The Cleaning Begins
I couldn't say for sure that I'd committed suicide. I didn't know why I'd regressed or why Coach Kim Myeongbak had vanished. Everything was one big question mark. But there was no more time to wander around searching for answers. I'd set my goal, and that would become the reason for my regression.
Right now, just two things made my heart race.
First, stop the collapse of Korean football.
Second, don't stand by and watch the 50 Million Bandwagon Fans' bullshit anymore.
That's all I ran for. Some players might aim for titles and personal glory after regressing. Not me. I wasn't some standout striker banging in goals every match anyway.
I'm the kind of player a team can't do without. The type who contributes with standout midfield play. To rebuild the crumbling spirit of the Red Devils for this country's football, that's the reason I'd set for this regression. That's why I came back. That's why I live.
So let's just say my previous life ended with me watching Korean football collapse and killing myself.
Knock knock.
I gave a short rap and pushed open the door. The coach's office was steeped in a heavy, silent air, cut off from the noisy chaos of the mixed zone.
"Hello."
"Yes, have a seat."
Coach Baek Ho-dol looked up from his papers and adjusted his glasses.
Seeing him after so long brought memories from my previous life flooding back. Baek Ho-dol from before... the tragic mastermind? Nah, not quite a legend. Hell, I didn't even know his full capabilities. A few titles, some successful firefighting stints. He had a solid K League championship on his resume, but got dismissed just for being a domestic coach. While the association and public chased flashy foreigners, he got used up as a temp fixer for sinking teams and then forgotten.
That's why I knew him. Knew he wasn't some authority-obsessed boomer lording over players.
"La Liga, and that rough Celta Vigo at that—jumping straight into the starting XI, right?"
Coach Baek spoke with a faint smile.
"Local interviews saying the team felt Ryan's absence in every game you missed... Impressive stuff. Ryu Rion, I sincerely welcome you to the national team."
"You're too kind. Thanks for calling me up."
Courteous chit-chat exchanged. Now for the real talk. His eyes sharpened.
"Since we're here, let me cut to the chase. I'd like you to take on the vice-captain role during this camp. What do you think?"
I'd seen it coming. Past me—or the old me—would've politely declined. Barely surviving in Europe took all I had, and I hated the spotlight it'd bring. Didn't want to waste energy on team politics or factions either. I'd loved football once, but after seeing its ugly reality, no way I wanted to play along with that disgusting political circus. The 50 Million Bandwagon Fans wouldn't get it. Football wasn't just about playing the game.
But now that I'd regressed? Different story.
Mo Chanhee.
Just thinking the name made bile rise in my throat. Outwardly preaching grit, but blaming others the second we conceded, poisoning the locker room. Parasites.
Those fuckers were sly. Hiding behind the hot-and-cold public opinion the 50 Million Bandwagon Fans embodied to justify their loser mentality. Giggling from inside the wrapper while fans trashed the coach and association. Korean football's stagnation wasn't just the bandwagon bullshit. It was the rotten ingredients mixed in with it.
To the 50 million, the national team looked like one unit, one heart. But playing in it, I knew better. The public didn't understand football at all. After regressing, the first things I needed to seize were skill and power. No power, no cleaning house. Last life, I had skill but no power. To stop assholes like Mo Chanhee hiding behind "hyung" hierarchy bullshit, I had to stand at the top.
I looked up and met Coach Baek's eyes straight on. No hesitation.
"I'll do it."
"Oh... Straight to the point. Not too burdensome?"
"More like a sense of responsibility."
I clenched my fist tight.
"There's shit we gotta sweep out. On the pitch or off."
He might not have caught the full implication, but he read the venom in my eyes. He nodded, satisfied.
The grass scent at Paju NFC always carried a subtle tension.
"Pass it around! Keep the tempo up!"
Coach Baek's whistle kicked off the first camp training: 8v8 mini-game. Just warming up, but I cranked the intensity on purpose. Wanted them to feel the shift in the national team's air.
But rotten water always stagnates.
"Ah, for fuck's sake. Pass it longer, man!"
A sharp whine cut across the pitch. Mo Chanhee. The ball from the back didn't land right at his feet, so instead of moving to receive, he planted himself and yelled at the youngest, Kim Jinu.
Jinu's pass wasn't bad. Smart ball into space. Half a beat quicker reaction from Mo, and it'd been a dangerous chance. But he didn't run. Didn't run and blamed the kid.
"Hyung, what am I supposed to do if you don't move? Space was wide open!"
Jinu protested, aggrieved, but Mo crossed his arms and scoffed.
"Hey, the pass died midway. Why're you bitching at me when you fucked the timing?"
The training ground chilled instantly. Other players glanced around awkwardly. Classic Mo. Weaponizing hierarchy to justify slacking, eroding team morale. Textbook loser mentality I despised.
I stopped the rolling ball at my feet.
"Stop."
My low, clear voice blanketed the pitch in silence. I stared Mo down, ball pinned under my cleat.
"Why stop? Keep the flow, just play."
Mo shot back with a cocky grin, testing me. Eyes saying, La Liga starter means shit here? I'm your senior. EPL mid-table scavenger coasting on Asian foreigner hype, the fuck.
I walked toward him slowly.
"Senior Mo Chanhee."
"Yeah, what?"
"This some casual morning kickabout?"
"...What?"
His face twisted. I pressed harder, eyes locked.
"Gotta serve it on a platter before you touch it? Space open and your mouth moves before your feet—that national team material?"
"You little shit... Hey, Ryu Rion. Watch your mouth. I'm older than you."
"Wanna be treated like a hyung? Act like one."
I tapped the yellow vice-captain armband on my sleeve.
"From now on, no hyung-dongsaeng bullshit on this pitch. This ain't a social club—it's a warzone. That play in La Liga? You'd be booted from the locker room, not just the bench."
The air froze. Mo's face flushed red-purple. He clenched his fists and stepped toward me, trying to intimidate.
"Spain water gone to your head? Nothing scares you anymore?"
Nope. Not a damn thing, you punk. I stepped closer, whispering cold so only he heard.
"Riding bandwagon hype has its limits. Fool the fans all you want—can't fool my eyes. Show that rotten loser mentality in front of me one more time..."
I patted his shoulder as I passed.
"And I'll snap your ankle. Fuck off."
Mo stood there, mouth agape, speechless. Just staring blankly. Wasn't raw skill gap. It was the massive aura gap from the quiet Ryu Rion—the La Liga silent grinder, the dutiful national team worker he'd assumed. Witnessing that unexpected dominance shut him down cold.
I grabbed the ball and yelled.
"Kim Jinu! That pass was gold. Don't hold back—keep firing like that! Go again!"
"Y-Yes! Got it!"
Energy returned to Jinu's voice. Stiff players loosened up, feet moving faster. From afar, arms crossed Coach Baek watched, a faint smile creeping on.
You loser-minded rotten fucks. You clueless 50 Million Bandwagon Fans. Football collapsed, I regressed, and now I'm here. The cleaning's just getting started.