On the Street, a Fist Is Enough

I was just getting up to go shower.

"Jihun."

At the professor's call, I turned my head.

"You're not coming to our school, are you?"

"...Sorry?"

"University. I mean university."

Maybe he'd decided it was a little odd for a third-generation chaebol to enroll at Korea National Sport University. Before I could even answer, he laughed, awkward and shy.

"It'd be tough, wouldn't it?"

"You have to be good enough to get in."

"What, you think this place is nothing but kids training for the Olympics? A guy like you, kid—you'd be more than enough to..."

Kind of him to say, at least. He seemed to have more left unsaid, though. Unlike before, he opened his mouth with a fairly serious face.

"I'm only saying this out of an old man's worry. Not that you'd ever actually do such a thing, but..."

"...?"

"If, by some chance, you get into a fight with kids your own age, just land a few punches and leave it at that."

"What do you mean?"

"Get worked up and drive one in full force, and it'll be a disaster, kid."

He spoke as if he were addressing some black belt. Sure, I'd trained with the athlete division... but a few months of lessons was all it amounted to. What was he on about?

Maybe he read my face. The professor went on, quite gravely.

"Tackles stay on the mat, and only against athletes. Can you promise me that?"

"Of course."

Only then, as if reassured, did he nod.

"I'm not some rigid old fossil. I'm not telling you to just take the hits when someone picks a fight."

"..."

"On the street, a fist is plenty, isn't it? Hell, a few body shots and they'd drop..."

"What am I, some thug?"

"I'm just saying, that's all."

I snorted. I like people who train. Chaebol heir or whatever else, the moment they start coaching, the shouting comes first. And that isn't all. Sweat it out side by side for a while and a strange camaraderie takes hold—which is why, like now, you end up saying what's on your mind without any trouble.

"I'll be off, then."

"Be sure to bring a gift."

"What would you like?"

"Chocolate."

Aigoo. How modest of him. I nodded, in a fine mood.

After my shower, I climbed into the car.

"Where shall I take you, young master?"

"The Hannam-dong office, please."

Usually, once training ended, I was in a hurry to get home and lie down. I'd wrung myself out to the very soul(?), so of course. And yet I was deliberately heading for the office, because Martin had gotten in touch on his own. I'd already heard he was buried in development these days.

No way my brother helped. He's about to start his senior year.

Martin had probably built the thing alone. And if he was asking me to take a look, that meant it was more than ninety percent finished.

If I say it's good, he'll want to release it.

Martin had already done so much for me. Returning a favor like this was the least I could do, and gladly.

On the way to Hannam-dong, I read through the documents in the seat beside me. First up was a proposal from the head of Meiyo. He wanted to make an RPG based on Romance of the Three Kingdoms?

Reading closely, it wasn't the Heroes edition. Unlike that combat-heavy Heroes line, this proposal was a traditional RPG focused on raising Liu Bei's army. I'd played most of the Three Kingdoms games put out under the Meiyo name, and even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ones I hadn't touched, I knew exactly which titles had been released. Even so, this proposal was new to me.

Hmm.

Maybe history was already bending under my interference. Interest stirred, and I went through the papers carefully. They must have been preparing for a long time; fresh systems caught my eye all over the place. Was that why?

This is going to cost a fair bit.

So the reason they'd sent the proposal was to ask me to open fire with the cash. Something like that, wasn't it? I checked the investment figure once more. The pen scratched, and I signed my name in the approval box.

I turned to the second document. This one was from Yang Eokgwan, and it was absurdly thick. Ah—he'd written a report on where the returns had come from, and how.

He really put his back into it.

The return was roughly twenty percent. Managing someone else's money, his heart must have been hammering the whole time. For a first attempt, it was honestly excellent.

Next year, let's hit thirty.

I was about to close the file when a single note tucked into the back caught my eye. Handwriting pressed hard into the page. Yang Eokgwan.

The things I'd told him to handle weren't exactly one or two. I read on, taking my time.

Oh!

I'd given a man like that the chance to watch Jordan play live, all year long.

His loyalty to me went without saying.

The quality of the work would climb and climb, too. I was happily turning that over, just about to set the approval documents aside, when familiar scenery seemed to slide past the window. With a soft hush, the car began to slow.

