I Have Arrived (6)

'Arrogant bastard.'

Looking at Luka standing blankly on the pitch, Cesc Fàbregas cursed under his breath as the memory of yesterday rushed back.

The words Luka had thrown at him yesterday were so shockingly abusive that they still rankled today. What made it even more infuriating was that the culprit wasn't a world-renowned player like Thierry Henry or Patrick Vieira, but a sixteen-year-old kid who had just signed his first professional contract and tagged along on pre-season training.

'Where does he get the confidence to act so cocky?'

When he first heard that the kid had angered Henry and Theo Walcott and mocked Emiliano Martínez, Fàbregas had actually laughed. Anyone would find it amusing to see a newly signed rookie acting up like that.

But now that he was the target of that arrogance, he wasn't laughing at all. He wanted nothing more than to grab the insolent punk by the collar.

There was only one reason why Fàbregas—a man who wouldn't hesitate to spit at opponents or grab players ten years his senior by the throat when things went south—held back.

They weren't in the same league.

For the absolute core of the team to get into a physical altercation with a sixteen-year-old greenhorn on his very first pre-season tour? Nothing could be more ridiculous. Besides, Vieira, who nagged him at every opportunity, would never let him hear the end of it.

There was no need to fight a kid like that. Show him the gap in their class, and he would naturally learn some humility.

'Let's see if you actually have the talent to back up that mouth.'

Prrrrt!

The whistle blew, and the match began. Bayern Munich lined up in a 4-4-2, the same formation they used to win the Champions League the previous year. However, much like Arsenal's rotated squad, Munich was fielding mostly reserves. Still, the right-back tasked with marking Luka was Joshua Kimmich. Although currently benched behind Philipp Lahm, Kimmich possessed enough quality to start for almost any top-tier club.

'It's a shame Lahm isn't playing. He would have shown that idiot what the professional world is really like.'

Munich's starting right-back was Lahm, widely regarded as the best in the world in his position. If Lahm were on the pitch, this arrogant brat who looked down on professionals would have learned his place and humbled himself. But Kimmich was more than enough to handle a greenhorn.

Furthermore, backing Kimmich up was Jérôme Boateng, a well-rounded defender whose name always came up in discussions of the world's best.

The chances of the kid breaking through Munich's defense were close to zero.

Once Luka realized he couldn't break through the defense despite receiving quality passes from Fàbregas, he would be forced to play back-passes. That would teach him the harsh reality of the professional stage—and make him recognize the sheer majesty of Fàbregas, the genius among geniuses.

Watching the humbled brat would be quite entertaining.

Of course, for that to happen, Arsenal had to get on the attack first.

"Hey! Win the ball back!"

"No, we need to hold our positions..."

Eager to see the kid fail, Fàbregas began barking orders at Mattéo Guendouzi, his midfield partner for the day.

'So sluggish.'

Playing with such subpar teammates made him miss Vieira, a man he clashed with personally and could safely say he disliked. The only reason Fàbregas tolerated Vieira's constant nagging was because the veteran did a decent job of cleaning up after him on the pitch.

Of course, Vieira's imposing physical presence was another reason to keep his mouth shut, but to Fàbregas—who had dedicated his life to football from a young age and reached the pinnacle of the sport—footballing ability was the ultimate metric. It was the one thing that forced him to respect Vieira despite his personal distaste.

"Pass!"

As Fàbregas drifted lazily across the pitch to maintain his position, Kolo Touré dispossessed Ivan Perišić, who was cutting inside. Arsenal regained possession, and Fàbregas immediately called for the ball, not wasting a single second.

Touré promptly passed the ball to Fàbregas as he always did. Having already scanned the opponent's defensive line, Fàbregas met the pass with his trademark one-touch lofted ball, sending it flying forward.

The target was the very person he had been eyeing: Luka.

Even though he wanted to see the kid fail, Fàbregas still delivered a flawless pass. He wasn't about to give the insolent brat any excuse to blame the service for his own shortcomings.

'Nice. Perfect weight on the first touch. I've still got it.'

Fàbregas admired his own work, having calculated the pass perfectly to match the speed Luka had shown in training—forcing the kid to sprint at full tilt to reach it. True to his calculations, Luka was already tearing down the pitch to chase the ball.

'No buildup, just straight over the top...!'

Though slightly taken aback by Fàbregas's sudden, unannounced long ball, Luka quickly smiled. Blistering pace and exceptional dribbling—those had been his greatest weapons even back when he was Kim Taehyun.

Luka brought the ball down about thirty meters from the goal line.

'His passing really is...'

He couldn't help but admire Fàbregas's ability to deliver such a perfect ball.

He had felt it during training and mini-games, but seeing it in a real match was something else entirely.

When he had transferred to Barcelona in his past life, he was surrounded by the world's best passers, but by then, injuries had already triggered his decline. This was practically the first time he was playing alongside a passer of this caliber while in his physical prime. Even with all his experience, Luka couldn't help but feel a thrill.

But there was no time to stand around and admire it.

Kimmich, who had been left in the dust, was already tracking back, and Boateng had shifted over to cover, blocking the path into the penalty box.

'Alright, since he gave me such a great pass, I should return the favor.'

