Operation Mole
Eunbi was scrolling through the livestream chat with her hands clasped together in prayer.
Oppa, please. Show them something. Anything.
One win and nine losses last season.
For a football fan like Eunbi, that record had been nothing short of heartbreaking.
Which was exactly why, this year alone, she'd hoped Wichita North could post at least a respectable record, even if a championship was out of reach.
And then, right out of the gate, they'd coughed up a touchdown.
A dagger flew straight into Eunbi's chest too.
Even to Eunbi, the defense looked suffocating.
"Push harder! You can't just let the quarterback sit back and throw in comfort!"
Before she knew it, she was coaching at the screen, and then—
"Kim Eunbi!!"
A familiar voice called her from behind. She turned to see her mother, who had somehow made it all the way to the front row of the stands, waving her down.
"M-Mom?"
"What is going on here!"
"Pardon?"
"Why is Jaehyuk down there on that field?!"
The moment she'd been dreading had finally arrived, and Eunbi had absolutely nothing to say for herself.
How on earth was she supposed to explain this?
"Uh... Oppa's playing football!"
"Football? Jaehyuk plays that dangerous sport? Wait—what about track?!"
"Uh, uhm, I think he said he's still competing in meets...?"
"What is that even supposed to mean...!"
Her father and her younger brother were already seated, watching the whole exchange with wary eyes. Judging from their expressions, they had the exact same question: why on earth was Jaehyuk down there?
"I'll explain everything properly later, I promise!"
It was finally Wichita North's turn on offense, which meant the marching band was due to spring into action. Eunbi slipped away for her duties, and Park Heewon scrunched her brows as she trudged back to the rest of the family.
"Seriously, someone explain to me what is happening!"
"I did wonder why Jaehyuk had been so quiet lately. I never dreamed he'd been playing football. Did Eunbi know about this?"
"She goes to the same school, so probably. Haa, honestly, I can't imagine what possessed him to get mixed up in something like this."
While the family went back and forth like that, Wichita North's offensive drive finally began—and onto the field strutted player number twenty-one, shoulders squared like he owned the place.
"Big Bro's a starter, by the way."
"What?"
They didn't follow high school football closely, but they understood perfectly well what starter meant.
"Hold on—since when does that kid even play football? A starter, you said?"
"Judging by his number and where he's lined up, looks like a running back."
It was an absurd situation. Jaehyuk—the only member of the family who couldn't care less about the sport they all loved—was suddenly a starting football player?
By this point, Minhyuk's interest was quietly beginning to stir. What on earth had happened these past few weeks, and how much could his brother actually contribute in this game?
"The second this game ends, he's quitting. Football is no child's play, for crying out loud..."
"Honey, come on. He's a starter—a starter and a first-string pick. That's not a spot anyone climbs into easily. Let's just watch and see."
"Ugh, I can't live like this. What if our Jaehyuk gets hurt out there!"
And then, in that very moment—the game began.
"Hut!"
The ball landed in the quarterback's hands, and Jaehyuk sprinted laterally along the line.
Most of the opposing defenders were chasing after Wichita North's receivers downfield. A shrill whistle split the air—
"Wha—?!"
"Th-the ball went to Big Bro!"
"Is—is that our Jaehyuk?!"
Even with a blitz bearing down on him, the quarterback had thrown with total composure—and the receiver catching that ball, cool as anything, was Jaehyuk. One defender stood between him and the open field.
Gulp.
The whole family swallowed without realizing it. Anyone watching could see it: Jaehyuk looked dead to rights, about to be swallowed up by the tackle.
Tak-tak-tak!
Jaehyuk charged forward, closing on the defender at alarming speed. Just as it seemed the tackle would land—
Swish!
A feint lasting barely a tenth of a second. The defender flinched, his eyes deceived, and in that instant Jaehyuk blew right past him.
A flawless cutback. Jaehyuk's dazzling movement left the entire stadium stunned.
"Wh-what in the world was that...?"
"Is... is that really our brother?"
What followed was Jaehyuk in full gallop, untouchable.
