The Quarterfinals, Korea vs. Japan (Part 1)
I stepped back inside Canberra Stadium, where we had clashed with Mexico in the Round of 16 only yesterday.
Luton Town's preseason friendly against Colchester United was due to kick off shortly. While my Olympic commitments kept me off the matchday roster, training had wrapped up for the evening, and paying my club a visit was only proper etiquette. Still, walking into the dressing room in street clothes—the very room where I had been sweating and catching my breath in a national team kit just twenty-four hours earlier—felt distinctly surreal.
"What are you doing here?" Teddy said, shooting me a half-scolding look from across the locker room. "You should be resting at your hotel."
"Maybe it's because I used to wander around at night in the old days, but getting out for a walk actually settles my nerves."
"Listen to him."
Our captain shook his head with a mock sigh. Judging by the broad smiles from him and the rest of the lads, though, his grumbling was born purely out of genuine concern.
"Where did the boss go, anyway?" I asked.
"Went over to catch up with Colchester's gaffer. Ought to be back any second."
Right on cue, the locker room door swung open, and Manager Gordon strolled inside.
"Well, now," Gordon said, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't Anderson explicitly order you to rest?"
"I'm fine just sitting around, Boss. Training with the national team wrapped up hours ago, and their medical staff gave me the green light too."
Naturally, had Dr. Anderson—the man who ruled over Luton's medical department with an iron fist—caught wind of my visit, he would have delivered an earful regardless of my physical condition. Fortunately, he was already out near the dugout. Once the match got underway and the television broadcast inevitably panned over to me in the stands, my cover would be blown. But as long as I dodged him right now, it hardly mattered.
"Have you had a chance to speak with the new lads?" Gordon asked.
"Just exchanged names, mostly."
Even with their newfound wealth, Luton Town had stayed faithful to their long-standing recruitment philosophy. In other words, they only spent where reinforcement was strictly necessary. There was no real reason to overhaul our established starting eleven, so while our transfer window appeared relatively quiet for a newly promoted side, we weren't falling behind any Premier League outfit.
True to Gordon's midfield-heavy tactical demands, we had secured crucial depth in the center of the park. We also brought in competition—and much-needed cover—for Emir and Hughes out on the flanks, where our thin rotation had run both wingers into the ground last season. Having already pulled off an almost miraculous coup during the winter window, the club could afford to spend sensibly rather than get fleeced as summer desperation set in. Above all, there was no need to blow a record fee on a striker. My spot was untouchable.
Letting me play in the Olympics was a direct extension of that trust. The club believed I would return healthy and deliver another stellar campaign.
"If the boys fall behind," I remarked casually, "I could always slip onto the pitch for a few minutes."
Technically speaking, my player registration was already active, and I was physically present inside the ground. If I pulled a wild stunt and climbed straight down from the stands like a madman, there was no legal hurdle stopping me from playing. Of course, Anderson would probably sprint across the pitch, throttle me on the spot, and throw me right back into the terrace.
"Storming out of the stands to bag a winner would certainly break the internet," Emir chimed in, grinning.
Teddy whipped his head toward me, eyes wide. "Han, tell me you aren't actually listening to this idiot!"
"...I wouldn't dream of it."
Not even the slightest temptation. Definitely not. I was going to sit there like a well-behaved spectator.
In all honesty, had Luton been trailing and won a late free kick, I might have shrugged off Dominic's warnings, vaulted the barrier, and smashed a shot on goal just for the hell of it. But Luton was far too strong for that kind of drama.
The lads dismantled Colchester United with clinical ease.
Final score: 2–0.
Considering both sides were shaking off preseason rust, it was a respectable result. The new signings gelled smoothly into the system, offering a tantalizing glimpse of what this squad could achieve in the Premier League. Even so, the outcome left both me and Manager Gordon—who stood by the touchline wearing an unconvinced frown—slightly underwhelmed.
They should've put away at least three more.
