The Dong-A Asian Cup: Debut Against Hong Kong
A dump truck suddenly burst into view from around the bend in my side mirror.
“……!”
My heart dropped like a stone.
The air conditioner was blasting, the cabin cool and comfortable—then suddenly a whiff of blood hit my nose from the front.
Are those bastards?
Instinctively I gripped the steering wheel tighter.
My breathing quickened.
I eased off the gas, let the truck pass in the next lane, then quietly started following.
Surveillance.
If this is really what those filthy guys sent…
This time I’d get out first and dig up the truck driver’s info.
Under extreme tension I kept tailing the truck’s rear end, relentless.
Ten minutes. Fifteen.
The truck ahead finally hit a red light and stopped. I pulled over a safe distance away.
I scanned the number plate, vehicle type, and color with eyes as sharp as daggers.
“…….”
The shoulders that had been locked tight with tension finally sagged uselessly.
No.
This wasn’t the same dump truck that had covered my vision that rainy night.
I watched a little longer. Just an ordinary cargo truck hauling dirt to a construction site.
“Huu… I’m losing my mind here.”
I knew it was nonsense, yet my body reacted on its own and my head spun.
I dropped my forehead onto the steering wheel and let out harsh breaths.
Death trauma was way bigger than I’d ever imagined.
Even after swearing revenge and plotting revenge on the board, just spotting a similar dump truck made my whole body tremble with this pathetic PTSD.
“Shit. I need to get used to it fast.”
I smacked my own cheek hard to snap myself back.
Wouldn’t I look like an idiot to shake up like this already?
I floored the gas again.
Time to finish my real job first.
***
At Paju National Football Center, the air was thick with the scent of fresh-cut grass, the sharp smell of sweat from the players, and the dense, medicinal aroma that lingered everywhere.
I dropped my bags in the locker room and headed to the training field. Familiar faces greeted me.
While I chatted casually with the K League seniors and loosened up my body, someone slapped my back.
When I turned, it was Choi Mingyu, my roommate and a center-back in the adult national team—the first teammate I’d met in our age group.
We’d been close since the youth teams, rooming together, playing together.
“Yo, Yideun! Wearing the adult national team jersey looks good on you.”
“You’re the only one who would say that.”
Mingyu flopped down right next to me.
He watched me tie my cleats with envy in his voice.
“Ha… you’re so lucky.”
“What is?”
“Your position is a supporting midfielder. As a second-choice player, you’ll probably get subbed in during the second half when the game shifts.”
Mingyu sighed heavily, sounding annoyed.
“But me? Especially as a center-back. Coaches never swap us out mid-game. I know the boss’s style inside and out. We rookies just warm the bench, shuttle water, and wait.”
He wasn’t wrong.
This coach was extreme conservative.
He was famous for never changing a starting back pair no matter what—especially when the player was young.
I smirked at Mingyu.
“You never know. Opportunities come out of nowhere. Train your ass off. Don’t regret it later.”
Mingyu pouted.
“Obviously I’m training like crazy! But honestly, I can’t expect much… so I’m just mind-controlling it as a training partner.”
Expect little?
You little shit, the opportunity will show up sooner than you think.
The memories from my previous life flashed clear in my head.
Specifically the match against China in the second game.
In the first half, a solid starting center-back got a small injury from one of their disgusting Shaolin tackles.
The coach, desperate, pulled a card from the bench—and the player he picked was right in front of me right now, Choi Mingyu.
I wasn’t ready back then, so I was clumsy the second I stepped on the field, huh?
I gave Mingyu a meaningful smile and whispered.
“Mingyu, footballs are round. Even when you’re sitting on the bench, do image training hard. The Chinese guys play dirty. If the seniors get hurt, you might be subbed in.”
“Ugh, got it, got it.”
Mingyu waved his hands and grumbled, but I watched his back as he dashed onto the training field.
I had no idea how the butterfly effect would play out.
But these tiny things wouldn’t change much anyway.
This life, let’s make it different, friend.
***
Dong-A Asian Cup match one: South Korea vs Hong Kong.
The Korean national team was using a 4-2-3-1 formation, their gears meshing perfectly and suffocating the opponent.
The commentators’ excited voices captured the electric atmosphere on the field.
“And the first-half whistle has blown! The South Korean national team has scored two goals in the first half and leads 2-0 with a smile on their faces!”
“Exactly! The balance of the 4-2-3-1 tactic is perfect. They’re crushing from the middle, so the opponent hasn’t even crossed the halfway line!”
As the players wiped sweat and headed to the locker room, Han Yideun sat on the bench watching the pitch with a relaxed expression.
The twenty-one-year-old prodigy.
He had devoured the K League and risen on raw talent.
But according to my previous life, the conservative coach’s style would mean he only played as a substitute in the Dong-A Asian Cup.
Yet the second half had started and Yideun was still sitting on the bench.
And finally, at the 10th minute of the second half, the coach, arms crossed and staring intently, turned toward the bench and gave a short signal.
“Han Yideun. Get ready.”
At those words, Yideun peeled off his fluorescent vest and hurled it aside.
He jumped off the bench, approached the touchline, and the crowd started murmuring.
The moment he lifted the substitute board, the decibel level in the broadcast booth exploded.
“Aaaah! He’s finally coming on! Second-half substitute card at the 10th minute! The twenty-one-year-old genius Han Yideun steps onto the pitch!”
“The stadium is going wild! The monster prospect who ruled the K League is finally debuting for the adult national team!”
“Right! Han Yideun will play attacking midfielder at the top of the 4-2-3-1 formation! The part fans should focus on today is his physique!”
The commentator’s voice grew louder with passion.
“Exactly! His profile shows a 190-centimeter height! Most attacking midfielders are low-centered, quick-footed technicians, right?”
“You’re right! But Yideun is different! Even at 190 centimeters, his footwork is smoother and more precise than any short player.”
“Plus, that passing vision from such a high stance is artistic! He has an overhead view of the entire field. He’s tough in duels against defensive midfielders and won’t be pushed around— this is an outside-the-box playmaker!”
“The tallest technician in modern football, and with fluid dribbling ability on top of that physique, he’s a nightmare for the defenders!”
As the commentators’ saliva flew, Yideun gave his outgoing senior a light high-five.
He stepped onto the grass beyond the touchline, a thick smile spreading across his face.
***
Second half against Hong Kong.
A short pass from a teammate rolled toward Yideun near the halfway line.
In my previous life, this match had been his A-match debut—and his debut goal.
The goal had come late in the second half, a simple header from a side cross, nothing special.
But the Yideun of now had zero intention of repeating that ordinary past.
From the tips of his toes, the butterfly effect began to blow.
Yideun received the ball, turned his body away from the pass, and charged forward.
At 190 centimeters, the giant started sprinting with the ball glued to his foot.
The explosive speed that burst forth made everyone watching question their eyes.
“Han Yideun! He’s charging forward on his own!”
“Whoa, the speed…! At that height, such acceleration?!”
Two Hong Kong defenders desperately blocked him.
Yideun shifted his weight fluidly, then shoulder-checked them clean out of the way.
Thud!