Paba-ba-bak!!
And Mrs. Park Heewon—the woman who, mere minutes ago, had sworn to make her son quit—cheered as though she'd never opposed football a day in her life.
"KYAAAA!! Our Jaehyuk! Our Jaehyuk got past him!! RUN, KIM JAEHYUK, RUN!!"
At the very same moment, father and son—Gyeongtae and Minhyuk—clutched their heads in perfect mirror-image shock, both chanting the same refrain: This can't be real.
"KYAAAAA!! RUN, OPPA!!"
Eunbi, cheering with the marching band, was screaming in a pitch-perfect imitation of her mother while waving her flag with everything she had.
Pa-ang!
Once detonated, that speed refused to die down. Jaehyuk tore across the field trailing a crimson line behind him—and before long, he strolled into the end zone like he was walking through his own front door.
"TOUCHDOWN!"
"WAAAAH!! It's a touchdown!"
"GO! GO! WICHITA NORTH!"
The crowd roared at the utterly overwhelming display. Even the Derby cheering section sat frozen, faces buried in their hands, unable to process what they'd just witnessed.
"Our Jaehyuk was already making a name for himself in track, and now this! That's my boy!"
"Weren't you saying you'd make him quit like five minutes ago?"
"Th-that still stands! Football is far too dangerous!"
Minhyuk smirked at his mother's response and turned his eyes back to the field.
"WOOHOO! Our brother's the best!"
"Jaehyuk! We're here too! Your family came to watch you!"
At Minhyuk's shout, Heewon—who'd been scowling a moment before—ended up shouting toward the field along with everyone else.
"KIM JAEHYUK! Don't you dare get hurt! Run safe out there!"
"Mom, how exactly is a running back supposed to run safely?"
"Whew. Haa."
Condition: perfect. Stamina: not even a concern.
The Gift really was a broken ability. I'd just sprinted nearly eighty yards at full speed, and after one measured breath I felt like I hadn't run at all.
"Jaehyuk! Nice work out there!"
"WOOOOH!! A samurai who crossed over from the East to save Wichita North!"
A samurai's Japanese, you idiot. And screw you very much.
My teammates came bounding over, jubilant, everyone pounding on my helmet in a boiling cauldron of excitement.
"A touchdown on your very first play of your very first game! Is this even real?!"
"That's it! THAT'S what I'm talking about, Jaehyuk! Right?! Right?!"
This was going to take a while to die down. Me? I was surprisingly calm.
The score was still 7–6. Sure, if we made the kick, the extra point would tie it up—but we weren't even winning yet. And judging by the play we'd just witnessed, we could give up points again at any moment. There was no victory to celebrate, so my mind was sharper than it had ever been.
"I just did what I was supposed to do. Anyway—Willie."
At my call, Willie's eyes lit up all over again.
"Yeah? You called, my superstar rookie?"
"Yeah. Good job. You drew their eyes. That's why I scored."
"Haah, so the only man who appreciates my hard work is the guy who scored the touchdown."
Willie suddenly thrust out a fist. I bumped it, then headed back to my spot.
Meeting Ronnie the day before had taught me something: football, at the end of the day, is not a game you play alone.
No matter how good I was, no matter that I had the Gift, scoring by myself was a tall order. If just two or three more defenders had collapsed on me, there would've been no hole to run through. Simple as that. If I wanted to reign at the very top, I needed my teammates.
🎁 Reward:Durability increased
🛡 Durability: D2 → D4
The black line shimmered into view right on cue—and my durability had jumped two full grades in one stroke.
Oh?
I hadn't noticed it last time, but this time I felt something for sure—a sensation of my muscles swelling tight, filling with something dense. Was it because I'd climbed two grades at once?
By the way—how high does this number even go? When do I hit C?
Defeat Derby High School
🎁 Reward: Durability increase
And another mission, delivered straight on its heels. This time, though, there was no listed penalty for failure.
...So it's that hard, huh.
It felt like failure was more or less assumed. But I was going to give it everything I had anyway. No—forget everything. I was going to win, period.