That was just counting the clear-cut chances. Realistically, there were several other sequences where, had I been up top, the ball would have ended up in the back of the net.
How do you miss that?
The turf was slick, man—
I would've buried it.
Hey! Why don't you get down here and run, you little—!
Because the crowd was significantly smaller than yesterday's Mexico clash—though there were still plenty of Korean fans lining up for autographs—my voice carried cleanly over the dugout, piercing the players' ears. Sitting right beside a pitchside microphone certainly didn't hurt. A bit of light teasing was practically mandatory on occasions like this. Hopefully, it reminded them how much they missed me.
While nursing those idle thoughts, my hands worked continuously, scribbling signatures across notebooks and replica shirts.
"I decided to support Luton Town this season because of you!"
"Winning the Golden Boot was incredible!"
"Could I please get a quick selfie...?"
Aside from a few curious locals and family members of the squad, there weren't many genuine Luton or Colchester supporters roaming Australia. The vast majority of the spectators packing my section were Korean expats.
"Thank you so much for the auto—wait, huh?"
One supporter paused mid-bow, flicking his gaze between the fresh ink on his jersey and my face.
"Did your signature change? If your wrist is hurting, you really don't have to keep signing for us..."
"It just switches up randomly every now and then," I replied smoothly. "And my wrist is completely fine. My feet, on the other hand, might have an opinion."
Han and I shared the exact same hands, but our grip, handwriting habits, and names were entirely different. Producing slightly mismatched autographs was only natural.
"Whoa, so this is a limited edition?!" The supporter instantly reasoned his way out of doubt, his face lighting up with pure delight.
It hadn't even been a full year since Han and I began actively sharing this body, and because I spent most of my off-pitch hours hiding between the apartment and the training ground, virtually all the circulating autographs belonged to Han. Naturally, I saw no need to explain any of that out loud. In a few years, once this so-called limited edition became so common it wouldn't fetch the price of the shirt itself, nobody would bother obsessing over minor variations anyway.
...Guess I ought to sign a few more from now on.
Handing the reins to Han after every grueling match just to go rest had spawned an unexpected side effect in the oddest of places.
"What role should we assign to Lee Han?"
"That's the million-dollar question, Coach."
Like every serious contender, South Korea's tactical staff had completed thorough dossiers on potential knockout opponents. With fortunes favoring them through the group stage and their sights set firmly on the podium, virtually every heavyweight occupied a thick folder in the team's archive. Japan, naturally, was right at the top of that pile.
Japanese football had long favored developing entire cohorts together, promoting an age group en masse through the youth ranks. While their senior side blended proven veterans with rising talents, this Olympic roster consisted almost entirely of prospects who had shared a pitch since the U-17 World Cup. In terms of collective cohesion, they surpassed every other squad in the tournament.
"...Be honest with me," Head Coach Kim Shin-tae said, breaking the silence. "Do you really think we can't take these guys down?"
"Before the group stage started, I might have had doubts," tactical coach Park Jun-hyung admitted. "But right now? Not really."
"Exactly."
Despite the solemn atmosphere in the briefing room, the dilemma weighing on Kim Shin-tae and his staff was far from dire.
"Their line spacing is disciplined, defensive cover is solid... Everything looks polished on paper, but still..."
"Lee Han will tear right through them, won't he?"
Club managers generally refrained from drawing rigid boundaries around what a player could or could not do, as capping possibilities hindered long-term development. A national team manager dealing with finite tournament windows, however, had to define precise roles and realistic benchmarks for every man in camp. Lee Han possessed a benchmark entirely his own—one towering far above anyone else's—and evaluating Japan through that specific lens stripped away much of the staff's lingering tension.
"Their number four center back is going to bounce right off Han the moment he leans into him."
"Their zonal pressing is tidy, sure, but if Han's dribbling breaks the first tackle, the space behind them will blow wide open."
"That's an option," one of the assistants piped up. "Or what if we just tell him to focus strictly on headers again?"
"It sounds simple enough, but asking for that against Japan might be pushing our luck."
