Awakening
A few days ago, I'd watched that soccer manga, Our Ground. Episode 1 or 2, I think. There was definitely a scene like this.
The physically weak protagonist, 'Haruto,' gets knocked out of the middle school league finals. Feeling the limits of his talent, he heads under a bridge and starts kicking a ball against the wall—practicing his kicking power, trapping, and positioning all at once.
I remembered laughing at that scene. Why the hell would a kid on a soccer team resort to such primitive solo training? When I asked the PD about it, he said it was a cliché in sports stories: kicking or throwing a ball against a wall, and later some extra living nearby freaks out at the marks left behind.
Of course, Our Ground piled on one more cliché. While Haruto's training with the ball bouncing off the wall, it flies out and smacks the ace from the team they faced in the finals—'Luka'—right in the head. That's how their rivalry, which drags on throughout the manga, truly kicks off.
"Hey! You okay?"
True to the hot-blooded sports protagonist archetype, the kind-hearted Haruto calls out to Luka, who's just been hit in the back of the head and fallen over. Luka looks up, they recognize each other, and they exchange glares.
Then comes Luka's cursing and brutal reality check. Their relationship sours from that incident. Shocked by Luka's harsh words, Haruto's mentally broken—he gives up on enrolling at Shinomiya Private High School, the top school with Japan's best soccer team (and Luka's choice), and picks a regular high school without a soccer club instead.
And then what happened? His childhood friend, who chose Shinomiya anyway, becomes the soccer team's manager. Haruto, his spirit shattered, gets pulled back by the heroine's passionate persuasion, snaps out of it, and they start a soccer club...
Hmm... was that up to episodes 1 or 2? And what was the girl's name? Anyway, she was his childhood friend, always bickering tensely with Luka, who chased Haruto off, creating this subtle tension.
As I sorted my thoughts, I vaguely recalled up to episode 12.
But more importantly than that...
The kid in front of me looked exactly like the manga's protagonist, Haruto.
"...So, you're Haruto?"
I knew this was ridiculous. The protagonist from a manga suddenly appearing in front of me? No matter how escapist I got, this was straight-up impossible.
But no matter how I racked my brain, the boy before me was Haruto.
How to explain it? Like seeing a 2D character perfectly live-actioned. I'd once watched a short where someone AI-generated a manga's protagonist in realistic form—it nailed the features and looked human, so I'd nodded along impressed.
And this boy was exactly that. No, beyond that—he looked like a real person, zero uncanny valley.
Especially that signature anime protagonist hair, stiff and spiky like he'd slathered on wax, and the voice of that famous seiyuu I'd grown used to from the anime.
This guy was Haruto.
My rational side just couldn't accept it because shit like this doesn't happen.
"...Am I dreaming right now?"
No, I was perfectly fine. Just seeing shit from the fall's impact.
"Wha—what?! T-Tachibana!"
Tachibana? Is that me? He's looking right at me and saying it, so yeah, he's calling me Tachibana.
But who the fuck is Tachibana?
My head was a mess. And my skull throbbed.
When shit's this confusing, nothing beats a smoke.
A chain-smoke always cleared the fog and shut down stray thoughts. Instinctively, I patted the pockets of my windbreaker.
No smokes, no lighter. Just a phone.
Oh, right. I was heading out to buy cigarettes. Then Joo Cheol hyung called, and I was about to kick the ball...
Memories trickled back. Unlike the unprecedented agony I'd felt in the back of my head, touching it now revealed no wound.
The pain in my body was just from getting hit by a ball.
"S-sorry! Tachibana!"
The kid kept apologizing nonstop.
"So, who's this Tachibana?"
"Tachibana! Did you lose your memory?"
What bullshit is this? My memories were fine—up to the moment I fell.
First things first: reassure Joo Cheol hyung on the call.
Yeah, the protagonist was visible, and I'd woken up somewhere totally different from where I fell, but talking to hyung would clarify my situation.
But the second I picked up the phone, I froze again.
"...Japanese?"
The screen was in Japanese.
I could read it, sure. Not just Japanese—Portuguese, Spanish, English, even some French. I'd mastered every language from the clubs I'd played for.
