Chapter 1: Adaptation Phase (1)
Clap!
Stunned, I slapped my cheek hard.
But I didn't wake from the dream. Who am I, and where is this place?
Once I gathered my wits a little, my new face stared back at me clearly from the bathroom mirror. And it was a face I recognized.
Right—passport. Let's check the passport. I had a hunch, but I needed confirmation.
Besides, confirming the passport felt more useful right now than pondering my strangely colored skin.
I rummaged through the nightstand drawer beside the bed in this oddly familiar room—familiar even though it was my first time here—and pulled out a red passport.
Don't worry, it's not some weird country. Sweden. At least my guess was lining up so far, for better or worse.
And just like that, I went from Kimchi Man to Kimchi Meatball Man. Not funny at all, but I let out a chuckle anyway as I flipped it open. There it was, the name I remembered.
Leo Olmunt
Even in reincarnation, it had to be him? The guy with the best physicality in Korean soccer history but the dumbest skills on the ball.
No wonder there were palm trees outside the window.
This wasn't overseas—it was Jeju Island. The magical spot where cash-strapped teams came for winter training camps.
And right now, the second training camp was wrapping up. Died at the end of one season, reborn just as the next was about to start.
But how did I know all this?
Suddenly, Olmunt's memories flooded my mind, vivid and overlaying my own. More like they were being imprinted on me.
A mix of bewilderment and the thrill of playing soccer again left me dazed. I just crouched there, passport clutched in one hand, staring blankly.
Still reeling from it all, I heard footsteps approaching the hotel door.
Beep! Click.
I jumped at the keycard beep and the door swinging open, whipping around.
The culprit was a scary-looking black player with a face full of dissatisfaction. He stared at me blankly and spoke in English.
"Olmunt, what're you doing squatting in the corner?"
"Miguel! Uh... just looking for something."
English flowed out effortlessly, even though I'd kept my distance from it in my old life. And faint memories of Miguel from Olmunt's perspective surfaced.
Actually, it wasn't just Olmunt—Yoon Jongmun knew Miguel too. Gimpo's core striker, the epitome of every Brazilian stereotype: flashy, skilled, all flair.
In other words, my rival in this reincarnated body.
Oblivious to my turmoil, Miguel flopped onto the bed and pulled up a YouTube Japanese lesson.
Watching Miguel casually butcher Japanese pronunciations on YouTube was absurd.
Dreaming of a move to Japan, maybe? Fine by me if he left on his own. Still, time for some basic intel.
"Miguel, you know a player named Yoon Jongmun?"
"The one who died in a car crash at the end of last season? Don't talk like that so casually, Olmunt."
Miguel wagged a finger at me like a scolding parent, then dove back into his Japanese studies. Unpredictable guy.
So I really did die. A new life. It was still overwhelming.
After that brief chat, an awkward silence settled—broken only by Miguel's mangled Japanese practice.
Digging through memories, Olmunt and Miguel weren't close. Hell, Olmunt wasn't tight with anyone on the team.
What kind of camaraderie could a release-candidate foreigner expect?
Olmunt had joined Gimpo Green UTD this season, just before the coach change.
The old coach, Ko Jonghyeon, had led the new club to decent results with long-ball tactics.
Then, in the final stretch of last season, unable to find a replacement after firing him, he bolted to first-division Suwon Hwaseong UTD.
And that left one pitiful soul: me, signed just as the coach swapped out. Leo Olmunt.
Recalling preseason memories, the new coach Nam Suhyeon favored quick wing play and penetration-focused attacks.
So what role for the "brainless Viking" Olmunt? Long-ball shuttle when things got desperate.
The polar opposite of my old self. How'd he survive? Same as me—elite in his niche, despite the flaws.
We'd clashed once in the league; he sidelined me for two weeks. I remembered his sturdy voice apologizing, hand extended. Good kid, really.
At this rate, release was certain.
Enough griping. I was probably doing it on purpose to temper my excitement.
Football I'd unfairly abandoned—I could play again. A sturdy body immune to injuries, the one I'd always envied.
Hiding the trembling anticipation behind complaints and worries.
