An Eye for an Eye
Did they call in mercenaries from the Huashan Sect or something? The Chinese players' eyes changed. The shock of conceding the first goal vanished, replaced by a cold, murderous glint. It was like they were about to unleash some martial arts technique. If plum blossoms started scattering across the pitch, it'd be time to run. From here on out, this wasn't soccer anymore—it was war.
25th minute of the first half. As soon as Bong Hyeoksu picked up the ball near the center line, a Chinese midfielder and defender charged at him from front and back. It wasn't even remotely an attempt to win the ball. No, that was straight-up a blatant intent to take him out.
Thwack!
"Urk!"
A dull thud echoed as Bong Hyeoksu staggered. The tackle from behind targeted his calf, while the body check from the front aimed for his ribs. Anyone could see it was a clear foul. Hell, it warranted more than a yellow card.
But the ref just blew his whistle and gave a stern finger-wag before walking away.
"Fucking hell."
The curse slipped out on its own. I'd figured Middle Eastern refs liked it rough, but this was over the line. Bong Hyeoksu grimaced in pain but shook it off like nothing happened and stood up. He didn't even protest to the ref. He just silently returned to position and reorganized the defensive line. As a fellow man, I respected that shit. Any guy who wasn't a pussy would. But that was my past life. Now that I'd regressed, I knew Bong Hyeoksu was dead wrong.
If the captain's too polite, his teammates get hurt. The guy's got that self-sacrificing personality, which is the problem. But not me.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
I locked eyes on China's number 8 and number 4. The bastard who'd stomped Bong Hyeoksu's calf and the prick who'd slammed into him with his body. They acted like they were some kind of monsters. The number 8 was smirking smugly now that the ref hadn't carded him.
Laugh it up? Yeah, laugh while you can, asshole.
32nd minute of the first half. China pushed up the line for an attack. Their passes were crude, but their physical breakthroughs were threatening. Stick a foot in, and they'd stomp it; stretch a leg, and they'd kick it away. No wonder nobody wanted to challenge them. Who the fuck wants to stick their hand in an alligator's mouth? Think smart. When an alligator opens wide, you don't shove your hand in—you either clamp its jaws shut or gouge its eyes. The ball swung wide before cutting into the center. The receiver? That number 8.
The moment he controlled it and turned, I sprinted at full speed and smashed into his side. No hands. Pure shoulder-to-shoulder collision. Looked like a legit shoulder tackle in a fair fight.
But my 70kg accelerating like a goddamn dump truck was a different story.
BOOM!
"Gahhh! What the fu—!"
Number 8 screamed and flew like a leaf in the wind, crashing into the turf. Must've been a good three meters. He lay there gasping, unable to get up.
Tweet!
The ref rushed over. Wait, he wasn't supposed to do that? Then the Chinese players swarmed me, shoving and protesting. I shoved right back.
"Come at me, you motherfuckers! You eat your rice today or what? Did you?!" The stadium erupted in boos. As the ref approached with his stern, serious face, I barked first.
"Hey! No foul! Just shoulder! Ya! Not a foul! Just a shoulder charge!" No foul, you prick. No foul. Goddamn it.
I threw my hands up in an innocent gesture. Protesting like I was about to eat him alive, I made the ref hesitate before pulling a card. Probably like any human—pause when a gorilla charges out roaring. My hyped-up, blood-pumping state after flattening that Chinese prick must've looked exactly like a gorilla. Slow-mo replay would show I used nothing but my shoulder. What can you do if the opponent's weak and flies away? Of course, it's 'cause I'm strong.
I approached the downed number 8, pretending to offer a hand while whispering low. Not sure if he'd get it.
"Leg boom? Leg boom?" Meaning I'd smash his fucking leg, but I winged it since I didn't know the Chinese for it.
His eyes shook with terror, so it landed just fine. I grinned and turned away. That's when Bong Hyeoksu grabbed my arm.
"Rion. Calm down."
"I wasn't excited. Just establishing the pecking order."
"……."
"If you hold back, they climb higher. Mad dogs need a stick."
Bong Hyeoksu didn't deny it. Instead, he gripped my shoulder tight, then released. Probably wanted to say good job but couldn't due to his principles, so he showed it with actions. Had to be praise. I read the meaning in that heavy silence.
The commentary booth was fired up too.
"Whoa! Ryu Rion! What insane physicality! The Chinese player just got launched!"
"Damn, that felt good! Remember when Bong Hyeoksu got hit earlier and the ref didn't card? Ryu Rion paid it back exactly. That's a clean shoulder charge. Nothing to say!"
"What's smart about Ryu Rion is he crushes them just hard enough to hurt without drawing a card... Uh, sorry. I mean, applies intense pressure. We need that kind of play!"
Stimulated by my tackle, the game turned into a barrage of body checks. China rams, we ram back; they back off, we ram again. With players ready to throw down en masse, the ref couldn't just stand by anymore. International refs are international for a reason, differences in style aside. As bodies collided, he started whistling fouls left and right. The game flowed then stalled, flowed then stalled. Exactly what I'd aimed for. Whistling fouls promptly reduces the physicality. This was the psychological battle on the pitch, but what would those 50 Million Bandwagon Fans make of it? Some fun sideshow? They don't know jack shit about soccer anyway. Figure it out yourselves.
China's players stopped tackling recklessly now. A challenge meant a whistle and broken flow. With rough play shut down, their true colors showed: empty scarecrows with no skill or tactics.
40th minute of the first half. Time for the 2-second rule that Coach Baek Ho-dol had drilled in.
Kim Jinu won the header on China's clearance. The ball went to Tak Go-gang. He didn't panic anymore. Calmly one-touched it to me despite the charging defender.
I received it and glanced the other way. The Chinese defense had piled toward me. The opposite side was wide open.
And there was our lone striker. He ran with Mo Chanhee's crew, but we'd shared a pot in the national team.
"Jeongu hyung!"
I threaded a low, fast through-ball between the defender's legs. It skimmed the grass straight to Park Jeongu's feet. One-on-one with the keeper.
Park Jeongu didn't hesitate. Reading the keeper's move, he curled it to the opposite post.
Splash!
The net rippled again.
2-0. Park Jeongu celebrated with his Shanghai Shanghai Twist dance. Honestly, it was kinda funny. He roared and hugged teammates while I strolled over, savoring the scene. Should've played soccer like this from the start. If only the public had wanted this kind of soccer sooner.
Glancing at the bench, Coach Baek Ho-dol sat sipping water, face unchanged. Soccer has no guarantees, but Korea losing makes no sense either. No clue what he was plotting, but it felt solid. Hope he stays coach. Nearby, the assistants were hugging and jumping.
2-0 at the 40th minute. You watching, Mo Chanhee? Proved that piercing Shaolin soccer and popping the Mo Chanhee bubble lets the real team skeleton stand tall. Felt damn good.
I clenched my fist. After this game, Korean public opinion might flip. And Mo Chanhee in his hospital bed—stop blaming others, drop the excuses, quit the acting, and just play soccer.
Halftime whistle blew. At the tunnel entrance to the locker room, Bong Hyeoksu paused, waiting for the players. He saw me and smiled brightly.
"Rion."
"Yeah."
"You were right."
"About what?"
"That silence destroys teams."
Bong Hyeoksu draped an arm over my shoulder and murmured low.
"Keep barking from now on. I'll handle the cleanup."
That moment, I felt a thrill I'd never known in my past life. The bystander had awakened. Like wings sprouting on a tiger's back.
Now for the second half. Time to watch the Chinese crumble mentally and self-destruct. And I—no, the Korean national team—was ready to fan the flames.