Is This Even a Team?! (1)
The high-end marble floors gleamed beneath my feet, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows stretched a breathtaking city view of Songdo. After nearly a year away, Lee Hana set her sticker-covered suitcase by the front door and immediately swept her sharp gaze across the living room and kitchen.
"Huh."
Her movements were exactly like a cat cautiously checking whether anyone had invaded her territory while she was gone. She inspected the utensil holder in the kitchen sink, then even the bathroom sink right by the entrance.
"Dad, you kept the house incredibly clean while I was away, huh?"
"Of course."
I'd helped with the housework right up until she left for the States. Still, just because my daughter was gone didn't mean I could let the place fall into chaos, nor could I trust just anyone with this space. Most importantly, I wasn't trashy enough to slack off on cleaning when my daughter—who was returning to Korea after a full year and even said she wanted to live here—was coming back.
"You could've called a cleaning service."
"Cleaning service? What for? Do I not have hands? Or feet?"
"Really? Hmm... Are you sure no one came in? It feels like there are traces of people coming and going."
"...Those were all people who came for work. I didn't touch your room, so don't worry."
Hana stared at the floor intently for a few moments, then shrugged and threw herself onto the sofa.
"Dad. What's for dinner?"
"Anything you want?"
"Let's not cook today—how about delivery? Chicken sounds good."
"Chicken?"
"Yeah. Both fried and seasoned. I missed Korean chicken so much while I was in America."
Hana patted her stomach lightly and grinned brightly.
"Won't you gain weight eating greasy stuff?"
"Superhumans don't gain weight~"
"Did you say that to Mister Baek Jungho too?"
"...That's just him being him. Anyway, I don't gain weight. If I did, I would've been rolling around like a ball back in America. I was eating donuts and ice cream every single day over there."
"Fair enough."
Superhumans don't damage their bodies easily. The higher their rank, the more their facial features and body shape tend toward ideal beauty. Line up S-class superhumans and they'd rival any celebrity—in fact, the celebrities would be the ones feeling jealous of their looks.
"The kids at entertainment agencies would cry. They eat nothing but one apple a day, while someone else is over here devouring chicken."
"Well, that's unavoidable. They're the ones forcing themselves to chase after a body like mine."
If someone with a body line that idols on TV—or rather, all those idols in Gangnam who treat it as their ultimate goal upon debut—casually said, "I ate ice cream every day, actually," what would they even think?
"If you're going to work in Korea, you need to be extra careful with your words and SNS. Antis are a real hassle."
"Antis... Well... Ah, that could be troublesome."
Lee Hana looked at me, nodded vigorously, and made a zipping motion across her lips.
"I'll be super careful with what I say from now on. Hehe."
"I meant your fingers. Watch your fingers."
"Ow ow ow."
I gave her ear a light tug and she immediately whined. Since she already had quite the colorful track record of scandals back in America, I needed to warn her about this stuff in advance.
...It wasn't because she was my daughter that I was being protective. Even if something was true, the nuance could change completely depending on how and when you said it.
"So, about the chicken?"
"I already ordered. Just wait— it'll be here soon."
"Do I have to go down to pick it up? Or..."
Hana's expression turned slightly wary at the word "delivery." Given everything that had happened while she was in America, it made sense that she'd be a bit cautious.
"No need to worry."
Of course, knowing those things had happened and doing nothing about it wasn't something a father should ever do to his daughter.
"This apartment complex has everything handled by the security office. If you contact them through the app, they'll bring it right to your door for you."
"Whoa, really?"
"Of course."
It was basically like room service at a five-star hotel.
"It should feel similar to the Tyrants Stadium you moved into after summer. The difference is that the Tyrants organization took care of everything for you there, while here it's all included in the apartment maintenance fees."
"Heee... Doesn't that mean this place is crazy expensive?"
"Compared to what you earned in a year with the New York Tyrants, it's basically pocket change. But it's worth every penny. At the very least..."
I mimed taking a photo with a camera.
"You won't have to deal with paparazzi."
"Heee..."
Hana broke into a wide smile and promptly shrugged off her coat.
"Then I can walk around the house however I want!"
"You're planning to wear that hoodie and pajama pants again?"
"I probably can't wear those anymore, right? At least not the pajama pants."
"...Yeah, I guess not."
Looked like we'd have to go buy new clothes. I wasn't sure if the shops in the commercial area downstairs had sizes or brands that would fit Hana's body. Not that I could buy them for her anyway.
"Want me to get you something comfortable?"
"Hmm... No. I think I need to get some work done before the chicken arrives, so I'll just keep wearing this for now."
"Is it your routine?"
"Pretty much. I am a pro, after all."
Hana lifted the hem of her shirt slightly. Of course, there wasn't just bare white skin underneath. What she revealed was a blue, tights-like suit. As I approached her after she'd pulled her shirt down far enough to expose her neckline—
"I told you not to show that off so casually."
"Ouch!"
I gave her head a light smack. It probably didn't hurt since she was an S-class superhuman.
"So, what kind of work do you have? If it's a business call, I can step out."
"No? You have to work with me, Dad."
"Me?"
"Yes. It's about deciding your daughter's team."
Hana pointed seriously at the massive TV that dominated the living room across from the sofa.
"...I thought you'd at least take a day to rest and think about it."
"You said the Stove League is almost over. The rookie draft is next week."
"The draft... Wait a second, you don't mean—"
"I learned a lot while I was in New York."
Hana lightly tapped her own chest, then formed a circle with her fingers.
"If a team holds the cards of my name value and market value, wouldn't they be able to make some great trades in the draft?"
"You're even willing to help them pick up good rookies in the draft?"