"WHEW! Quit goofing off and get over here, you knuckleheads!"
Just then, a voice bellowed for us from the bench. Sanders was gesturing frantically. We sprinted back to the sideline.
"We're running Mole."
"!!"
The moment we arrived, Sanders delivered the code word—and Mole meant one thing: a two-point conversion.
A two-point conversion was a second crack at the end zone from close range after a touchdown, taken instead of the routine kick. A successful kick earned one point; a successful conversion earned two. But because the odds-to-payoff ratio was so poor, almost everyone simply lined up for the kick.
"It's too risky. They're guaranteed to be keyed in on it."
Our captain and quarterback, Mark, laid out his opinion flatly.
"They're in disarray right now. You strike while you can put points on the board."
"If we fail, the whole team gets tight. We could end up trading scoreless drives the rest of the way and losing 7–6."
"There's no window for a two-point conversion but this one. Right now, our odds are at their best."
Mark scowled for a moment, then sat down on the bench without another word. He clearly didn't like it—but there was nothing he could do about it anyway. The extra-point unit would put the kicker on the field in his place, so all Mark had to do was sit back and prepare for the next drive.
"So who's throwing it?"
"Nobody's throwing anything."
Which meant—
A run, once again. Every head turned sharply toward me, then froze just short of staring. Now was not the time to tip our hand.
SCREEE!
At the referee's whistle, Sanders pulled off his bluff at the top of his lungs: "All right, all right! Settle down and kick it clean, boys!" Along with the kicker, the field goal unit marched back onto the field.
"Phew."
The extra point would be attempted from two to three yards out from the end zone. I'd heard that in the NFL, field goals were snapped from the fifteen-yard line—high school leagues kicked from a much shorter three yards. The two-point conversion, on the other hand, was spotted at the two-yard line in both the NFL and high school.
And yet we were lining up at the three—not the two—exactly as if we were about to kick a field goal.
Short. Give me a couple of steps and I'm in.
Two yards versus three. A single yard of difference—so we'd deliberately eat the loss and masquerade as a field goal to fool the defense. That was Operation Mole. I just never expected we'd use it this early.
"Set... ready!"
The players took their places along the line, everyone settling into their stances. With Mark off the field, the kicker called the cadence. And then—
"Hut!"
The ball was snapped backward. The man who caught it was our usual long snapper, who under normal circumstances would plant the ball on the ground for the kicker's strike.
But we were running Mole.
The black lines were already blooming across my vision.
Tak!
The instant the ball moved, I—who'd been shuffling anxiously near the line—spun and took off backward. I could see the Derby defense thrown into total confusion; they'd fully expected a kick.
Fwap!
The teammate faking a throw flipped the ball to me instead. By this point, three or four layers of deception had already shredded the opposing formation.
Thump!
The moment the ball hit my hands, the black line flooded crimson. Riding the Gift as it turned red, I blazed through what was, on paper, a ten-yard sprint.
"Ngh!"
Then, out of nowhere, a defender who'd stuck to my hip cut in front of me. This son of a— he's fast.
If he could physically wall off someone with the Gift running hot, that alone said everything.
Still sprinting, I came face to face with him. Wide, glaring eyes locked onto mine.
You don't get past me!
The man's will hit like a physical force. I answered it with a grin.
You? Stop ME? That's cute.
All I can do is laugh, huh.
Pa-ang!
I didn't slow down. If anything, I charged straight at the man blocking my path like I meant to run him over.
Physique? One look told you who lost that matchup. But did that mean I couldn't win?
Not a chance.
Whirr—
The move I'd debuted against Sanders himself. A spin that refused to sacrifice a single ounce of speed, detonated with the Gift's power behind it.
"Huagh!"
He sucked in a startled breath. His flailing hand grazed my shoulder—but he couldn't hold on.
And that was that. Ten short yards meant that the instant I shed him, the end zone was already swallowing me whole.
SCREEEE!
"Two-point conversion—GOOD!"
With the referee's whistle, the scoreboard read 8–7.
We had taken the lead.