Media Onslaught: Breaking the Captain's Silence

As training for the Asian 2nd round qualifiers wrapped up and I headed to the locker room, a peculiar gaze bored into the back of my head.

It was Captain Bong Hyeoksu.

He'd watched my every move throughout the session without saying a word.

Even when Mo Chanhee tried to come at me, and when I fired back with curses—though he probably couldn't hear them clearly—he must've seen the clear conflict between us.

Yet he just silently stretched and cooled down.

The Bong Hyeoksu from my past life.

He was the epitome of a gentleman saint.

Not a Premier League starter, but a frequent rotation player whose face you'd see often. Even while playing in England, he'd show up for national team duty and give his all. When faction fights broke out, he'd quietly try to shift the atmosphere with his play on the pitch.

'Show them with actions rather than words, and the juniors will follow.'

That was Bong Hyeoksu's philosophy, and in my past life, I respected him enough to emulate it. He never explicitly preached, "This is my philosophy." It wasn't his style. He'd just strap on the captain's armband, run his ass off in silence, discuss playstyles after matches, and if players didn't step up, he'd lead by example.

I was shocked—not shocked, but impressed—by that demeanor. I admired him, tried to be a role model for the juniors myself, leading by example because I believed that was his philosophy.

But what was the result?

His silence failed to excise the rot.

Instead, it gave tumors like Mo Chanhee the justification to think, "Even the captain's staying quiet, so we're in the right."

In the end, Bong Hyeoksu couldn't stop the national team's downfall and retired. I inherited that burden, watched the collapse while laughing my ass off, then regressed. Technically, I ended it all by suicide, but the word still sticks in my throat. Maybe because right after regressing, I still had hope, lingering attachments? Nah, screw that—suicide was the right call. I don't want to go back to that ruined football. And above all, this isn't the downfall yet.

'Hyeoksu-hyung, things are different this time.'

I muttered inwardly as I watched Bong Hyeoksu's broad back disappear into the showers.

Your noble silence?

That's the biggest obstacle this life.

Because ignoring evil just puts you on its side. Hyeoksu-hyung, you might've thought your way was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠right in the past life and acted accordingly, but having lived through it, I know how wrong you were. You can't stay silent. Sure, not beating the shit out of us juniors because you got beaten as a player and held that grudge was noble, but when they cross the line, you gotta rein them in. I'll shatter that silence this time. Just you wait, Bong Hyeoksu.

Mo Chanhee grabbed his phone the second training ended and cackled in the corner.

And that evening, portal site sports mains were plastered with sensational headlines.

I'm the only starting overseas player from Spain. Just use my damn name, you idiots.

The 50 Million Bandwagon Fans started boiling over. Another tasty meal appeared, time to roll out the mouth soccer culture, huh? You worthless fucks—judging based on a few lines in an article makes you objective? We get it, your culture is falling for press play before facts check out and turning someone into trash. But for fuck's sake, after driving celebrities and athletes to suicide with that shit, maybe self-reflect, do some soul-searching. You mongrels.

No need to even look at the comments.

Kim Jinu, who'd checked the articles in his room, came rushing to me pale as a ghost.

"Hyung... what do we do? You're taking all the heat. Should I do an interview saying it wasn't like that...?"

"Don't."

I chucked my phone onto the bed and cut him off flat.

"Explanations aren't words."

"Huh? Then what?"

"Does a footballer play soccer with their mouth? Show it with your feet, and that's it. And Jinu."

I gripped the scared pup fullback's shoulder tight.

"You're a defender, right?"

"Y-yeah."

"Tomorrow against Singapore, if Mo Chanhee lines up as wing forward in front of you, you know his style? Zero defensive work, fakes effort to dodge blame, loses the ball and pins it on you."

Kim ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Jinu swallowed hard. He'd already experienced it in training.

"Don't pussy out. There's no goalkeeper behind you."

I thumped my chest.

"I've got you. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠If it gets breached, I'll go kill the fucker myself. So you do your thing, your judgment. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Got it?"

That's when the door opened and my roommate walked in.

Tak Go-gang.

A midfielder whose dribbling was top-tier, but since he wasn't world-class, he got flak for holding the ball too long. He had innate ball feel, but reading the game's flow needed growth. He could stagnate like this. In my past life, Tak Go-gang clashed with Mo Chanhee over playstyles. It built up until free time, when Mo Chanhee—wearing the vice-captain's armband—picked a fight. Words flew, players gathered, and Mo Chanhee, not wanting to lose face in front of juniors and teammates, shoved him. Tak fired back louder, Mo grabbed his collar. Shocked players pulled them apart, Tak tried shaking off the hand, accidentally grazing Mo's face. Mo twisted it into an assault pretext and beat the shit out of him. Players separated them, Bong Hyeoksu quietly buried it, but some rat distorted and edited footage for the press. At first, thought it was an official, but it was pure Mo's perspective—turns out that outlet always shilled for him. Media piled on, Mo basked quietly, and I was glad it wasn't my problem. Press framed it as Tak mouthing off, Mo responding—clear good vs. evil, so Tak got nationally eviscerated by the 50 million. At least now wasn't that timeline. No major clash yet between Tak and Mo. Internal buildup's inevitable—happens in clubs, society, everywhere. The difference is whether it's out or not.

"Go-gang, you here?"

"Uh, yeah? Rion-hyung, you see the articles...? You okay?"

I smirked and tossed Tak a water bottle.

"Worry about your soccer, asshole. But Go-gang."

"Yeah?"

"If you're starting tomorrow, don't drag the ball—when you see a good pass, shove it through. I'll take responsibility."

Both their eyes flickered.

Words of conviction I'd never heard before.

A leader promising to own it.

My hot venom—unlike Bong Hyeoksu's heavy silence—was infecting them.

The opening whistle blew, and Singapore predictably parked the bus in a 10-back as expected.

Games like this dry up if the first goal comes late. Southeast Asian minnows always drop deep against stronger teams. It's meta-awareness—they know their technical and quality deficits, so they counter. Classic underdog. Ball's round, upsets happen here. Gotta score early, force them out, engage. Delay it, and players start overthinking.

And at the center of that overthinking? Mo Chanhee, of course.

"Fuck! Can't you pass straight?!"

15th minute of the first half.

Mo Chanhee dragged the ball on the right wing and turned it over.

Singapore counter.

The spot Mo lost was wide open—the right back, Kim Jinu, had to cover.

Their winger was fast. I saw Kim Jinu panic-stepping backward. Baek Ho-dol knew the kid's defensive promise, so he'd benched all the old vets and picked the rookie national team prospect fullback. Innate sense, but green. Vets hogged that spot forever, stunting growth. That's why the media barrage and partial generational shift in this squad announcement felt intriguing. Results would trigger reevaluation, maybe save Baek's job. At least right now, the national team needs a Korean coach, not a foreigner.

'Fuck, backing off there spells doom.'