Chapter 151
Translator: uly
Chapter: 151
Chapter Title: Derby Spirit, (4)
Beep, beep, beeeeeep!
The final whistle blew, ending the match.
At that moment, the Wanderers fans who had made the away trip threw their arms wide and roared in triumph.
But two men in particular couldn't bring themselves to celebrate.
"Goddamn it, we lost like this?"
The middle-aged man with half his face buried in a beard was Alan Moore.
A longtime Clarets supporter, he was now seated in the away end.
He and his friend had failed to snag home tickets and ended up scalping two away ones instead.
The skinny Ben Coke next to him wore the same sullen expression.
Throughout the game, the pair had kept their heads down, pretending not to be Clarets fans.
But no longer.
"You fucking pricks! This is an insult to the derby!"
Ben Coke exploded first.
To him, the Wanderers had spent the last fifteen minutes of the second half just passing the ball around, toying with Burnley like it was a joke.
Alan Moore bellowed too, his face twisted in rage.
"We should've fought fair and square! Getting scared over a one-goal lead, you fucking cowards!"
He then unleashed a torrent of abuse at Manager Ma for deploying such tactics in a real match.
"You limp-dicked bastard! You won't be boarding the team bus easy tonight, you piece of shit! You fucker!"
Naturally, the surrounding Wanderers fans shot them looks of pure disgust.
But the two didn't give a damn.
Alan Moore, with his hulking build, glared back defiantly.
"What're you staring at, you losers!"
Right then—
Clack!
Alan Moore's brow furrowed deeply.
Someone had placed a hand on his shoulder.
But he was confident.
With his size and purple belt in jiu-jitsu, he was no pushover.
He'd even anticipated this.
Right in the heart of enemy territory, after revealing himself as a Claret, some thug was bound to pick a fight.
"You goddamn Wanderers scum...!"
Steel resolve in his mind, Moore whipped around, face furious, fists primed to fly.
"Huh?"
His eyes widened in shock.
A towering 190cm white-haired old gentleman was gazing down at him.
'This guy's...?'
It wasn't just the old man's height that startled Alan Moore.
As a veteran Claret who'd battled Bolton fans for years, he'd crossed paths with this silver-haired figure several times before.
Specifically, he'd once been strutting in Bolton territory like this and ended up with his jaw turned inside out.
'It's him...!'
Muscle memory, perhaps.
One look at the old man, and Moore's molars ached.
Back then, the old-timer had warned him with that same beaming smile he wore now.
Just like right now.
"Get lost before I put a hole in your skull with my shotgun, you filthy Claret."
Oblivious Ben Coke, the scrawny one, grinned like he'd hit the jackpot and lunged for the old man's collar.
"You old fart, what the—"
Thwack!
His jaw spun around instantly.
Thud!
* * *
Burnley manager Shun Daichi vented his fury during the post-match interview.
"This is an insult to English football!"
In the final fifteen minutes of the second half, he'd endured pure hellish frustration.
Every time Bolton had possession, they'd hug the corner flag, wasting time.
The Wanderers joined in the fun.
With seconds left in stoppage time, they counted down: "10! 9!"—rubbing it in even more.
Daichi escalated it to a crisis for English football's future.
"For our game to progress, Middle Eastern football like this needs to vanish completely!"
The criticism of Jeong-woo showed no signs of stopping.
"He's no better than someone scarring his players' pride!"
Meaning he'd tied the eager Bolton players' feet by force.
Of course, this was just Daichi's subjective view.
Flash, flash, flash!
In the mixed zone, Adebayor grinned at the camera strobes.
On a question about the time-wasting, he replied:
"Fucking hilarious. Now off to shower."
Even though he felt fresh as could be without one.
* * *
Shun Daichi kept raging in the interview room for a good while.
The reporters looked downright queasy at his outburst.
Only after a long delay did Jeong-woo step in for his turn.
Questions flew immediately.
"You conceded one against Burnley, ending the clean sheet streak. Your thoughts?"
"Clean sheets were bound to break eventually. No big deal."
Frankly, he didn't care at all.
Dragging it out longer might've just chained anxiety around the players' necks.
Breaking it in a game like this was a relief.
