Mini Korea-Japan Showdown: Laser Passes and Transfer Chaos

Second half, 25th minute of the preseason friendly between Manchester City and Bayern Munich at Tokyo National Stadium. The scoreboard flashed, and the Japanese commentators' voices brimmed with anticipation.

The Japanese broadcast team's tone heated up.

The moment I stepped onto the pitch, the humid heat hit my skin. As I brushed past Ito Hiroki, I caught a glimpse of his determined side profile.

Hmm... looks like the type who'd make an easy abortion.

Soon Ito stuck close to me. With his build honed from switching between center-back and full-back, he looked solid. He glanced at me and muttered something in Japanese. Yamete? Konnichiwa? I couldn't make out the words, but his eyes screamed he wouldn't let me through. Why didn't you just use protection properly?

I headed straight to the center of midfield and waved my hand. We hadn't gelled long as a team yet, but Pep's tactical board was etched in my brain.

"Hey, Bernardo! When Rodri pushes up, you cover this side."

Bernardo Silva hesitated for a split second, read my eyes, nodded curtly, and adjusted his position. The world's top technician following a newbie's orders without a word. That alone shifted the atmosphere around me on the pitch.

The commentary booth lit up again.

I casually circulated the ball, controlling the tempo. Munich's press looked precise from the bench, but up close, there were plenty of gaps. Damn, it's as hot here as in Korea. The moment I controlled Rodri's pass with one touch, my vision caught the silhouette of a massive frame curving behind Munich's defensive line.

Shwick—

The ball left my toe, skimming the grass and slicing through Munich's back four in an instant. This was a Spanish laser pass.

The ball landed right at Erling Haaland's feet like it was measured with a ruler. Haaland unleashed a powerful left-footed shot, but Manuel Neuer stood like a wall in goal.

Thwack!

The ball ricocheted off ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Neuer's fingertips over the line.

The Japanese commentators let out a sigh laced with praise. Shame it didn't go in—that would've caused a riot. Preseason or not, the public loved big-club drama.

Moments later, Munich countered. Ito Hiroki overlapped from left-back, boosting their attacking numbers.

Now's the time.

As Ito pushed up to receive the ball, I burst forward. He looked flustered but ditched the risky dribble, firing a quick forward pass to escape the press. Ah, this bastard, thinking he's Munich material just 'cause of his looks.

I stopped, smacking my lips.

So close. One beat slower and I'd have cleanly nicked it.

Counterattack opportunity came right away. I took the ball in midfield, exchanged quick one-twos with Bernardo Silva, and drove through the center. Blocking my path again: Ito Hiroki.

Ito lowered his center of gravity, staring me down like national pride was on the line. I smirked and feinted with a body feint.

Fake right, then nudge left. Simple move, but the tempo shift crumbled his balance.

I slipped past him like paper and whipped a cross into the box, but it caught a Munich defender's foot. If Ito were at full fitness, he wouldn't have lost balance that easily.

42nd minute of the second half.

Rodri nudged the ball to my toe. Ito charged like a dog.

Classic fighter-style defending. This guy, not even in proper shape, keeps coming at me.

I didn't stop the ball, scraping it with my left instep to unbalance him. As flustered Ito lunged desperately, I nudged it forward, then instantly switched feet and burst away.

La Croqueta.

I ghosted past him in a flash. Behind me, I heard Ito futilely scraping the turf.

"Ooooh!"

Tokyo National Stadium erupted. Not bad for a reaction like that. I faked a long ball to the opposite winger, then threaded it through a Munich defender's legs. As I spun out, Upamecano shouldered me hard.

No foul. Right, no foul. He just led with his shoulder first. Upamecano, was it? I clocked your face. Left-wing or right, I'll be ready to wipe that throat clean.

As I made that vow, the whistle blew for full time.

Mixed zone.

Korean reporters, sweating buckets, shoved mics in my face.

"Ryu Rion! You clashed with Ito Hiroki several times today—what's your take?"

I cracked open a water bottle, took a swig, and replied indifferently.

"Dunno about that. This was my Man City debut, though. Feels refreshingly fun. I'll give it my all for City's titles going forward."

The reporter faltered. "Ah, but the mini Korea-Japan war everyone hoped for happened—how was it different from facing Korean defenders?"

"Sure. It's a friendly, so hard to compare. This is Japan, I'm a City player—drop the corny Korea-Japan frame and ask about City, then I'll answer."

I shrugged like that was that and walked out of the mixed zone. I could feel the reporters standing there dumbfounded behind me.

The community exploded again.

News comments were buzzing too.

The summer transfer window was pure madness.

If a normal one was gentle waves, this was a tsunami. Across Europe, star players meshed like gears in a chain reaction of transfers.

In my new nest near Manchester, I scrolled my tablet and let out a hollow laugh.

"What the hell is this?"

Way off from my past life memories. De Bruyne went to Napoli later in my timeline, same with Wirtz. History was rewriting itself in real time. My transfer butterfly effect seemed to accelerate others' moves.

Shaking up Korean football and cracking Man City's fortress—had that triggered Europe's market? The moment I was pegged as De Bruyne's potential replacement, his transfer clock sped up.

Tottenham threw money at them, but got iced out. Even in my past life, Spurs' window always creaked. The big picture flowed the same, but timings diverged in the details.