The Soccer Goddess's Return

The day before the match against Brazil, I was back at the team lodging, unwinding after training.

That was when it happened. Light began spilling out of my bag.

"What... what the hell? Don't tell me it's the Soccer Goddess?"

I yanked the bag open, and sure enough, for the first time in ages, a letter from the Soccer Goddess was glowing.

I frowned as I read it.

The last time I'd seen her came rushing back. She'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠vanished as if someone were dragging her away... and now here she was, bouncing back in that bright, cheerful voice.

"What happened to you that you're only talking about it now? Last time I saw you, it looked like you were being hauled off somewhere."

I let out a sigh as I read her message.

Judging by that reaction, she had no intention of giving me the details.

"Aigoo... So you're not going to disappear on me again, right?"

"What is she on about. I just won an undefeated championship and there's nothing? You'd normally give me some kind of present for that."

Give me a break...

It's not like I was actually worried. I just figured that if I was going to win the World Cup, I might as well pick up a decent ability along the way.

"So? You got nothing? I won it unbeaten."

"..."

It was a good ability. No question about that.

For a footballer, injury is the greatest enemy there is. For professionals especially, a single small knock can decide an entire career.

If I'd been a striker, being able to charge in and shoot without a second thought would have created enormous synergy. Being a goalkeeper, though, left me feeling just a little shortchanged.

Of course, under Coach Cheon Mu-seok's tactics I did join the attack from time to time... but honestly, it wasn't quite the kind of ability I'd been hoping for.

Hearing her out, I had to admit she had a point.

A goalkeeper might be in the most dangerous position on the pitch. You have to throw your whole body in front of thunderous shots, and collisions with opposing players are unavoidable. Inside the penalty box especially, there are moments when you have to hurl yourself in on pure instinct — and with Iron King, I could do that without a shred of hesitation.

On top of that, I already joined the attack far more often than any ordinary goalkeeper.

"When you put it that way... it's not bad."

"Hold on a second, Goddess. If Iron King prevents injuries, does that mean I don't catch colds either?"

If it warded off illness entirely, this wasn't just a football ability anymore. It was a straight-up cheat-tier power.

I'd even missed a match once because of a cold, hadn't I? If it could prevent even that, I could walk into every game — club or World Cup — in absolute peak condition.

I shook my head. This side of the Soccer Goddess was something I still hadn't gotten used to.

But one thing was certain: this ability was an absolute jackpot.

No injuries to worry about. No getting sick... I'll be able to live a long, long life with Da-min.

That alone sent the value of this power soaring through the roof.

"Fine. I'll give you 'adorable,' just this once."

What filled my head wasn't the Soccer Goddess's return. It was a happy future — one where I'd grow old with Da-min and the adorable little daughter we'd have someday.

"Ah... I'm so happy."

And the Soccer Goddess, who had no idea what he was actually thinking, saw Tae-woo this overjoyed at her return and was happy right along with him.

With the Brazil match looming, Cheon Mu-seok stood surrounded by the press, giving interviews.

"Coach, the firepower you showed against Iran was stronger than anything the Korean national team has displayed in a long time. Would it be fair to say the current squad is more or less the final roster?"

"Every player out there right now is still just a candidate until we actually go to the World Cup. Until I announce the final roster in September, even Seo-joon is still a candidate."

The reporters couldn't hide their surprise. With the World Cup scheduled for October, they had assumed the present squad was as good as final.

"But Coach, there was some controversy when you selected this squad, and you asked everyone to wait and see. Are you saying this isn't the final roster?"

"That's right. If anyone puts in a disappointing performance, even now, I'll cut them without hesitation. I believe that's the only way this Korean national team can achieve better results."

The truth was, the national team had always had players like that. Players selected on glittering resumes, past glory, and the weight of public expectation. Players whose current form was poor, but who were protected under the name of "potential" — the idea that they could explode at any moment.

With a single sentence, Cheon Mu-seok demolished their safety net.

This was not merely a warning. It was the declaration of a new paradigm.

His message was unmistakable. Past glory and popularity were no longer an insurance policy. The only players with any right to stand on that pitch were the ones showing the best condition and the best football in this very moment.

For the veterans, it was a crisis. For the newcomers, it was an opportunity.

It was hope — that even an unknown with no name recognition could wear the Taegeuk if he had the ability. And it was a warning — that even the most famous player in the country would have to give up his place the moment he grew complacent.

"A lot of new faces have already come into the national team. Does that mean even more new players could still be called up?"

"Yes, that's right. Even if it's a kid playing in a high school tournament — if his form has reached World Cup national team level right now, I'll call him up without a second thought."

The reporters felt something settle deep in their chests.

As sports journalists, they understood, at least in part, the burdens a national team coach had to carry. The cartel that had lingered over Korean football like a long shadow. The so-called "invisible hand" — never spoken of openly, yet very real — by which high-ranking officials at the Korea Football Association and retired players pushed prospects from certain universities and clubs.

Cheon Mu-seok had thrown down a gauntlet in front of every one of those old customs. His declaration that ability alone would be the standard sounded like a fierce will to reform the chronic disease of Korean football.

The press could read the meaning buried beneath his words. This had clearly come out without any prior coordination with the Association. Their influence had likely touched the current squad to some degree — but in the final roster, Cheon Mu-seok's iron resolve to select on pure ability alone came through loud and clear.

The journalists looked at one another and felt a heavy sense of duty settle on their shoulders. The public might sneer and call them giregi, but they knew what a real journalist's mission was.

It was time for them to step forward.

They had to carry Cheon Mu-seok's will for reform to the people properly, and forge a shield of public support at his back.

This is exactly what we're supposed to do.

This is how real change begins.

In the silence, the look the reporters exchanged was thick with resolve.

"Coach, with the Brazil match right around the corner, what mindset are you taking into it?"

Cheon Mu-seok looked at the journalists who so clearly shared his conviction, and a confident smile spread across his face. In the curve of that smile was a fierce certainty that even Brazil, the strongest side on earth, did not frighten him.

There was not a hint of hesitation in that hard, even voice.

World rankings, transfer fees, glittering resumes — none of it seemed to matter to him. As if the only truth that existed was the ninety-minute contest about to unfold on the pitch.

What the press heard in his words was not empty bravado. It was thorough preparation, and the will to win.