"We've arrived."

If I didn't say anything, the chauffeur would wait until I came back out.

"I'm planning to walk home."

"I could drive you, young master..."

"I'm walking for the exercise. That's all."

Meaning he was free to clock out.

"Th-thank you."

The chauffeur got out to bow. Aigoo—and with that age gap! Thanks to him, I had to open the door as if I were fleeing.

I was hurrying toward the office when it struck me what sort of building this was. You hardly saw a soul here besides the mailman. And yet, of all things—

Glance, glance. Someone was carefully studying the entrance.

Suspicious, even from the back.

"Excuse me?"

At my voice the man spun around in a hurry.

Huh?

The face was familiar enough that I doubted my own eyes. Dry brown hair, a face white as paper, and blue eyes, with a compact, sturdy build on top of it all. No mistake.

"Jack 'Tiger' Grylls?"

"You remember."

We'd sat the interview and even eaten together. Of course I remembered. No—wait. That wasn't the problem right now.

"What are you doing here?"

Before Jack could answer, the conversation from interview day came back to me.

A conversation in passing. The sort of we'll grab a meal if we ever meet again that nobody expects you to follow through on. And he'd actually come looking?

No. Before that—

"How did you even find this place?"

"I got into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Royal School."

My breath caught. Congratulations could wait.

"I called the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠school right away. Told them I'd gotten close with a friend who interviewed with me, and asked them to give me the address written on the application."

"And?"

"They just told me."

Ha.

I'd said I was the son of the floor leader of the largest party. My identity checked out, and we really had interviewed together, so they must have handed over the address without much suspicion.

Still, it's a little unsettling.

But what was done was done. I had no heart to scold a kid who'd flown all the way to Korea just to see me. Above all, maybe because he was someone I'd only ever watched on television—burden aside, I was rather glad to see him. Ahem.

"Did you leave your bags at a hotel?"

"A hotel? I don't need anything like that."

"...?"

"An A-frame tent is plenty. I can sleep anywhere."

Normally a line like that ought to sound like a joke. But maybe it was everything I'd already seen of him on TV.

I ought to book him a hotel myself.

Or there was a spare room in the staff lodging. He could sleep there. Either way—

"Let's go in for now."

"You'll introduce me to your family?"

"No. This isn't our house."

"Then what is it?"

"A kind of workshop."

"A workshop?"

"It's my private office."

Maybe because he'd stayed up all night, Martin's face was haggard. Even so, Jack's visit seemed to startle him. Fair enough. It was the first time I'd brought anyone—and a foreigner, at that.

"A friend I interviewed with. He came to Korea, partly as a graduation trip."

"Ah..."

Even after the explanation, he looked as if he didn't understand at all. Of course he didn't. A middle schooler had flown to Korea with nothing but an address. Taking that in stride would have been the stranger reaction. Anyway.

"Ah, yes. Sir."

Martin led me to his desk.

"Development is complete. All that's left is checking for bugs."

Just as I'd expected.

"What did your colleagues say?"

"They said... tastes would probably split."

Even if that was truly what they'd said, he could have seasoned it a little before he reported it to me.

"We can't very well cause the company a loss. I thought it would be better to tell you without softening anything."

"Good. Let's see it for ourselves."

I sat down in front of the computer. Was it because I'd been to meet the father of Doom? The genre was a proper FPS, and the setting was the Second World War.

"Usually you press a number key and the gun changes, right? This is a system where the person changes."

Sure enough: press 1 and you played as a scout; press 2 partway through and you switched to a grenade launcher; press 3 and the player became an automatic rifleman.

"I tried to build it so the fighting could be as strategic as possible, but..."

Ah. So that was why tastes would split. Instead of focusing on a single protagonist, you played evenly across a whole squad. For the times, it was definitely an interesting attempt.

And then—

"This doesn't make sense."

An odd reaction came from a place I hadn't expected.

"Fine, I'll grant you point-blank. But when you're hitting something two hundred meters out, the ballistics have to come out differently. There's no penalty for recoil, and the motion of reloading after you fire a grenade is awkward..."

They say the nerd among nerds is the military nerd. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Jack, who dreamed of the British special forces, began pouring out profoundly detailed feedback no one had asked him for(?).