Joo Cheol hyung even joked, "Quit soccer and you'll make a living as an interpreter. You any good at ball, or just tongues?" My language skills were top 1%.
But I'd never changed my phone's language settings.
What the hell? Not mine? And the model... I always used Galaxy.
Brand loyalty from peak sponsorship days. This was definitely a rival company's phone.
"You okay, Tachibana?!"
"Ah, fuck off. Shut it for a sec."
I silenced the yapping kid and checked the phone. No passcode—good.
First time touching it, so it was a hassle, but calling wasn't hard. I punched in Joo Cheol hyung's number.
"What the...?"
I rubbed my eyes, redialed. Same error. Tried my own number, parents'—all nonexistent.
"What the actual fuck."
No other numbers memorized. But I had one more shot: 21st-century contacts—Instagram.
Tapped the Insta app on the home screen. Profile pic loads.
Not me—a blond guy in a soccer uniform.
Did I change it? Who's this?
Doesn't look like a big-club pro. Maybe the head smack made me forget swapping it? Nah—pros don't set other players as their pic. Especially not me picking someone over Messi. Even post-middle-school graduation, that'd be insane.
Searched Joo Cheol hyung's Insta—gone, like the phone number.
"What the hell... Messi, Messi—there. Got it. Ronaldo, Ronaldo—yep. Kim Taehyun, Kim Taehyun... what?"
My Insta—peak era early 8-figures, now late 7-figures—was vanished too.
"What the fuuuuck!"
"Tachibana! You really okay? You're speaking Korean now? Is that Korean? Shibaru—definitely a Korean curse!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
I smacked away his hand trying to pat my shoulder.
"Hello? Is this 119? Guy got hit by a ball and now he's rambling incoherently. Location? Uh..."
"Club, club first... Urawa Reds. There—found it."
Ignoring his bullshit, searched the club's name, got the number. Unlike Messi or Ronaldo, Urawa Reds existed.
As I went to dial, the terror I'd been holding back crashed over me.
All traces of me—gone.
Tapped the homepage's player tab. Not my teammates—total strangers.
And my own traces, erased.
"Tachibana! You crying?"
"I said shut it!"
"It's okay! It's fine. Tachibana, you remember me? Fuwa Middle School, number 14, Kazama Haruto. We faced off in the finals last time. Yeah, you crushed us 3-0. Haha. It's cool, really."
Kazama Haruto. Right, that was the full name. I'd only remembered Haruto, but yeah—the anime protagonist was Kazama Haruto.
...So I'm in the manga? That impossible shit happened?
Truth was, I was familiar with this setup.
Not being reborn in another world, but yeah.
Just flew a lot; best way to kill plane time was anime or movies. Even Euro teammates binged anime—not weird.
And those stories often had isekai tropes—getting sent to another world.
During rough injury patches, I'd fantasized: back in time, perfect body, soccer again.
Never full manga-world, but this could be heaven's second chance!
The thought flashed, and I shot to my feet.
"Tachibana?"
"Le-legs. My legs...!"
I jumped, landed—perfect balance in both legs. That precious feel of feet hitting ground evenly.
The leg length difference that tormented me—gone.
I was back to pre-injury.
"Y-yeah, I'm calming him, but he just jumped?! Yes?! Dangerous? Yes, ball to the back of the head. Yes, yes. Screaming too. Aggressive. Rambling. Seizure? No seizure? Just jumping around? Now he's running! Says to lay him in a safe spot to calm down? Wa-wait!"
I bolted down the riverside path, ignoring the kid yelling into his phone.
Fresh breeze on my face. No hip or back pain from uneven strides.
Speed? Not sure, but peak me-level. Faster? Hard to say, but way beyond the slug I'd become post-ACL tear.
"Tachibana! Tachibana! Wait! You're right now...! Huff, huff...!"
Haruto lagged behind, gasping my way.
Why the hell does this punk keep calling me Tachibana?
Absurd, but just in case—I stopped, pulled up the camera app.
A handsome blond boy, mixed East-West features, stared back.
Closed my eyes—he did too. Opened my mouth—he mimicked.
"Fuck me..."
And his face... familiar, like Haruto's.
...Was Luka's surname Tachibana?
I'd become the manga's rival villain.