So what now? Adapt to this new body, obviously.
I shot to my feet. Miguel, lost in Japanese, glanced over then ignored me. Perfect—he wouldn't pry.
I needed to step out.
Tomorrow: match against Jeju Mobiles, the last practice game of camp.
Jeju was first-division; mid-to-lower Gimpo Green UTD had no choice but to get pushed around.
Even so, Coach Nam Suhyeon would sub me in for at least five minutes. That's my shot.
Stamp my mark. I wouldn't waste this second chance.
Time to practice. I stood boldly—then stubbed my right foot on the bed frame.
Tears welled from the pain, but no injury. That's the Viking way.
Miguel ignored my clumsy giant flailing, glued to his studies. A relief—no concerned stares to embarrass me further.
I pressed the sore spot with my left foot a few times, then headed out.
This body was bulkier overall than Yoon Jongmun's, throwing off my balance. That stumble earlier? Blame the mismatch.
Like this, I couldn't execute skills—couldn't even control a ball properly before release.
Goal: get intimate with the hardware, even a little. But first, a detour.
Knock knock.
"Come in," came a sleepy reply. Inside, the equipment manager rubbed his eyes.
For solo training, I needed gear from him.
"Can I borrow stuff for some night practice?"
He jolted, chair clattering. Thud! "Eh?"
Right—foreigner. Brain spinning: most foreign players never mastered Korean, even after years. They understood but couldn't speak.
Yet I'd pulled it off. After zero words all preseason.
"I need a ball and some cones… for training."
I blurted English to calm his ghost-struck stare.
Pretty decent, actually. Olmunt must've had a good head for languages. Just not soccer smarts.
The manager blinked, then handed over the ball and cones.
"Was I dreaming?"
I ignored his mutter and hurried to the pitch, not far from the dorms.
Chilly out. No players around—perfect.
Even Jeju, Korea's southernmost, got cold in February, especially with wind. Everyone holed up instead of solo drills.
Good for me. No witnesses to my awkward new-body juggling.
First trap in this body: thud… thud… Even receiving felt novel. Height, weight, foot size—all different. Fun, like starting over with all my knowledge.
Five minutes in: clunky touches smoothed, sloppy skills now passable.
Best part? Explosive, springy athleticism.
Light tap, light sprint—air whistled past. Yoon Jongmun's knees would've screamed. But I'm Olmunt now.
Whoosh!
Full-power shot and sprint from goal line: suddenly at the other end.
Cheat-level body. But flaws emerged quick.
"Urk!"
Foot tangled with ball mid-stride—faceplant. Needed more adaptation time.
Solo was fine at first—no audience for the comedy. But deeper in, a partner would've sped things up.
Who to call, though? Release-risk loner foreigner with no team buddies.
One guy came to mind, but...
Solo practice was starting to feel lacking.
"Olmunt, if we train together, you'll really help me transfer to Japan?"
I'd caved and called Miguel.
Easier than expected. Told the Japan-obsessed guy I'd help with his move—he dropped his phone and bolted out.
Suspicious, sure. But total bullshit, obviously.
Once I adapted, post-season start, I'd set him up with assists. That's resume gold, right?
Anyway, passed him the ball; practice on. Even if he's good, striker vs. me—I'd break through quick.
Ten minutes later: disaster.
"Olmunt, striker or not, breaking me ain't easy."
Miguel smirked after stuffing me a few times—or looked it, anyway. His hot breath puffed through that rigid face, annoyingly close.
Adapting fast, but not quite enough.
Still, had to breach once. This time's different—I charged.
Close in: two fake leg swings.
Miguel didn't know my pattern—early 1v1s always feinted left. Conditioning him.
Now it paid off. As he leaned left instinctively—
I twisted, nutmegging the ball clean between his legs.
Perfect egg-crack on Miguel—then he barreled in like a headbutt.
Urk! Thud!
Trauma flared; I tensed my shoulder, eyes shut.
But he flew back, not me.
Huh?
Miguel scrambled up, whining about pain and tomorrow's game, then fled.
Ignoring him, I blinked at my body, thinking:
This thing's way tougher than I thought.