There's a Reason for the Bad Personality
I came home. Honestly, I wasn't even sure if this was Luka's house. I'd just opened the Amazon app, searched for the delivery address labeled "home," and followed it here. The nameplate on the door read Tachibana, so yeah, this had to be the kid's place—my place now.
A two-story house here... that'd cost like 200 to 300 million yen. Family's loaded.
Tachibana Luka—the rival character in Our Ground? Or should I say the villain? All I knew about the guy was that his physical specs were straight-up insane, he was half-white, and he'd trash-talked the protagonist into a mental breakdown. That's it. I'd only read up to chapter 12, which wasn't enough to dive into the rival's backstory. The one thing I remembered was that his dad, Tachibana, was a former national team player.
At least Japan didn't have digital locks everywhere. The key in my pocket turned easily, and the door swung open. Guess this really was my house now—a pricey two-story with a decent yard in Tokyo where I could practice kicks anytime.
Am I really Luka now?
I'd already grasped it from my chat with Haruto earlier, but the reality hit me again, skin-deep. The door creaked as I stepped inside.
First thing I saw was a family photo. A middle-aged Japanese guy who looked like the dad, a stunning blond woman in a kimono who screamed foreigner—probably the mom—and then me, looking exactly like now, next to a blond girl who resembled me pretty closely.
Parents and... siblings? Big sis? Little sis? Everyone's hot as hell.
Only child here—no siblings in my real life. But that didn't matter. I wouldn't be seeing their faces much anyway.
On the way home after ditching Haruto—who'd been hovering—and convincing those paramedics not to make a fuss, I'd already mapped out my life plan. And family? Not part of it. They weren't my real family to begin with.
The plan was simple: become a pro soccer player. Not just any player—the best in the world, the spot that should've been mine.
I cracked my knuckles, slapped my cheek. The pain confirmed this was real. Was my old body dead? How'd I end up here? Could I go back? Was this really the manga world?
None of that mattered. Soccer did. With a proper body, I could play again. Everything else was noise. Bonus points for revenge on all the assholes who'd mocked me after I fell.
The people from my life had vanished, but Messi and Ronaldo were still around, so some overlaps existed. I'd shove my skills down those bastards' throats, turn their sneers into praise. If some god sent me here, that's probably what it wanted.
Before the injury, I had talent that mocked the gods themselves—the greatest soccer player on earth. Without that curse, I'd have surpassed relics like Pelé, druggie has-beens like Maradona, and slotted right under Messi.
God wanted this: my unfinished genius blooming wild. The original Luka would love it too. Wasting those specs on high school leagues? Nah, he'd prefer a prodigy like me behind the wheel. Luka loved soccer—he'd get it.
My heart pounded. Luka approved. Hearts beat anyway, right? Shut up.
"Luka, I accept your will. The dream you couldn't chase—to be the world's best. I'll make it happen."
Deal sealed with the original owner. Looking around, I spotted a butsudan altar with photos of what must've been the grandparents. I'd seen these in teammates' houses back home—family worship spot.
I lit a stick of incense. The thick, temple-like smoke soothed my mind.
"Mom, Dad, Cheol hyung. Watch over me from there. Watch me become the best."
One stick for Mom, one for Dad, one for Joo Cheol. My family who'd loved me, now gone forever. They'd all wanted this for me—cheering from the afterlife, no doubt.
You're dead too, aren't you? Shut up. This was reality now. Everyone dies eventually. I just went early. Sure, I'd tear up sometimes, but compared to the hell of daily sobs after my legs turned to shit? This was a win. Total tears lifetime? Definitely ahead.
...For sure.
"Oh, right."
One more stick—for Luka, the original owner.
"Sorry, but stay gone. I'll become the best soccer player, just like you dreamed."
Once you're in soccer, even in death, the wish is the same: world's best. Sure, normies dream of one Premier League game, a stint at Real or Barça. But if Luka was a genius like me, he'd aim higher.
"...Yeah. Someone who surpasses him."
My god, my light, my hero. The greatest ever, the one whose play stole my soul—Messi. I prayed to leapfrog him. Luka wanted that too.
The smoke swirled, forming a Luka-like shape. And there, he smiled.
"Got it loud and clear. Leave the rest to me."
I thumped my chest like I'd inherited his will. The smoke dispersed, filling the house. Now Luka could rest easy. A prayer for the kid who'd ended his short, beautiful life with a soccer ball to the head.
Now I was Luka, and Luka was me. If word got out, Haruto'd be a murderer overnight. For the soft-hearted kid's sake, best keep it buried.
"Muttering to yourself. What're you doing?"
"Gah!"
The sudden voice jolted me. I whipped around to the stairs—there stood a blond girl who looked just like me from the photo, twin-tails swaying, school uniform on.
Even hotter in person.
Half-white features gave her killer 3D looks the photo couldn't capture. Short at 155cm, but she'd inherited Mom's curves big-time—bust and hips straining the uniform, hard to stare straight.
"Hey, you crying? Why's your face all red?"
She'd snuck up, grinning like she'd caught me slipping. Eyes narrowed playfully, one corner of her mouth quirked, hand over her giggle. Cute as hell, but priorities—I touched my face. Tears, just like she said.
Even a steel man like me can't shrug off goodbyes entirely. But real men own their weakness. I accepted it, assessed: This was the girl from the photo. Sis, big or little. Short, but girls are small—couldn't tell which.
Only child vibes, no clue how to handle siblings. Knew they bickered a lot, though—bragged about bad blood. So I went full asshole mode for maximum distance.
"Shut up, woman."
"Whoa, woman? You lost your mind?"
...Too far.
"Sorry."
"S-sorry fixes everything? Sniff. Always, always cursing!"
Sis or little sis—didn't know her name, but tears streamed down.
"I-I'm telling Mom!"
Confirmed: little sister. Big sis would've smacked my head or kicked my ass, not tattled.
Even as Luka now, talking parents felt off, so I wiped her tears with my finger—peace offering—and apologized again.
"I'm really sorry."
"I-idiot! I hate you, bro!"
She shoved me, spat "idiot," and stormed upstairs fuming.
...What the fuck.
Only child problems? Little sisters were alien.
Slam—door shut. Her room upstairs meant mine was too. Up the stairs: three doors. One labeled "Guest Room," one "Luna." Blank one was mine.
Life plan first—I headed in. And there...
"Holy shit, this fucker was a Ronaldo stan?"
...A nightmare room plastered with Ronaldo photos and posters.
Explained why he shit-talked protagonist Haruto in the manga. Crystal clear now.
"No wonder your personality's trashed."
I ripped every last Ronaldo pic and poster to shreds.