Chapter 68
In the old days before P's Aptitude Test, people couldn't even discover their own aptitudes. Even the Swimming Emperor Nam Hae-su wasn't suited to be a swimmer—that says it all.
But you know his aptitude? 'Nam Hae-su himself!' The shady guy who confessed to Park Han-hee, who was prepping for track, and recommended she become a 'singer'—it had to be Nam Hae-su.
I'd been worried he might've completely forgotten his real wife and started fresh, but I looked like a fool. Still, just in case...
"I have no idea why he suddenly recommended singing to you. Ah! Did you two ever go to a karaoke bar together or something?"
"Of course not! Paying to sing is such a waste."
"Er... right."
I got it—he'd thrown away the chance and talent to belt out high notes to his heart's content.
"Why bring it up?"
"That guy who talked like he knew all about you. There was one recently, right?"
"Ah! That sleazy bastard!"
"What if it's the same person?"
"Could be!"
I decided to get help from Nam Hae-su's wife, whom he was still obsessed with in his dreams. Ask her to find your 'husband.' I'd crafted a plausible connection, so I asked,
"Do you know his name?"
"Nope. Didn't care."
"But you remember his face?"
"Hmm... He had that vibe of a chaebol heir, class oozing from every pore."
"Hoo~"
A formula clicked in my mind. Dream worlds revolve around the 'protagonist.' Sure, settings like a second-year middle schooler with an incurable disease, but it made sense. If you had no talent or looks in reality and nothing went right, there'd be no reason to get trapped in a dream.
They couldn't wake up because life in the dream was satisfying and happy enough to deny reality.
'Unless...' Like Song Seon-yeong, obsessing over a dream to change the past (their aptitude). Either way, Nam Hae-su wasn't your average guy.
"But probably not."
"Huh?"
"If he was really a chaebol heir, why would he go to a cram school? He could've bought his way into a top university with money."
"Aha!"
In this era, you could get into a top university with cash? Outrageous and shocking nonstop.
'Still, he's gotta be a chaebol heir. Either himself or...'
Would Nam Hae-su, with his old-era experience, not know a single easy way to make money? No way. So, this rich guy going to cram school wasn't for college.
His wife attended that school! Natural meetings and building rapport—that had to be the goal.
"Today was fun."
"Yeah! See you tomorrow!"
"...Han-hee."
"Yeah?"
My path in this world had become crystal clear.
"About what I said last time."
"......"
"Can you give me some time?"
"You mean... wait until you forget your ex, the one you broke up with?"
"Exactly."
"...You're the first guy to make me wait."
"Too much to ask, right?"
"You're so dense! I'm already waiting, dummy? See you tomorrow!"
"Yeah."
Nam Hae-su's reason for getting trapped in the dream was clear: regret and lingering attachment. The desire to change the irretrievable past!
'Watch from the shadows.'
I'll scratch that itch for you painfully!
* * *
Swimming is a sport that burns massive stamina. Which made it hugely advantageous for me, with near-infinite endurance. Butterfly, breaststroke, backstroke. Once I seriously started learning the other strokes, my scores were overwhelming.
On the flip side—
Thud!
"Gahk~?!"
In events where technique trumped stamina, I was useless.
"Haha! Your movements have improved quite a bit!"
"This is improved?"
The Gomushin Coach's praise didn't feel like praise after he'd dropped me with one kick.
"I've been holding my dad's hand going to the taekwondo dojang since I was three. Losing to a total newbie would be ridiculous."
"Urgh..."
On the belt of my brand-new white taekwondo dobok was a white stripe, marking less than a month of greenhorn training. And standing before me was the coach with a black belt, symbolizing two or more successful promotions.
Two years of experience: black belt. Ten years: black belt. Fifty years: black belt... At that point, you couldn't judge skill by uniform.
But 'he's different.' This man, coaching Korea's national taekwondo representatives—the birthplace of the sport—had a totally different aura.
A powerhouse. Like facing an invincible white tiger!
That was why I'd given up all Olympic events except swimming, fencing, and track.
"Gomushin Coach."
Gomushin. The man revered nationwide as the Martial God and taekwondo pioneer.
He treated young national athletes like kids, so he didn't seem hung up on the Olympics.
I wasn't an exception either.
"What? Another round?"
"Gimme a sec to catch my breath. How do you read my moves beforehand?"
"Crystal clear."
"......"
Felt like I'd heard that answer a hundred times.
"You should've figured it out by now. Sounds harsh, but you have no talent for fighting."
"I know."
My aptitude was shaman, after all.
"Hoped you'd realize it yourself, but you look struggling, so I'll teach you."
"Yes."
"Your killing intent is too thick."
"Ah!"
"You're constantly signaling when and how you'll kill me—how could I not notice?"
"......"
It was a huge shock. Killing intent was my weapon.
Ordinary folks, unlike fencers used to the fear of death, would cower. And lose their one life before getting accustomed.
"Stick blindly to this fighting style, and you'll regret it big time later."
"Hide my killing intent?"
"If you don't wanna get one-sidedly crushed by guys like me."
"Got it."
"Good. Looks like you understand—another spar?"
"Yes!"
"Come at me any—"
"Gahk~?!"
Thud!
My shallow ambush failed again, and I hit the mat.
"Sheesh."
"Ugh..."
My crown, stamped by the coach's heel, burned hot.
"You didn't get it at all. Your body can't keep up with your head. Probably the latter."
"......"