The textbook play here would be to pass the ball and keep the attack flowing.

But that wasn't Luka's style.

Back when he played as a professional, the biggest criticism leveled against him was his passing. He rarely delivered eye-catching killer passes, and he often chose to take on defenders himself even when a teammate ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was open.

Yet, even the pundits who criticized him had to admit one thing.

In his prime, Kim Taehyun simply didn't need to pass.

He had dragged an underdog Sporting CP to the Champions League semifinals. Even accounting for the lower level of the Primeira Liga compared to the top European leagues, he had scored 52 goals in just 30 league matches during his age-nineteen season, finishing with over 70 goals in all competitions—a feat unseen since Lionel Messi. There was no reason to demand passes from a player of such destructive caliber.

He was the greatest talent of the post-Messi-Ronaldo era, prompting Barcelona and other European giants to immediately trigger his 200 billion won buyout clause. Even after injuries had practically ended his career, Newcastle United in the Premier League still bought a lottery ticket on him, unable to forget the glimpses of genius he had shown in his brief prime.

That talent was also the reason why, even when he threw tantrums on social media or in interviews, fans understood. They figured anyone who reached the top at such a young age only to crash down would lose their mind a bit. Even the psychiatrist he saw after his injury didn't bother with much counseling; upon hearing his story, the doctor simply prescribed antidepressants and anger management medication, noting that the sense of loss must be immense.

Of course, pride had kept him from ever taking those pills.

Regardless of his scarred psyche, which had stopped maturing after falling from the highest peaks at too young an age, the talent once hailed as the best in the world was about to unfold right in front of Jérôme Boateng, widely considered one of the best center-backs on the planet.

He started with a sharp ninety-degree turn.

'What is this speed...?!'

Boateng had faced countless world-class attackers, but seeing Luka turn ninety degrees without losing a single fraction of his speed caught him off guard. Shaking off his shock, he quickly lowered his center of gravity as Luka bore down on him.

If Luka went to the right, Boateng could shepherd him toward the goal line and isolate him. If he went to the left, the immediate danger would be neutralized.

An ordinary defender would have committed to one option, but Boateng was a top-ten center-back in the world. He adopted a stance that allowed him to react to either direction. Then, Luka tilted his upper body to the left.

'No guts for a kid.'

Going left meant moving away from the goal. It was the safe choice, but Boateng found it disappointing for a young prospect. Just as he prepared to follow Luka's movement—

"Whoa...!"

The ball, which had been glued to Luka's right foot, suddenly shifted to his left, and his body snapped back toward Boateng's right.

Boateng desperately tried to twist his body to block Luka from cutting inside, but his weight was already committed to the left.

'Shit!'

Having completely fooled Boateng with a lightning-fast double touch, Luka glided toward the goal. Actually, "glided" was the wrong word. From the moment he received the pass until now, Luka hadn't slowed down for a single second.

It had been about eight months since he woke up in Luka's body. Eight months was the perfect amount of time to bridge the gap between his soul and his new physical form.

—Waaaaahhhhh!!!

Although soccer wasn't the most popular sport in the United States, a clash between giants like Arsenal and Bayern Munich had drawn ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a massive crowd. The roar of the fans was loud enough to shake the entire stadium.

'Did they say he's sixteen? What kind of monster...'

Of course, Boateng had his excuses. The opponent was a complete unknown, a rookie with zero data on his style or preferred techniques. On the other hand, Boateng, established at the top of the game, had his playstyle thoroughly analyzed by every team.

But even if he had analyzed the kid, could he have stopped him?

He wouldn't know for sure until they faced off again. However, his instincts whispered that it wouldn't be easy.

'To think another monster like this has appeared.'

The faces of the superstars currently dominating the football world flashed through Boateng's mind. He had a strong premonition that this kid would join their ranks...

'But he won't last long playing like that. With that kind of explosive power and refusal to slow down, his knees won't hold up.'

...He felt a twinge of pity for a prospect destined to burn brighter than anyone else, only to fade away just as quickly.

It was a natural concern for a veteran to have for a young junior, unaware of the true nature of Luka's physical build.

While Boateng was silently mourning his knees, Luka, basking in the crowd's cheers, pointed his fingers to the sky in a prayer-like celebration, mimicking his idol. Naturally, his Arsenal teammates quickly swarmed him.

"Luka!"

"You crazy bastard! How did you blow past Boateng like that?!"

"Wow... that was even better than in training."

The Arsenal players all chimed in, patting him on the back. Well, all except one.

"..."

Luka's eyes locked with that lone dissenter. In the midst of the tense silence, Luka spoke first.

"Not a bad pass. But next time, try to put it a bit closer to the goal. Oh, but don't push yourself if it's too hard."

He delivered the line with a smirk.

"Shut up. I'll decide where to put the ball."

Fàbregas, who had been scowling, spat out a curse and turned away.

'Arrogant bastard. He gets lucky once and acts like this... Anyone looks like Messi or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Ronaldo in a highlight reel. ...Still, not bad. Though I doubt he can pull that off consistently.'

But despite the curses leaving his mouth, a corner of his heart had already acknowledged Luka's talent.