The Korean Champions League—KCL. To soccer fans it was like the K League, to baseball fans the KBO, and to gamers the LCK. Of course, those leagues still existed. Even after the Monster Shock in 1999, humanity's passion for sports hadn't stopped.
—Monsters are rampaging and you're still playing ball?
—We have to. It gives us hope.
—Excuse me?
—We can't let monsters take away humanity's freedom and culture too!
—...And the real reason?
—We can just kick the ball and play games when the monsters aren't around!!
Until 2020, when the monsters finally disappeared, the world had enjoyed what it could despite the constant threat. If people from a monster-free world came here, they'd probably be shocked and say, "The world was in that state because of monsters and you still managed to make this?"
'Ironically, the stronger the country, the more pronounced it becomes.'
The nations capable of defeating monsters, the countries with the most superhumans—their cultures had developed the most. It was only natural that a portion of that cultural pie included things like "monsters," "superhumans," "hunters," and "special abilities."
Now, in 2030... with monsters and hunters gone and only superhumans left competing against each other, it was perhaps inevitable that their leagues had become the pinnacle of all sports worldwide.
Frankly, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that every sports-related industry on the planet revolved around the superhuman leagues.
How much exactly?
"Hana. What was the annual salary they offered you this time in New York?"
"Me? If we're talking base salary, it was about 350 million dollars... so roughly 460 billion won in Korean currency?"
That was what Hana had earned last year, and it was practically the minimum salary for her, so setting that aside—the commercial value judged by the world's largest league for the 2029 World Championship MVP was estimated at around 500 billion won per year at the high end.
It sounded insane, but it was true. In America, people even called her a "walking conglomerate."
If someone asked whether 500 billion was expensive... 'It's actually cheap even compared to national defense budgets.'
Operating a human weapon capable of intercepting nuclear missiles from abroad for 500 billion won a year? You couldn't directly compare the currency value from the monster era (when the KOSPI was at 300) to 2030, but if Hana had possessed this level of skill at this age during her hunter days, there probably would've been a line item in the national budget labeled "Lee Hana Operating Expenses."
Developing a single fighter jet, including R&D, cost trillions of won, and the per-unit production cost still ran into hundreds of billions. Superhumans only needed parents who raised them well. I'd taken full responsibility and raised Hana on a monthly pension of 20 million won.
Comparing 400 billion for a fighter jet to 400 billion for an S-class superhuman made my stomach hurt a little when I thought about money spent on a person—but when I imagined that jet getting smashed by a superhuman, the thought suddenly felt a lot deeper.
Anyway.
Lee Hana, whose abilities commanded an annual salary of 400 billion, had come to Korea. To the KCL.
"Hana."
"Yes?"
"Roughly how much do Korean players earn—the ones considered first-division by domestic companies—if we compare them to the players from the Manhattan, Denver, or Ohio teams you faced in the playoffs?"
"Wouldn't it be similar? Hmm... maybe around 8 billion won on average?"
"The league average is about 4 billion."
"The top aces and national team players from teams like the Seoul Warriors, Daejeon Eagles, or Busan Sharks make around 40 billion."
"That seems... reasonable?"
Hana's expression gradually hardened. Even though she was technically still a high school girl by age, after spending a year in the pro scene—and considering all the preparation before that—she had enough experience as a pro-league superhuman to sense that something was very wrong.
"Hana."
"Yes, Dad."
"What place did South Korea finish in last year's superhuman league? Ah, based on teams with Korean home bases."
"......Twelfth?"
"The correct answer is twenty-third. That's our country's best team."
"......Excuse me?"
Hana's face froze. It was the exact expression of—
"I knew we were bad, but twenty-third out of twenty-four teams? That's what your face is saying."
"Ah, no, that's not..."
Hit right on the mark, huh. If we assumed the salary dropped by 100 billion won for every place down from first, Hana's salary would be cut in half—from 460 billion to 230 billion.
...And that was only because the twenty-third place team had somehow pulled off a miracle. Otherwise they wouldn't even have made it past the preliminaries.
"It's okay. Japan finished twenty-fourth."
"...Then isn't that fine?"
"Sure. But in reality, people consider South Korea first place."
"What? They finished twenty-third and you're saying—"
I raised my index finger and pointed at her.
"You mean me?"
"Yep."
"But I was a player for a New York team... I couldn't even register for the KCL in the first place, that's why I went to New York."
She was right. Hana had originally planned to work as a superhuman in Korea, but for certain reasons she left and began her career in America instead. The reason? Every citizen of South Korea—even three-year-old Kim Ppobbi from Nobel Kindergarten who collected superhuman photocards—could tell you.
The Association.
I nodded.
"So you're saying that because I, a Korean, won the World Championship, people just think 'Anyway, Korea is first place'? What kind of mental victory is—hmph."
"But now you've come back to Korea."
"......Well, I guess that's true."
Hana raised both hands in a gesture of surrender.
"The Association surrendered and apologized to you, Dad, so I came back to Korea too. Yes. Ah—Dad, your phone's ringing."
"The chicken's here."
I headed toward the entrance and pointed at the TV.
"Want to watch last year's superhuman league finals while we eat the chicken?"
"My games?"
"No, I've seen yours too many times already. Obviously..."
After grabbing the chicken that had been left at the front door, I turned on the streaming app connected to the TV.
"It's the 2029 Korean Superhuman League Finals."
"......."
And then.
Four hours later.
"No, what the—!! Why are they team fighting there...!!"
Hana threw the chicken.
"What kind of finals team is that?! Even the Canadian guys play better than—mmph...!"
"Daughter."
Thankfully, the chicken stopped in mid-air.
"That's just how it turned out."