The Former Soccer Emperor's Epiphany
The halftime whistle blew, and the coach's roar erupted in its wake.
"Hustle to the locker room, all of you! Move it! Oh, and Jo Se-jin—you stay out. Keep warming up. You're coming in right at the start of the second half."
Jo Se-jin nodded.
He'd gone through some tactical drills, sure, but with his abysmal stamina as the top priority, they'd mostly been theoretical lectures to fill the time.
After those grueling high-intensity conditioning sessions that drained every last drop of energy from him, how could he even join team practices? A month after joining, and he still hadn't synced up properly with the squad.
They said he was top of the school academically—hell, maybe he really had just glued himself to a desk all those years, because his fitness was nonexistent. No helping it.
The fact that he could sub in this early at all was only because his body had untapped potential lying dormant from sheer laziness, not some lack of talent. The coach probably wasn't banking on him for tactical fireworks anyway. Why else skip calling him to the locker room?
If they don't want to roll over and lose without a fight, they'll go aggressive for goals in the second half. They got pushed around in the central midfield battle upfront, so maybe reinforce the middle? Or swing the other way and bolster the flanks?
What kind of tactical huddle was brewing in there right now? With the conditioning intensity easing up soon, he'd be joining team drills before long. Jo Se-jin stretched on, a spark of anticipation building.
If he'd known the coach was droning on with motivational platitudes instead of tactical tweaks, he might've seriously considered jumping ship. Good thing he didn't.
"You're swapping with Dae-chan. You know his spot, right?"
The tactics coach approached as Jo Se-jin loosened up, the second half looming.
"Dae-chan?"
"Call him 'hyung' or 'sunbae,' you punk. What's with 'Dae-chan'? He's a senior, third year."
"Ah. The wild kicker?"
"Jesus. Already got owned by the newbie. Yeah, that wild kicker. You're replacing him. Got it?"
Jo Se-jin eyed the tactics board the coach clutched seriously. He'd mostly played free-roaming roles in practice, but he wasn't about to ignore the team's tactical demands.
Though, when the hell did they even pull that thing out?
"Role? Movement?"
"Hey, that's still casual speech, asshole."
"Sir."
"Argh, this kid. What role, what movement? You think you'll get it if I explain? Oh, right—you're the top student. Ha... Listen up. Your stamina's not back to normal yet. Still sore all over, yeah? So don't bother dropping deep. Focus on hitting the penalty area hard. You score in practice all the time. You follow?"
"Got it. I'll play for goals as much as possible."
"This little shit's making casual speech a habit now..."
The coach bristled, but flinched when his eyes met Jo Se-jin's steady stare.
A twenty-year-old lump of potential, sure, but unlike the other players, this kid was tough to handle. Was this the aura of the school's top scholar?
"Sir."
"...What the hell's going on in that head of yours?"
The coach shook his head in exasperation, oblivious to Jo Se-jin's real curiosity: why tote around a tactics board he never used?
The grass crunched softly underfoot, and a smile tugged at Jo Se-jin's lips.
Been too long since I felt this.
A player lived for matches. Sure, he'd been on the pitch plenty for training lately, but it hit different.
Up top as the striker. Not his usual spot, but familiar enough—the second-most position he'd played.
The whistle blew. Kickoff.
The opponents started with possession. Jo Se-jin pressed their midfielder handling the ball.
Aggressive, but not all-out. Just testing that "high-intensity forward pressing" point from modern soccer theory.
No big expectations—he just wanted to try pressing for once.
And then—
"Huh?"
"Whoa!"
He stole it.
A midfielder needing steady play had tried to dribble out solo with fancy tricks. Disaster.
As he instinctively drove forward, doubt crept in. Is this some modern tactic I'm missing?
Omni-directional pressing was already a shock to him.
How did they manage player stamina with this? How did matches even flow? But there were even more extreme tactics. And this was the trend of the era!
Snatch the ball back with fierce pressing right after losing it in the opponent's half, then transition straight to attack.
The motto he'd learned recently: the best defense is offense. Countering the counter—Gegenpressing.
Gegenpressing?
Yeah, that was it.
How the hell was it possible? The coach wasn't lying, though, and it was one of the two massive pillars of modern soccer tactics. Had to be viable.
A shiver ran through Jo Se-jin.
So this is modern soccer.
The shock lingered vividly even now.
That day, buzzing with excitement after training, he'd yammered on during study session with Yu Seo-rin. Surprisingly, the girl chimed in on soccer talk. Something about Ronaldo or Ronaldinho, whatever.
Maybe that's why, snatching the ball in their half right at second-half kickoff, he wondered if this was part of the ploy.
Gegenpressing in action!?
Of course not.
That the rumored newbie? Pressing, huh?
Just the opponent's midfielder getting sloppy.
High school tournaments in Korea were limited, especially in the same region—you faced the same teams over and over.
The elite sports scene was incestuously small, so word spread fast: "The top student's suddenly playing soccer." Knowing this was his debut, the midfielder tried a casual dribble-out.
Risky plays had rewards. Beat the press, and you open prime passing lanes. That's why modern mids drilled dribbling out.
Problem was, the "green newbie" was a battle-hardened vet in a young body.
His amateur feints got read instantly. The midfielder chased desperately, only to buy Jo Se-jin's crisp body feint.
"Fuck, what the hell?!"
To an outsider, it looked like bribery-level absurdity. No one saw it coming, so the response lagged—and that was enough for Jo Se-jin.
Enough to score.
As the charging center-back blocked his path, Jo Se-jin struck during the keeper's blind spot.
Not powerfully loaded. Not aimed at the corner. Just a half-beat quick shot exploiting the glimpse of goal.
He knew it deep down.
The best shot for a goal wasn't power or precision—it was the one the keeper didn't see coming.
That's why he waited for the center-back, never winding up.
From the keeper's view: open chance, teammate seals the lane, momentary relief. Then bam—the ball appears.
No prep, frozen in place.
A plain shot, no flair, no force—until it rattled the net.
Second half, 0 minutes in.
29 seconds into his debut, career first goal.
"Woooah! You mad bastard! Absolute lunatic!"
"Jo Se-jin, I knew you'd pull something off!!"
Teammates rushed in cheering, then froze.
First match, first goal. Joy, tears—even overkill was fine.
But... why just stand there tilting his head?
Running to midfield for the equalizer? Understandable. But this?
Jo Se-jin wasn't thrilled.
Playing again after so long felt good, sure. But celebrating a kids' game goal? His ego was too vast.
I'm the soccer emperor.
Why celebrate an amateur tally like some scrub?
He was just puzzled.
Was that Gegenpressing? Doesn't match what I heard...
Whatever his reaction, the game restarted at 1-2, Sewang High clawing one back.
And Jo Se-jin flew.
Not running miles, no dazzling tricks, no blistering speed, no thunderbolts.
But he dominated.
Casually jogging, yet always in the prime spot. A shoulder shimmy, and he'd slipped the press. Light touches created big chances, ripe for the stats sheet.
Just... dominated.
Overwhelmingly.
Ah. I get it now.
Tilting his head through it all, Jo Se-jin finally clocked it as the final 5-2 whistle blew.
Gegenpressing? Modern soccer? Pfft, no big deal!
Am I... too strong?
And two months passed.
The regional league buzzed modestly, the school hummed quietly—no nationwide panic among high school teams, no media frenzy.
But it was enough.
"What the hell is this kid? Two months experience? 11 goals, 9 assists in 7 games? This a video game?"
Enough to catch the eye of South Korea U-17 coach Jang Gi-tae.