Lee Han would bury anything delivered into his path, but the rest of the squad remained an issue. Possessing an asymmetric tactical weapon didn't mean they could dismiss Japan's collective discipline out of hand. No matter how transcendent Han was, he couldn't whip the cross into the box and run in to head it home himself. With Lee Tae-ha tied up anchoring the midfield dogfight, routine service from wide areas would be hard to come by.
"Let's keep Han's game on the ground for this one, Coach," Park Jun-hyung suggested. "Stick to his feet."
"That does make the most sense."
He had carved apart Argentina's defense off the dribble; leaving that weapon holstered against Japan was unthinkable. Besides, Gordon Morton's tactical notes had explicitly advised alternating Han's usage between aerial targets and ground-based play across consecutive fixtures whenever possible.
...European clubs certainly have unique ways of managing their stars.
While the psychological idiosyncrasies Han supposedly harbored were unprecedented in all of Kim Shin-tae's footballing years, meticulously catering to such nuances was still an unfamiliar realm for a domestic coach. Regardless, Han had battered Mexico purely through the air. Against Japan, it was time to let his boots do the talking.
"Then we set up in a 4-2-3-1..."
"Wait, if we do that, we'll be outnumbered in the center," Park Jun-hyung interjected, his pen freezing over the tactical board. "Japan runs a 3-5-2, and their left stopper regularly steps up into the half-space to overload the midfield. Three midfielders won't be enough to maintain balance."
"...Hmph." Kim Shin-tae clicked his tongue.
They had already dropped Lee Tae-ha—nominally an attacking playmaker—deeper into central midfield as an emergency measure, but controlling the tempo against Japan's swarming unit with only three men bordered on impossible. Luton Town made the 4-2-3-1 thrive because their starters had spent hundreds of fixtures refining telepathic chemistry. Replicating that system with a hastily assembled national team squad would get their spine severed, conceding devastating counterattacks every other minute.
Gordon Morton's slight overestimation of the average Korean player's tactical adaptability had come back to bite them.
"Should we just give Manager Gordon a call?" Park Jun-hyung murmured.
"Have you lost your mind?" Kim barked. "I'm grateful for his advice, but do you seriously expect me to admit our players aren't good enough to execute his blueprints?"
Park shut his mouth.
A manager's cardinal sin was criticizing his own players in public. Even if Gordon was an overseas mentor on private terms, Kim Shin-tae had handpicked this twenty-three-man roster himself. Calling his own selections inadequate was a betrayal he refused to commit. Besides, knowing Gordon's towering standards, reaching out with complaints was far more likely to invite disappointment than a magical tactical fix.
"Nobody sleeps until we solve this," Kim announced, his voice dropping into gravel. "Not a wink."
The digital clock had already rolled past midnight. Recognizing the finality in the manager's decree, the assistants pushed back their chairs to rummage through the coffee cabinet.
"Where did we put the instant coffee?"
"There's a stash piled up in my room. Go grab it."
"Which floor was it again?"
"Right downstairs..."
Mid-stride, a single spark detonated across everyone's minds at once.
"...What if we just drop Han deeper?"
Empty mugs clattered onto the table as every coach abandoned the coffee run and rushed back to their seats. A heated tactical brainstorm erupted, rapidly sketching out micro-movements, passing lanes, and transitional triggers around Lee Han's revised role.
"Think this will do the trick?" Kim Shin-tae asked, staring at the whiteboard.
"More than enough, Coach," the staff answered in unanimous conviction.
Projected onto the conference room wall was the finished blueprint of their midnight breakthrough. Positioned higher up the pitch than his brief defensive stint against Mexico, the marker sat squarely where Lee Tae-ha normally reigned.
Attacking midfielder.
It was the undeniable answer. The solution was so glaringly obvious they wondered why it had taken until the early hours of the morning to see it.
"All right," Kim exhaled, rubbing his exhausted eyes. "Let's finally get some sleep..."
The digital clock on the wall read three in the morning.