart? In the end, matches only leave winners and losers! What did you gain by holding out like that? Oh, right. You were the only one who didn't get hit by Park Si-hyun. Impressive, Puyol. Must feel great playing clean all by yourself."
Puyol said nothing.
Anything he said now would just sound like defying the coach's authority.
He gritted his teeth and bowed his head.
But Camacho didn't stop.
"You're the worst offender who ignored my orders from the start. I don't even know why I picked a guy like you. Protecting your personal purity over the team—a trash player."
Thud—!
Before the words finished,
Puyol slammed his water bottle to the floor.
He shot up from his seat.
"Did you just... call me trash?"
He could endure all the coach's blame.
But being called trash who prioritized himself over the team? He couldn't let that slide.
Camacho smirked at Puyol.
"Yeah, I called you trash."
Puyol's eyes turned ice cold.
"I won't... let this go."
"Good, neither will I."
Camacho gestured mockingly.
"You're subbed off in the second half. Can't use a player who challenges the coach's authority."
Puyol fell silent for a moment, then replied curtly.
"Fine."
With that, he opened the locker room door and walked out.
The door's closing echoed coldly through the room.
Fernando Hierro watched quietly.
The coach added in a voice still thick with rage.
"If anyone disobeys in the second half, I won't forgive them."
The air in the locker room froze solid with those words. And in that silence, Hierro ignored the coach for the first time. Instead, he stared quietly at the door Puyol had left through.
His face showed no expression.
But no one knew what thought flickered in that blank stare.
Only his gaze, fixed on the door, trembled faintly.
'...What? They're subbing Puyol?'
I couldn't believe it when I heard.
Among Spain's players, the most stable defender—and the only one who didn't resort to dirty play—was Puyol.
And they're taking him out?
Honestly, without Puyol, Spain would've collapsed tactically and shipped at least five goals already.
Subbing him? Beyond comprehension.
I looked straight at the Spain bench.
Despite trailing 3-0, the coach sat with arms crossed.
His face said he bore zero blame—pure arrogance and hubris.
'Ha... What a coach.'
I sighed and turned away.
Then glanced at the South Korea bench opposite.
Leading 3-0, yet Coach Hiddink still stood outside, adjusting lines meticulously, eyes burning with focus.
It made sense now.
Why Spain had gone astray and become objects of pity.
'Thinking about it, the Spanish players had it rough too.'
Reaching the World Cup quarterfinals under that coach was the real miracle.
'Yeah, the kids' mistakes... ultimately fall on the parents.'
Kids make errors.
But what they learn from them depends entirely on the 'parents.'
If the parents just make excuses:
"He's still young."
That kid will repeat the same mistakes forever.
But if they teach:
"That was wrong. Someone got hurt."
That kid will grow up right.
Yet that Spanish coach wasn't such a parent.
"My kid can get away with this much."
He was the worst kind—not even worthy of the title parent, or leader.
I chuckled and shook my head.
'The ones who need repentance... aren't the players. It's the coach.'
So, how to make the coach 'repent'?
Simple.
An overwhelming gap in performance that leaves no excuses.
And—
'Just... a touch of pain.'
'These bastards... even after that, they still...'
Now, Park Si-hyun didn't bother shadowing them or mimicking fouls. Instead, like he was sealing the win completely, he roamed the pitch with insane work rate.
The Spanish players pretended not to be scared anymore, approaching him boldly on the surface.
But—
From the bench, Jose Antonio Camacho could see it.
The tiniest hesitation in every move.
And in soccer, 'hesitation' leads straight to conceding.
It was the brutal lesson Park Si-hyun had taught the Spanish players in the first half.
Goal! Park Si-hyun powers through three defenders alone to complete a hat-trick in the World Cup quarterfinal!
Can a hat-trick look this easy?
Exactly. When something looks effortless, it means you've reached mastery. Park Si-hyun is playing soccer so simply right now. World-class level!
Even amid the roaring cheers and stadium frenzy, Camacho sat silently on the bench.
His lips moved slowly.
"Yeah... we lost."
But those words carried a strangely subtle nuance.
He didn't think he'd lost to Hiddink.
Didn't think his tactics were wrong.
He just believed Spain lost because the players failed to execute orders, and Park Si-hyun shook the game with his own judgment, not Hiddink's.
'Yeah... I haven't lost to Hiddink yet.'
His gaze turned to the South Korea bench where Hiddink was.
He saw Hiddink's beaming smile.
Camacho gritted his teeth.
'Next time we meet... you won't be smiling.'
That was when it happened.
Sudden commotion around him.
The coaches shouted urgently.
"Coach!!"
"Coach, get down!!"
"Coach!!!"
Camacho irritably turned his head.
'Tch... These guys always just yell my title, but can't do shit.'
"What is—Huh?"
Thwack!
It was the ball.
No idea how or why such a powerful shot reached the bench.
The only thing clear: it struck his face dead-on.
Camacho's body jerked back. As he crashed into the bench chair, the last sight in his vision was:
Far away, Park Si-hyun standing startled, then clasping hands in prayer, bowing his head with a subtle smile.
'That crazy bas...'
Before the thought finished, his vision faded to black.
That was the final scene Jose Antonio Camacho witnessed in the 2002 World Cup quarterfinal.