'And in a derby, no less—that made it even more meaningful.'
Jeong-woo smirked slyly, tilting his head in his signature cocky way.
"We won, didn't we?"
A win was a win.
More questions followed.
"Pre-season, Bolton Wanderers were tipped for mid-to-lower table. Now you're third. How's it feel?"
"Just happy. Not surprised, though. I always believed our players could deliver this."
The gap between League One and the Championship was massive.
Even League One winners often got relegated straight back from the Championship.
But Jeong-woo had been certain from opening day.
They wouldn't lose easily to anyone.
He'd seen it firsthand, through debates and sweat-soaked battles.
Bolton as a team was evolving.
Not just the players—everyone.
After some time, a reporter asked:
"Manager Daichi accused you of ignoring derby spirit. Your response?"
Jeong-woo could picture it.
Daichi fuming, ranting at him.
Even right after the whistle, he'd glared daggers before storming out the gate.
'Gonna go bald from stress.'
Jeong-woo let his lips droop, chuckling in disbelief.
"Derby spirit means crushing your rivals like bugs, doesn't it? If it bugs him, put up an even fight."
Flash, flash, flash!
Strobes blinded him from all sides, like they'd been waiting.
* * *
The day after the Burnley match, a sunny afternoon.
Jeong-woo and Charlotte Emma were invited to Executive Director Richard Geers' home for the first time.
A housewarming, precisely.
"Wow, nice place."
Jeong-woo whistled softly at the mansion beyond the gate.
Geers' recent personal leave for "business" had been for this.
A two-story house with at least two bathrooms—Jeong-woo eyed it enviously.
"Gotta take decades to save for that."
"Probably."
"England got housing lotteries too...?"
Muttering, Jeong-woo rang the bell.
Soon, ding!—the gate swung open. The front door followed, revealing smiling white-haired Geers.
Guided inside, Jeong-woo froze at the entrance hall.
"Oh, black-and-white photos?"
Framed shots lined the long corridor walls, impossible to miss.
Geers mumbled sheepishly, pride glinting in his eyes.
"My memories, haha."
"Mind if I take a look?"
From hall to living room, they stretched like a gallery.
Geers raised a hand in approval.
"By all means. I'll prep dinner meanwhile."
"'Scuse us."
Geers stepped away.
Jeong-woo and Charlotte Emma approached the first frame.
Jeong-woo squinted.
"That's our ED, right?"
A middle-aged man, cigar clenched in teeth, foot on a kill, shotgun in hand.
Burly shirtless guys surrounded him.
Hunting grounds, clearly.
"Handsome even back then."
Like a movie star.
The hero from that film with adamantium claws sprouting from his knuckles—Wolverine.
"Muscles were no joke."
Light heavyweight build, easy.
Jeong-woo savored each one slowly.
"Hunting hobby, huh."
Next frame: hunting again.
Machine gun slung over shoulder, wicked grin.
"Not the warm smile—pure evil smirk here."
The vibe screamed bloodlust.
But doubt crept into Jeong-woo's eyes as he went on.
"Hunting again...?"
Eighth frame, still hunting.
Tenth: middle-aged Geers front and center in a crowd of ten-plus.
Pistol in hand, foot on a sprawled kill.
Jeong-woo's eye twitched.
Something familiar in the background.
[Welcome, Wanderers!]
"Welcome, Wanderers...?"
Bolton University of Stadium, row A upper section lettering.
"...Why's this here...?"
A chill ran down his spine.
Now the photos hit differently.
That "animal" under Geers' foot...?
'A person?'
Look closer: mouth agape, eyes shut—passed out or dead?
Then another detail.
Top right of the frame...
"Preston North End, Wigan Athletic, Burnley, Rochdale, Bury, Blackburn Rovers, etc."
Jeong-woo jolted before finishing the thought.
Charlotte Emma, primly beside him, listed them softly, one by one.
Her eyes even sparkled with admiration.
"Photos capturing the passion and brutal clashes with Bolton's rivals—and the joy of victory."
She added a rare proud smile.
"Our ED was Bolton's top hooligan. That's my granddad, Gold Emma, next to him. Of course, those folks aren't dead. Probably."
"..."
He suddenly felt like bolting.