50 Million Superstars
I sprinted full throttle from the halfway line, bellowing at the top of my lungs.
"Kim Jinu! Stick to him! Tackle him! Fucking bury him!"
My shout echoed through the stadium like thunder.
Kim Jinu flinched like he'd been shocked, then hurled himself at the opponent.
Thwack!
A brutal tackle. The ball sailed out over the touchline, and the opponent tumbled. It was a foul, but no card—smart interruption play.
"Nice one! Kim Jinu, that's the shit I'm talking about!"
Swearing like that in the stadium isn't offensive. It's not like you're spewing it out of boredom; adrenaline surges, excitement kicks in, and logic goes out the window. Words come out as curses. Of course, the 50 Million Bandwagon Fans wouldn't get it.
I rushed over to Kim Jinu for a high-five and slapped his ass hard.
"Whoa... hyung."
Kim Jinu looked dazed that I'd actually come charging like a maniac from the halfway line to cover for him.
Meanwhile, Mo Chanhee, sauntering in from way back, scowled.
"Wasn't even a big threat. Overkill, tsk."
I treated Mo Chanhee like he was invisible and glared at Tak Go-gang in midfield.
"Tak Go-gang! Stop dragging your feet with the ball."
"..."
Tak Go-gang's eyes sharpened.
Next throw-in.
Tak Go-gang took the ball.
His ankle froze mid-motion—he'd habitually been about to pass sideways to Mo Chanhee nearby.
Mo Chanhee wasn't even coming to receive; he was just waving for it.
That's when I signaled my run up front.
Tak Go-gang bit his lip and switched direction.
Not a safe sideways pass—an adventurous forward through ball.
The ball sliced between three defenders and dropped right at my feet.
That's it.
One first touch shook off a defender.
One-on-one with the keeper.
No need to curl it into the corner. No need to smash it. Miss this, and you're a moron. I just nudged it in.
Roll-roll-roll!
GOAL!
18th minute of the first half. South Korea 1 : 0 Singapore.
Sangam World Cup Stadium erupted in cheers.
I started toward the corner flag but slowed, walking deliberately toward the bench camera.
Then I pressed a finger to my lips.
Shh.
Shut your mouths, you bandwagon fucks.
And you loudmouthed losers who only talk the talk.
This is football.
As I finished my celebration, Tak Go-gang barreled into me for a hug.
Beyond him, I locked eyes on Mo Chanhee standing there blankly. And Bong Hyeoksu, silently clapping from the halfway line.
Hyung, you see that?
Silent authority means nothing.
You prove it, grab them by the collar, and drag them—that's a real leader.
The stadium scoreboard zoomed in on my face.
Eyes burning with venom.
My war had only just begun its overture.
The thrill of the opener hadn't even faded, but the air on the pitch had shifted subtly.
The momentum was fully ours.
More precisely, everything flowed our way except for the fermented kimchi losers pickled in Mo Chanhee's defeatist mindset.
"Hey! Tak Go-gang! I'm open here! Pass it!"
From the right flank, Mo Chanhee flailed his arms and yelled.
A Singapore defender was on him, but there was an angle to thread it through.
The old Tak Go-gang would've panicked at his senior's bark and forced it in.
But not now.
Tak Go-gang glanced at Mo Chanhee, then coolly turned to the open space on the opposite side.
Where I was.
He fired a switch-of-play pass without hesitation.
"Th-this crazy bastard..."
Mo Chanhee's dumbfounded voice trailed after.
This wasn't bullying.
It was the most efficient choice for victory. If you call this bullying, think about how you assholes walk on thin ice every match—one slip and you're public enemy number one. You gonna hog the ball, do jack shit, turn it over, let them counter, and piss away the momentum we've built? Or keep it going? Real footballers know. Bandwagon fans don't. At that moment, Tak Go-gang had finally awakened the midfielder's instinct to distinguish dead space from live space. In wuxia terms, it's like his inner energy breaking through to the next level.
I chest-trapped the drop, then charged with two defenders on my tail.
Mo Chanhee came sprinting late from the other side, but I ignored him and unleashed a long-range shot.
It skimmed just wide of the post, drawing gasps from the crowd.
"Fuck! If you'd passed to me, it was an open chance!"
Mo Chanhee stomped the turf in frustration.
But I'm no idiot.
The stadium replay had clearly shown him loafing in an offside position.
35th minute of the first half.
Trouble brewed.
Edgy Mo Chanhee dropped deep near the center circle, intercepted the ball, and tried a reckless dribble.
"I'll show you... I'll show..."
Muttering to himself, he plunged headfirst between three defenders.
The result was predictable.
Ball lost, Singapore counter underway.
But Kim Jinu charged like a mad dog again, and Tak Go-gang mopped up with support defending. Bong Hyeoksu gestured and said something to Mo Chanhee, but the bench exploding in noise drew more attention. Having seen that mess, interim coach Baek Ho-dol shot up from the bench, unleashing his fury. He ordered a bunch of reserves to their feet for warm-ups. Minutes later, as we regained flow, the fourth official raised the board.
OUT 11 Mo Chanhee IN 18 Lee Junyoung
43rd minute—still first half.
Pulling a key starter, the vice-captain no less, with no injury?
This was basically a death sentence: you're useless today.
"What? Me? Now?"
Mo Chanhee gawked at the bench in disbelief.
But Coach Baek just stood arms crossed, staring at the pitch.
As Mo Chanhee trudged off, 60,000 fans' confusion and scattered icy silence rained down on his back. Mo Chanhee was one of Korea's star players. Same as me or Bong Hyeoksu—overseas pros you can't ignore. For Baek Ho-dol to treat him like this...
Mo Chanhee kicked over a water bottle at the bench and stormed straight to the locker room.
His retreating figure looked utterly pathetic.
Halftime. Up 1-0, but the stadium drama hung heavy.
The locker room air was thick.
Mo Chanhee sat in silence; the players awaited the coach.
Then a deep bass voice shattered the quiet.
"Ryu Rion."
Captain Bong Hyeoksu.
He peeled off his sweat-soaked jersey and approached me.
"Ease up."
"...What do you mean?"
"Dividing factions on the pitch, embarrassing your senior. You think that's good for the team? I acknowledge your goal. But this way, the team's done."
Bong Hyeoksu's eyes were sincere.
He genuinely feared the team falling apart.
Past-life me would've bowed and apologized.
Not now.
I slicked back my wet hair and smirked.
"Hyung."
"......"
"While you played nice guy, stayed quiet and polite, the team was already rotting from the inside."
My blunt words made the other players gasp.
Bong Hyeoksu's brow twitched.
"Watch your mouth."
"No, I gotta say it. You mistake ignoring evil for leadership—it's just standing by. When Mo Chanhee was cursing out the kids and playing politics, what were you doing, hyung? Just watching."
I stood, meeting Bong Hyeoksu's gaze.
"Wounds don't heal by covering them. You cut out the rot for new flesh to grow. You saw today's match—team flows right once we excise one tumor."
"You're ruining the vibe."
"Has to be harsh to change. This country, this football scene—they don't listen to polite scoldings."
I scanned the locker room, driving the point home for everyone.
"Drag along anyone with the will to run. But fail to cut the parasites riding our name, and the team rots. If the captain can't, the vice-captain will."
Bong Hyeoksu had no retort.
His wavering pupils said it all.
That his way might be wrong. Even he seemed dimly aware. As a veteran captain, no one dared tell him, so he stuck to it.
The match ended 3-0.
My goal, Tak Go-gang's, and Bong Hyeoksu's header.
Perfect win. Singapore or not, under interim coach, this kept the momentum alive.