Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Maestro's Return
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Hello, this is Chukdeok TV.
There was one player who showcased perfect midfield dominance against Spain's invincible armada.
The complete midfielder who propelled South Korea to third place at the World Cup in 2034 with his overwhelming prowess.
A creative style with beautiful technique—one that Korea had never seen before.
A tragic talent forced into early retirement by a brutal schedule and mounting injuries.
Today's featured player is...
The devoted maestro whose radiant gifts faded before they could fully bloom.
Ban Yeager.
2038 FIFA World Cup
Asia's Tigers, South Korea, failed to qualify for the finals.
As the final whistle blew in the last match, a quiet but heavy line echoed across the nation through the broadcast.
[...What if Ban Yeager had been on the pitch?]
"..."
A thought that flashed through the minds of soccer fans nationwide at once.
Ban Yeager himself was no exception.
"Fuck. If I were out there, I could've smashed them all..."
Now a retired civilian watching from the sidelines, he still dreamed of gracing the grass.
"Ugh!..."
But the knee injury that ended his career didn't even allow him the simple daily trek from chair to bed.
An absurd match load combined with a forced hard-worker playstyle had been the culprit.
Ban Yeager, clinging to his player routines, sought sleep before the day ended.
Regrets flickered one by one.
'I didn't need to run around so hard from the start.'
Running more wasn't always better.
'No need to tangle with every brainless brute charging in.'
They were filthy scum without a shred of professionalism.
'And above all, the soccer association...'
Those bastards were never to be trusted.
The pure desire for South Korea's victory had been his alone.
No—more accurately, he was the only one who could see the path to triumph.
Their half-baked orders clouded his judgment.
Forcing his playstyle into a rigid position was like clipping his wings and caging a bird.
He shone brightest when freest.
By the time he realized it, he'd been crumpled and broken to fit the mold.
"Just once... please..."
If he got one more shot, he'd never heed anyone's commands again.
He'd simply unleash his already dazzling talent.
And with that, he'd hoist South Korea to the world summit.
"Hey."
"Hey, wake up."
A faint voice rousing him pierced the haze.
Click—
Sudden brightness snapped him awake.
"What the..."
"Hey, you've got a match tomorrow."
"..."
"Anyway, message delivered?"
Bang—
The uncouth prick who barged in, flipped the light, and bolted—who was he?
"Haa..."
Sighing, he dragged himself from bed to kill the lights.
"Huh?"
His knee didn't hurt.
No pain surged with the slightest motion.
Eyes adjusting to the glare scanned the room.
"This is..."
No way it was his place.
But he knew it well.
The U-17 World Cup team dorms—from over a decade ago.
To grasp the impossible, he grabbed his phone first.
November 17, 2028.
Acceptance didn't take long.
"Regression...?"
Post-retirement, crippled and bored, webnovels had been his lifeline.
No panic at the fact—just swift assessment of his state.
Creak—
The bathroom mirror confirmed it.
Not body-snatched into someone else.
Back to the days he'd yearned for these three retirement years.
Now, he could fix everything.
The Spain match tomorrow would be ground zero.
"Hey, lucky you? Getting a start thanks to me."
'No feeding Kim I-seok.'
"Dude's no fun to mess with~"
Pre-match locker room buzz.
Kim I-seok, needling him relentlessly.
Daddy's high up in the soccer association, so his mediocre skills snagged starts, and his bratty antics got a blind eye from the coach.
U-17 Soccer National Team Coach Kim Byung-ho.
A thorough crony-ball hack.
His spot start today? Cannon fodder the second he hit turf.
U-17 World Cup group stage.
Two prior losses: 0-2, goal difference -7.
Win this, still out.
Against soccer powerhouse Spain, no less.
Kim I-seok started both debacles—another run would just heap more hate, so sub in the fall guy.
Other cronies starting? Same logic.
They banked on defeat, so it flew.
With trash like this entrenched, Korean soccer had no future.
Time for a full purge.
Starting with proving his worth.
Optimism for a Korean win? Scarce.
Coach and players shared the gloom.
"Focus on defense. No goals allowed, no matter what. Treat this like your last game ever!"
Spouting team-spirit BS to mask his gut-churning motives.
Looking back, he'd been naive then.
Interpreted "defend and no goals" as fervent victory drive.
"Last game ever" fired him up to give his all.
Once moved by the spittle-flecked passion play.
Now he saw through it.
"Never give 'em space on the flanks! Block at all costs!"
Just barking "do it" at players—no expertise.
"Lose here and return traitors to Korea! I don't want that for you!"
Not patriotism—an ass-covering rant.
"We win if we trust you, Coach, right?"
Flashing a naive grin, he'd asked.
"Y-yeah! Give it everything! No regrets!"
Stammering cliches to hide fluster.
'Idiot.'
Hated the backlash himself.
Yet craved the head-coach perch.
Insane he'd bought it as guidance.
"Ban Yeager, same for you. Defense only, run your ass off. These days... attackers get props for defending too. Total football! Got it?"
In one ear, out the other.
Past life, he'd obeyed blindly.
Didn't clock the plan lacked goals or wins.
Minimize concessions to save face—that was it.
Players sacrificed for 0-0 draw.
He got tagged "Korea’s midfield hope."
Locked as hard-worker midfielder. First misstep.
Not this time.
Today: attacking midfielder for Korea.
That alone sufficed.
Tweet—!
Spain kicks off.
All hands defense per orders.
Truth: Spain forced it anyway.
"Clear it!!"
"Mark the angle!"
Desperate blocks to dodge blame.
He stood calm amid chaos, reading the pitch.
"Hey! Ban Yeager!! Run!!!"
"Run, dammit!!"
Bench yapping—ignore.
While 21 dashed, he thought.
Waited timing.
To erupt pent-up power.
Let system-slaves yap.
"Ban Yeager!! It's coming your way!!"
First chance: 15 minutes in.
Pre-reception, play visualized.
Spain CB Karn Garcia charging—observed habit: lunges predictably.
Thud—
Lifted right foot early, blatant.
Ball grazed it, nearly past.
Left foot hover, cross right: rabona trap.
Garcia, baited, toppled.
Wide-open pitch ahead.
Garcia shrugged off, solo dribble.
Only the charging keeper ahead, net empty.
Thwack—
Chipped bottom with dribble rhythm.
Ball arced over keeper, lazy-lobbing goalward.
"Grk!"
Keeper leaped, dashed.
No one outruns the ball.