Is This a Team?! (2)

How exactly were matches conducted in the Superhuman League? More fundamentally, how were you even supposed to make superhumans fight each other?

When the idea first surfaced of pulling superhumans into a league—turning them into the equivalent of sports stars—there was intense international debate among prominent figures. The core question was simple: how. Would they just let them brawl? Impossible. There had never been a direct clash between two S-class Hunters, but when an S-class Hunter had fought an S-class monster, Mount Everest had nearly collapsed and the Australian continent had come close to splitting in half.

These living nuclear bombs could turn the comic-book dilemma of "dodge and let the planet get destroyed versus risk your life to counter" into reality. In a sports competition where both sides were supposed to fight with everything they had, asking them to moderately restrain their power wasn't easy.

The suggestions grew increasingly absurd.

Someone had even joked, "Why not have each of them bring one QWER ability?" only to be shot down with, "Then everyone would just stack RRRR skills."

Should they recreate the canyon-style evacuation that had once let people escape the threat of monsters by treating it like a game? That was no simple task either. In a video game, you could tweak the skills of over 150 champions to achieve decent—or at least entertaining—balance. Reality didn't work that way.

"Wait, you're saying I'm Red Glasses tier?"

"...The guy who used to kill monsters by turning poison into bombs has to play a mushroom-throwing rat that shoots darts in the canyon?"

There were far too many problems with converting e-sports directly into superhuman sports. Superhumans were people who could directly influence the real world. Just as the champions of the canyon or the heroes running across One-Mura were celebrated in their own worlds, Hunters were genuine heroes who had burned their lives away fighting monsters after awakening their abilities.

If you told people like that to play lane wars in a manufactured "real-life canyon" or participate in occupation battles, what kind of result could you possibly expect?

"Damn it. This doesn't work, that doesn't work..."

"This is too annoying to think about. Let's just make it a clean 5-on-5 fight."

From the perspective of 2030, the conclusion was that the Superhuman League could basically be viewed as Superhuman UFC.

"Wait, didn't we already establish that a straight 5-on-5 fight would put the planet in danger...?"

"We deploy a barrier and turn the interior into the arena. We'll get maximum cooperation from Diorama, the S-class Hunter with the Shrink Engine ability."

"So..."

"If we shrink everything to a 1:100 scale and broadcast the battle on massive screens, we can prevent the Earth from being destroyed while still airing the match, right?"

Ability cheat.

There were no instances of superhumans deploying their domains to fight each other in personal subspaces. No virtual reality capsules creating electronic canyons where athletes lay inside while battles occurred in a digital battlefield of zeros and ones. No mirror-world otherworlds, spiritual dimensions, or domed arenas built in outer space.

S-class superhuman, Diorama. A spatial ability user. Someone who could shrink the scale of every living thing within a certain area, turning colossal monsters into truck-sized opponents. A true supernatural being who violated the laws of physics by shrinking not only the monsters but every person on the battlefield along with them.

"With Diorama's power, creating arenas exclusively for superhumans shouldn't be an issue."

"You're telling Diorama to travel the world building arenas?!"

"Yes."

"...Now that I think about it, it's not impossible."

Could the entire superhuman sports league really be entrusted to a single person's ability? It had to be. Otherwise, there would be no way to restrain the superhumans who couldn't control their own power.

Diorama had traveled across the globe, and even now continued to circle the world expanding the number of arenas. Some existing soccer and baseball stadiums had been converted into ability arenas, while others had built brand-new venues capable of holding 100,000 spectators exclusively for the Superhuman League.

"Won't these shrunken arenas disappear if Diorama dies?"

"They're permanent domains. They won't break unless someone destroys them from the outside or unleashes enough power inside to wipe out everything within a 50-kilometer radius."

"...And you're using an ability like that exclusively for the Superhuman League? The potential applications—"

"We know. It's being used only for this. Exclusively for the Superhuman League."

And so.

Currently, Korea alone had no fewer than 33 such arenas. When you considered that C-class and below superhumans could train without shrinking on plots as large as golf courses, there were more than enough places for superhumans to fully exercise their power.

The era of superhumans had truly arrived. And in that era, South Korea's global ranking was exactly 23rd.

Because...

"So you're telling me that the team that barely scraped by with a 4-to-3 win to reach the World Championship, finished 23rd, and couldn't even make it into the round of 16 is the Korean national ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠team?"

"Pretty much."

"And if we include the continental qualifiers below that... one team didn't even step foot on the World Championship stage or get out of groups...?"

"The wording is a bit brutal, but you're not wrong."

The only Korean team that had participated in the 2029 World Championship—the tournament where Hana had won MVP—was ranked 23rd.

"...In a country where 23rd place is the best result, I have to be the one who picks the team?"

"That's how it turned out."

"Ha."

Hana set down her chicken.

"I was planning to live quietly where Dad is..."

Some people might ask the obvious question. After all, there were 130 million Americans—far more than Korea's 40 million—and even the residents of LA's Koreatown were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠arguing passionately.

"Can't she just naturalize in the United States?"

Defecting from Korea. Unfortunately, various complications made that impossible.

"I'm sorry, Hana. If I could have gone overseas, I could have let you stay in America."

At the root of it was my problem. And by extension, my daughter's problem.

"It can't be helped."

I could never leave South Korea for certain personal reasons.

"I only left Korea temporarily to live more happily with Dad."