Meaning no talent.
"Still wanna keep going?"
"...Of course."
"Then come back."
"Yes!"
I fell again and again.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud...!
But I didn't quit. I didn't want to relive dying in despair from overwhelming power gaps.
Then it hit me—'kill him!' Desperate to even graze the coach's collar, I thought of a trick.
Twitch.
The coach reacted to my killing intent with an unnecessary move.
"Oh?"
He saw through the feint instantly, but it was my first glimpse of an opening.
"Hah!"
I stepped forward without missing a beat, attempting a roundhouse kick.
"Hmm."
Whoosh— But the coach spun like a top on his left foot, his right heel kick slamming my gut!
Splat!
The recoil, boosted by my own momentum, choked off my breath.
"Guhk—?!"
I'd always bounced back quick before, but this time I was stuck flat.
Thump.
I sprawled on my back, limbs splayed out.
"Impressive."
"Cough cough!"
"Great judgment. If you can't hide the thick killing intent, use it instead."
"You saw right through it, though?"
"Practice more. Don't con artists get good at lying with practice?"
"Ah..."
The coach's grin felt like real praise.
"Continue?"
"Yes! Hit me again!"
I stood, rubbing my chest like a massage.
Straight up!
'Obviously.'
I'd make up for my lacking talent with time and grit.
* * *
As the Olympics neared, expectations piled on me higher.
Swimming, track, fencing, taekwondo. Four events total, but drilling down: 72 sub-events.
Meaning max gold medals I could snag: 72.
Not bad.
"Han-hee. Do your best."
"Yeah..."
Park Han-hee failed to qualify after underwhelming results. Lazy? No, pure skill shortage.
Government hinted they'd sneak her onto the national team as my girlfriend, but she flatly refused.
"Wanna run together after so long?"
"Sure!"
I spent most time at the taekwondo dojang, so we rarely crossed paths. Lunchtime maybe? But even that got tough lately due to conspiracy rumors.
<Kang Moon-soo's infection risk...>
<Assassin from abroad...>
<Government doing utmost to protect athletes...>
<Player Village security tightened...>
Rumors I, the gold-sweeper, would get infected to bar me from Olympics! Over-the-top fantasy, but enough believers that the government couldn't ignore it.
"Bear with it, even if stuffy."
"Infection would be disaster."
"Tell us if you need anything."
"One more disinfection."
Apparently, tons would go naked if I caught something and missed Olympics—including the hygiene crew themselves.
'This is straight-up blackmail, right?'
Plus, some presidential guards pulled for physical threat prep. Eyes everywhere—I couldn't act solo.
"Feels like my nose gets poked every time I see you, Moon-soo."
Park Han-hee grimaced post-infection check.
"If it's tough, we can just call..."
"Hate that more."
Her firm stance drew a wry smile.
"Your stamina's improved a lot."
"I worked hard."
"Hmm..."
She could run way longer than when we met. Thighs and calves more defined, side flab gone.
"Where you looking?"
"Your body."
"Specifically."
"...Checking your hard work."
"Sounds like praise, but doesn't feel great."
"Ahem!"
Caught, I fake-coughed and glanced back.
"......"
"......"
Hygiene agents on bikes trailing us from afar. To block untested or unknown folks from approaching.
'Hm? What's that?'
Two black vans speeding our way.
Vrooom—!
Blithely ignoring the Player Village's 30 kph limit.
"...Run."
"Moon-soo?"
"Hurry!"
Didn't look like new hygiene or guards. More like bandits from romance fantasy novel The Youngest Daughter of the Count's Family.
Similar vibe to those traveler-muggers.
"This way!"
"Okay!"
Off the sidewalk blocks next to the road, into the garden!
If I was wrong, they'd stop or pass by.
Thud! Boom!
But the black vans ditched the asphalt without hesitation, still chasing. Can't outrun a track athlete on foot, their only choice.
"Gasp!"
"What the hell's that car?!"
"What's happening?!"
Hygiene crew panicked at the anomaly.
Meanwhile, guards: "Requesting backup...!" "Seal the road now!" "Rumors were true?!"
They regretted not expecting real physical threats. Me too.
'Which psycho...!'
Seemed they aimed to ram and kill me.
"Eek?!"
"Calm down!"
Grabbed terrified Park Han-hee's hand, pulled her behind a utility pole.
Vrooom!
But the two black vans showed no sign of slowing.
'They're dead serious!'
No fear of death. Just didn't wanna die stupidly to unknowns.
What to do? Decision was instant.
"Keep running."
"Moon-soo?!"
Shook off her hand and charged the vans.
Screech—!
As expected, they ignored her, zeroing on me.
'Focus... now!'
Right before the bumper hit, I dove sideways.
Crunch!
The van grazed past, smashing a roadside tree.
"The other one's... damn."
The second didn't charge—instead, it braked to block my path.
Clunk.
Doors flew open, burly guys pouring out.
'No way...?'
Glanced back—the crashed van's guys were spilling out too. Iron pipes in hand.
Planning to smash my bones.
"You Kang Moon-soo?"
One of the encircling thugs growled like a reaper's verdict.
I scanned around and replied,
"No guns, I see."
"That matter?"
"Yeah. Big time."
No reason to run now. Fight an 'athlete' without guns? Laughable.
"Punks like you who just run fast? This is plenty."
"Yeah? Then come at me."
"...Kill him."
"Haha!"
Time to show why modern athletes are called monsters.