The Beginning of a Nightmare

Before long the vacation was over, and a new season had begun.

It hadn't been underway long before the season started looking a lot like the last one. Barcelona sat alone atop the table on an unbeaten run, while Real Madrid and everyone else scrambled and clawed for second place below them.

And of course there was a reason things had turned out this way.

Lee Junho was on an even more deranged scoring pace than the previous season, burying twenty goals in just ten league matches. Messi followed with fifteen, and Ronaldinho chipped in ten of his own, putting up a goal-a-game performance. Thanks to that, Barcelona had completely swept the league scoring charts—an overwhelming first for Lee Junho, second for Messi, and third for Ronaldinho. They were running away with first, second, and third all at once.

With the table looking like that, Mom and Jieun—both proud Cules—were all smiles, while Dad, the lifelong Real fan, wore a permanently sour expression.

"I'm starting to think Real is a whole level below Barcelona now. What do you think, dear?"

"······."

"Hmm. So you're not going to answer? Then there's no dinner for you tonight."

Faced with the threat, Dad had no choice but to open his mouth.

"Real is a weaker team than Barcelona…"

Mom nodded in agreement at his words.

"There, you've finally admitted it. Since you said it properly, I'll feed you dinner today."

"Yeah…"

And I wasn't the only one watching that little exchange. Jieun, now fourteen weeks pregnant, was watching too—wearing a thoroughly satisfied smile.

Jieun had entered her fourteenth week of pregnancy.

And what that meant, exactly, was that we could finally do it again. From week fourteen onward it was considered the second trimester, so it was fine. Of course, nothing too rough was still a good idea.

Either way, we'd been managing my needs with her mouth and her chest for a while now, but compared to the real thing it was obviously lacking.

"How is it? Does it look okay?"

Knowing exactly how I felt, Jieun had decided to put on a bunny-girl outfit for me today.

"It's perfect."

Jieun in the bunny suit had a completely different kind of charm from when she'd worn the maid outfit.

"I even put the tail on."

The way she said it with her face flushed red—that she'd put ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the tail on too—was more than I could take. I lunged for her, and Jieun took me in without hesitation. For the first time in a long while, I was able to completely burn off every last drop of frustration.

Having finally worked off that long-building frustration and achieved a state of pure clarity, I tore through the league even harder.

Once the noise in my head is gone, my football just works better.

I was starting to think the biggest reason I'd been a mediocre player in my past life—talent aside—was that I'd never properly dealt with that side of things.

Either way, I had put away thirty goals in only fifteen league matches and cemented myself as the overwhelming top scorer—a deranged two-goals-per-game pace that left ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the world stunned.

But even with a scoring rate this insane, I still wasn't satisfied. Compared to the ninety-one goals Messi would score in my previous life, my numbers still felt lacking.

"Is ninety-one goals really that crazy?"

I was sitting on thirty right now, which meant I needed sixty-two more over the remaining matches just to surpass Messi's record. Of course, Messi's ninety-one-goal season didn't exist yet in this timeline, so to everyone else I already looked like a complete monster.

"Hmm. Honestly, I just want to cleanly fill out a nice round hundred."

And since it was going to be hard either way, I decided to set the target at a hundred. What was the real difference between ninety-two and a hundred, anyway? Plus, if I hit a hundred, even Messi would never catch me.

On top of that, a hundred goals in official matches across a single season was a record no footballer in history had ever achieved. Pelé had scored a hundred and twenty-seven in 1959, but those were unofficial. So officially, no player had ever scored a hundred or more in a single season—and none ever would. At least not through 2024, the year I'd lived to. Honestly, I doubted anyone would hit a hundred-plus before the planet itself burned out.

The closest thing to Messi's heir was Lamine Yamal, but even he still couldn't touch Messi. Sure, winning Euro 2024 at sixteen was genuinely incredible, but that alone wasn't enough to surpass Messi—or even Korea's own genius defender Ronaldo.

I don't miss you… Hanbandu…

Ronaldo's late-career nonsense had dinged his reputation, but there was no question he'd been the only one who could truly compete with Messi. The only one. Whether things would turn out the same this time around was anyone's guess. Too much had already changed.

The Ronaldo who would originally have chosen Real Madrid had somehow been inspired enough to say in an interview that he wanted to try Barcelona.

"Maybe Messi and Ronaldo end up eating from the same pot on the same team?"

Hmm… but if Ronaldo actually came, things would get exhausting fast. True to his "Greedy Ronaldo" nickname, he'd throw a fit or sulk the second the ball didn't find him.

"Yeah. Just stay where you are, Naldo."

Some fantasies really were best left as fantasies. Reality had a way of turning into a dumpster fire.

Time rolled on, and once again El Clasico came around.

"Already our third El Clasico."

Messi said it, and Jorge and I both nodded in agreement. It felt like only yesterday that we'd debuted for Barcelona, and now here we were as established starters, preparing for our third Clasico.

"Move faster!"

You could lose any other match and live with it, but you could not lose El Clasico—so Coach Frank was running the squad into the ground with passionate sessions ahead of the derby.

"I'm gonna murder those Real bastards!"

"KRAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

The intensity of the training had completely short-circuited Iniesta and Jorge.

"Uh… are they going to be okay?"

"Yeah. They always snap back once we win."

I'd been through this enough times that I could give Messi a firm answer to his worry.

"If we lose, though, they stay like that…"

Hmm. Every match was starting to feel like El Clasico.

"What is this…"

Well, thinking about it, there was an obvious reason. El Clasico hit so much harder than ordinary fixtures that of course those were the games that stuck in my memory.

While my mind wandered through all of that, time kept moving, and El Clasico kicked off.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

The roar of the crowd rose up right on cue. Today the match was at Camp Nou, Barcelona's home, so the purple shirts massively outnumbered the white ones.

"A feast of Real blood!"

True to a Barcelona home crowd, curses aimed at Real Madrid flew from every direction. Even Real's veterans—Zidane, Figo, the lot of them—looked visibly rattled.

Well, yeah. When you're getting cursed out from every side, even players who've been through a dozen Clasicos are going to shrink a little.

Not that I felt any particular sympathy. If we ever walked into their house, we'd look exactly the same.

The referee's whistle blew, and the match was underway. Both sides had rolled out their best elevens.