Hana, too, had chosen to remain in Korea for her own personal reasons.

'If Hana said she wanted to live without seeing me, she could go anywhere—America, Japan, wherever...'

Hana had the freedom to choose. And with that freedom, she had chosen to return to Korea.

"Who would take care of Dad if not me? Hehe."

"...Thank you, daughter."

"For what? In return, Dad gets to choose for me."

"Choose what? The chicken drumstick? I already said you can have all of them."

"No. The team."

"......Wouldn't it be better if you chose? You'd be an ace no matter where you went."

"I told you at the press conference. I'll go to whatever team Dad picks."

Hana spread both arms toward me.

"Because I believe Dad will send me to the place where I'll shine the brightest."

"Yeah, yeah. Thank you."

I walked over to Hana as she wanted and gently patted her back.

After we finished our enjoyable(?) chicken time and Hana retreated to her room for the first time in a while, I returned to my own room and sat down at the work desk. Not the bedroom with the bed, but the computer desk I'd set up like an office for remote work.

All three monitors displayed various platforms and communities related to the Superhuman League. On the main screen, I had the streaming channel with the highest number of viewers open.

The Superhuman League broadcast was in full swing. The panelists seated across from each other at the wide table in the center were faces I knew very well.

[...Commentator Kim Junghoon. So the main issue is still Lee Hana, correct?]

[Yes. No matter how many king-level players we create, the team Lee Hana ultimately chooses will end up dominating the entire league.]

[Even if it's a 2nd Division, 24th-ranked team?]

[They'd win the spring season, come up through the promotion match, and take first place in Korea. Looking at it that way, finishing 23rd overall and 11th in the 2nd Division seems about right, doesn't it?]

One was Kim Junghoon, a commentator who had transitioned from another sport into Superhuman League analysis.

[Hunter Park Jiho. If you were making your league debut, how do you think it would go?]

[Haha, I've been retired for ten years now. I'm basically just a neighborhood watch member. The title of Hunter feels distant these days.]

[Then should we call you Mr. Park Jiho?]

[Still, I should promote myself to the audience. For the sake of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my expertise, please continue calling me Hunter Park Jiho. Haha.]

The other was Park Jiho, a retired B-class superhuman who had once been active as a Hunter. Someone I knew. We'd participated in an A-class monster raid together back in the day. We'd even run into each other recently.

[This is off-topic, but the kid who lives in my building thinks I'm the apartment security guard. Haha.]

[Does she greet you?]

[She gives a perfect 90-degree bow. Her parents must have raised her well.]

[Of course they did. Thanks to you living there, that apartment's value has gone up by 300 million won.]

[Ah, ahaha....]

[If a superhuman who could raise my apartment value by 80% lived next door, I'd train my dog Boppy to speak human words just to make him greet them too.]

[But that would be a monster, wouldn't it?]

An era so peaceful—so frivolous—that monster jokes could be made casually. Even if uncomfortable messages like "How can you joke about monsters like that?" appeared in the chat, they were quickly buried under waves of "lololololol."

[Anyway, shall we review the list first? No matter how the stove league plays out, she'll have to pick one of the 24 teams, right?]

[Yes. Let's take a look at the 2029 KCL final standings.]

[Ah, sorry about that. It's Seagulls, not Sigulls.]

As soon as the list appeared, the chat exploded. Sigulls. The Busan team whose ace had eaten raw oysters in Haeundae, caught norovirus, and failed to advance to the World Championship.

...It really had been called Sigulls originally. The English name was the same—Seagulls—but they had changed it to avoid the uncomfortable pronunciation and associated jokes.

Anyway.

As a KCL expert, I had plenty to say about all 24 teams across both divisions. But as "Lee Hana's father" and the person who had to choose "his daughter's team," there were three places I needed to focus on.

[Hunter Park Jiho. Which teams do you see as the strongest candidates in the 'Lee Hana Recruitment War'?]

[There are three major teams.]

"Seoul Warriors, Daejeon Eagles, and... Incheon Devils."

Almost as if my words were a prophecy, the three team names appeared not only in the chat but as on-screen graphics.

[Seoul has extremely solid capital. They're prepared to exceed the salary cap and pay the luxury tax.]

[Industry estimates put it at... 50 billion won per year?]

[That's still far below American standards, but last year's KCL champion ace was paid 30 billion. He's also S-class and only 24 years old. Didn't the Daejeon Eagles keep him in Korea despite a 100 billion offer from China last year, and he even led them to the World Championship?]

[Yes. We're truly grateful he chose to stay in Korea... Ahem.]

Capital-rich Seoul. Domestic number one, Daejeon.

...You might be surprised that the Eagles were in first place, but the Superhuman League was a sport where a single top-tier ace could pull a team straight from the bottom to the top.

[And the last one is....]

"Incheon Devils."

I turned my head away from the main streaming window to another monitor. Among all the windows open—every single one related to the Superhuman League, including overseas communities—there was one that seemed completely unrelated.

"...People really are something."

Lee Dokyung lives in Incheon Songdo. And Lee Hana had moved into her father's house there.

[It looks like Hana single-handedly raised Incheon real estate prices by 500 billion won lolololol]

I let out a small sigh.

"Did I raise my daughter too well?"

Chosegwon. In the monster era, it was called Heonsegwon. The existence of an S-class superhuman had changed not only world history but the history of Korean real estate as well.