Lion's Debut: Bayern Clash and Mini Korea-Japan Fury
Right then, my phone buzzed. Fuckin' hell, I thought it was Bong Hyeoksu. The messages pouring in from Korea had already topped a few hundred. Association officials, old teammates, unknown numbers—you name it. But none of their noise mattered to me right now. So shut the fuck up already.
I arrived at London Euston Station and headed to a quiet restaurant near Soho that I'd booked in advance. It was a steakhouse tucked in a back alley, the kind only insiders knew about, with top-notch security.
Deep inside the restaurant, at the most secluded corner table, a man in a black cap pulled low looked up from cutting his steak.
"You're here, you crazy bastard."
The pride of Korean soccer beating in Chelsea's heart. Bong Hyeoksu. He set down his fork casually and stared right at me.
"Hey, my phone nearly exploded because of you. People keep asking me shit. Since you're tight with Ryu Rion, spill the details on the national team factions—who's who, all that."
I slid into the seat across from him leisurely and opened the menu.
"So you told 'em?"
"You nuts? Why feed the trolls? But listen, Rion."
Bong Hyeoksu adjusted his cap and lowered his voice. The playful glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by dead seriousness.
"You sure you can handle this? You've poked the entire establishment in this industry."
I called the waiter, ordered wine, then flashed him a grin.
"Hyeoksu hyung."
"Spit it out."
"There's this little voice inside me telling me to do it."
He nearly spat out his water at that and shot me a look.
"Little voice inside? What the fuck. You Robin van Persie or some shit? Huh? Van Persie?"
"Why not? Kinda romantic, don't you think?"
"Romantic my ass..."
"Speaking of London and Van Persie, reminds me—if Arsenal hadn't gone full Van Persie mode, could Bendtner have ever played?"
Bong Hyeoksu stared into space, pondering seriously for a moment.
"From what I remember, he got pushed out by Bendtner too. It's been so long, kinda fuzzy."
"Ah, that apple-head kid? Wenger was something else. Calls him up himself, then treats him like a thorn in his side... That's why I'm glad I came to City."
Bong Hyeoksu let out a dry chuckle.
"Who says you're starting for City? They saving a spot for you?"
"De Bruyne. Looks like he's about to bounce."
Hyeoksu hyung's eyes narrowed.
"Oh yeah... Kevin De Bruyne, strong links to Napoli. Guess he's really going."
I fiddled with my glass instead of answering.
Maybe Pep signing me was the signal for De Bruyne. Figures his spot's at risk and decides to bail?
Arrogant? Sure, but in a mega-club like Man City, that arrogance is your survival strategy. I changed the subject.
"Anyway, hyung, Chelsea preseason in the UK? Home games? Why you in London?"
"Nah, I'm on break."
My mind reeled for a second. Chelsea's squad was a money pit of talent. Even for Bong Hyeoksu, starting wasn't guaranteed, and rest during preseason? Was his position shaky?
He read my face and cut in.
"Not shaky, don't worry. Heard you were in the UK, wanted to see your face. Asked the club for a short break—good chance to test the prospects, so they were cool with it."
Confidence, check.
"What if a prospect steals your spot?"
He pretended to punch me lightly at my jab.
"Steal it? As if."
Fair point. Chelsea's squad was bloated with cash-fueled stars, but Bong Hyeoksu wasn't shaky because of skill. He was one of the monsters who'd survived London's warzone. We vented our frustrations, enjoyed the food, chatted national team shit, and had a good time.
Time flew.
"Gotta head out soon."
"Go on, asshole. See you at the stadium."
Short goodbye, then off to our respective battlefields.
Manchester City Football Academy (CFA).
Pep Guardiola's training was as perverse as the rumors said. Dividing space into 10cm grids, demanding philosophy in every ball trajectory.
"Ryan! Don't look at the space! Watch for the time when space is created!"
Pep's roar echoed across the pitch. Syncing with the world's best—Haaland, Bernardo Silva, Rodri—was more thrilling than I'd imagined. I'd thread a pass, Haaland was already there. I'd get pressed, Rodri ghosts in to open the lane.
Finally, my Man City debut was set. Preseason Asia tour opener.
Manchester City vs Bayern Munich.
City vs Munich was fun, but Koreans were buzzing more over the mini Korea-Japan clash. Japan's Ito had recovered from injury and made Bayern's defense. Korean media was hyped, still milking anti-Japan sentiment like thin broth. These idiots still wallow in it, slapping up shitty slogans for any Korea-Japan game. What was it? "A nation that forgets its history has no future"? If they really knew history. History's whatever suits your taste. Slam Japan hard, paint 'em as eternal sinners with the history card. Fine, if that's "knowing history," then post-colonial split into South and North—remember how North invaded during the Korean War? Incheon landing turned it, but Chinese human waves pushed us back, leading to division. So why not rage at China too? But only Japan gets the heat. Not 'cause I'm pro-Japan—genuine question. If you're shoving history, shove it at both. But Japan yes, China quiet. Funny country. Or drop the "woke citizen" act, shut up about history, and just enjoy soccer. But no. Korean media was bloodthirsty for juvenile framing.
"Ryan. Ready?"
Pep clapped my shoulder after training.
"Ito's Japanese. Think you can break 'em in this Korea-Japan?"
This octopus-takoyaki fucker? I'd just vented my Korea-Japan thoughts—in my head, of course.
I tightened my laces and muttered low.
"Before Korea-Japan, it's Man City. Gotta take Munich. Fuckin' right."
That's my soccer, my answer to Korean soccer. My team ain't the nation—it's City. Cheer for City.
"Let's go. Time to bag Munich."
And looks like I'm starting? My heart pounded.
Tokyo National Stadium brimmed with humid, sticky heat.
Japanese fans filling the stands, Korean jeers mixed in. Global soccer eyes on this Asia tour peak. My gaze locked on the 0-0 scoreboard and Bayern's busy backline below.
"Ryan. Warm up."
Pep's low command, I stood.
Next to me, a guy rose from Bayern's bench. Japan's Ito Hiroki. Tokyo, so he'd start normally. But chronic glass body— injury nagged again. Still, samurai spirit—he could play. For Japan, not big injury, so he'd push. Our team could learn that grit. Well, it'd wreck him worse, but yeah. Preseason, club docs greenlit it. Not preaching samurai bullshit—it's the responsibility, mentality. Ito was the media's mini Korea-Japan star, staring at the pitch like a warrior bearing national fate.
I stifled a laugh, strapped on my band.
Poor bastard must be tired. Their media same as ours? Or Japanese different from bandwagoners?
From the Korean broadcast booth, probably: "Ryu Rion enters! Who'll claim Asia's pride against Ito Hiroki?!" Cringe shit.
Second half, 25th minute. Pep gripped my shoulder.
"Don't wait for space. Twist it yourself. Got it?"
"Yes, takoyaki gaffer."
"What?"
"Tactics understood."
I ignored Pep's puzzled look and stepped onto the pitch. Perfect timing—subbing in with Ito Hiroki. Cameras scrambled for our two-shot.