Collapse the Enemy from Within: Zenit (5)
Four hours before the evening event.
After wrapping up the afternoon open training session, Han Shin stood behind the fence and held a quick autograph signing for the fans.
It was the turn of Lee Chae-yeon, a strikingly beautiful university student in her early twenties with long black hair.
"I'm Chae-yeon! Did you happen to see the message I sent on Instagram saying I love you?"
"Ah, you sent it almost the moment I opened the account. That's why I remember. Thank you."
"Kyaa! You actually read it! Then the photo too… maybe? I'm so embarrassed~"
In truth, Lee Chae-yeon was the president of one of Han Shin's many fan clubs.
"Whew… where would you like the autograph?"
"Here!"
She thrust forward her white T-shirt, the fabric stretched over her curves.
"Pardon?"
"On the shirt… please!"
"Isn't there somewhere else?"
"Just once! This much fan service is only natural…"
She pushed out a chest that looked about a C-cup.
No choice. I'll just scribble it roughly.
The tip of his marker sank into her skin.
Crazy… no bra?
"Haa… ah…"
Cheeks flushed, Chae-yeon deliberately let out a sultry little moan.
"This is really inappropriate."
Han Shin forced himself to ignore it and scrawled a crooked signature across the contoured T-shirt as fast as he could.
She leaned in and whispered against his ear.
"Thank you. I'll come to every single match from now on."
Her breath brushed his eardrum.
"You'll sign for me then too, right? Next time… right here…"
"Ahaha… next person, please!"
The signing session ended in a chaotic scramble.
"Thank you all for coming all this way to watch training!"
Security guided the fans out. Emily came running up in a single stride.
"Manager! Earlier, the Zenit players and coaches…"
Han Shin listened as she recounted the morning's incident in full.
"They did that? Emily, you're not hurt anywhere, are you?"
"One hundred percent fine!"
"That's a relief."
"But aren't you angry? Somehow I feel like I'm the one getting more worked up than you! Hmph!"
Just as she said, Han Shin looked oddly calm. Yet after hearing Emily's story, the marker in his hand had snapped clean in two from the force of his grip.
He tapped the forehead of the now-pouting Emily with a light finger.
"Not at all. Thank you for standing up for me. Still, be careful from now on—you never know what might happen."
"Yes, Manager! So what are you going to do? We can cancel the friendly if you want."
"No. We won't sink to their level. We'll answer them with football."
"With football?"
"They disrespected Emily—one goal. Sexual harassment—one goal. And that bastard who tried to kick you—one more. We'll put three past them and win."
"Why are you only looking after me? They cursed you without even knowing you and threw in racism, so please score a hundred goals!"
"A hundred goals? Hahaha."
Emily scratched her cheek.
"Too many? Hehe…"
"Then two more for the insults and racism against me. Shall we settle on five goals total?"
"Deal!"
Emily thought it was nothing more than a cheerful joke meant to cheer her up.
But then…
He went and made the pledge right in front of the fans.
Evening event at the Stadium of Light.
Chairman Kyril made the introduction.
"It is my pleasure to introduce him myself. A big round of applause, please, for our proud Korean manager—Han Shin!"
Dressed in a two-button navy jacket accented with the club's signature red tie, Han Shin stepped onto the stage. A mischievous smile played across his face.
"Hello, Sunderland fans! I'm your new manager, Han Shin. Thank you to our VIP supporters and everyone who came from the other side of the planet!"
His voice boomed through the speakers, and the crowd roared. The people gathered here cared far more about Sunderland succeeding than about where their manager came from.
He then offered a special greeting for the Korean fans and waved.
"I am an idiot!"
"Hahahahahaha!"
Those who understood Korean burst into laughter; the rest looked thoroughly confused.
"See that, Chairman? Make sure you try it when you tour Korea."
Kyril answered with an OK sign, looking thoroughly pleased.
Han Shin grinned and explained in English.
"What I just said means 'I am a genius.' Do you believe me?"
"We believe you!! Genius manager!!!"
"Right, now I've prepared a bit of British humour."
He continued.
"Everyone, what does a football become when it gets angry?"
The fans whispered curiously among themselves.
"The answer is a cross!"
This time the English fans from the VIP boxes down filled the place with laughter, while the Korean fans sat like mute fish. Han Shin kindly explained.
"Alright, explanation time. Did you know 'cross' can also mean angry? So it became a cross."
He had them laughing with classic British wordplay.
"Hahahahaha!"
Sweet-and-salty humour lightened the mood perfectly.
After a short meet-and-greet, he prepared his closing remarks.
"We've received intelligence that Zenit is looking down on our club in a big way! Are we going to stand for that?"
"Nope! Never!"
"In front of nearly a thousand of our fans gathered here, I make this declaration."
Han Shin thrust his arm high and shouted loud enough for the whole area to hear.
"Compared to our Sunderland, FC Zenit—no, Russian football itself—is rubbish!!!"
"Wooooaaaaah!"
"On this very pitch we will beat Zenit 5–0!!!"
His victory declaration against Russia's powerhouse.
Han Shin set down the microphone and bowed.
Clap-clap-clap—!
The fans rose in a standing ovation, lost in glory.
"Waaaaah—!"
"Han Shin! Han Shin!"
"We are~ Sunderland! We are Sunderland! We are Sunderland!"
As he stepped off the stage, Speakman and Emily hurried after him.
Speakman took off his cap and scratched the top of his head.
"Well, Manager. You've gone and done it again in spectacular fashion."
"Isn't the cheering nice?"
Emily dabbed his sweat with a handkerchief.
"That wasn't a joke? How could you make a promise like that?"
Even she was flustered by how sudden and bold the provocation had been.
"Thanks. Zenit will have heard it too, right?"
"Of course! That perverted vice-chairman, the manager, and the whole board are sitting in the VIP box right now."
"Perfect."
"What do you mean?"
"This way… their manager will push the line even higher."
"The line…? Line?"
"Ah, I didn't explain properly. This morning when you snapped at them, what did that Brazilian player Wendell do?"
"He raised his hand to hit me."
Emily mimicked Wendell's rude stance.
"That means he took the bait. And what appears when an opponent loses their cool to a provocation?"
"Well, they started the provocation first, but… um… anyway…"
Speakman answered for her.
"Openings. Gaps, right?"
"Exactly. Gaps. When the other side loses their temper and can't control their anger, openings appear—weaknesses."
"I'm going to exploit those weaknesses. An uppercut straight to the solar plexus."
Emily asked,
"What does that have to do with the defensive line?"
"If they push the line up, it gets closer to our goal, right? That means they're committing to an aggressive press."
"I see."
"Just watch. On Tuesday Zenit will definitely push their line sky-high. And I'll target the space that creates."
Han Shin fixed the VIP box where the Zenit executives sat with the eyes of a predator.
"Emily, do you know what you need to win a war?"
"Military force?"
"They called me a Chinese tactician, didn't they?"
"No, Jackie Chan? Martial artist…"
"Anyway… according to the Art of War, winning a hundred battles out of a hundred is the work of a mediocre commander. The supreme strategy is to break the enemy before the fighting even begins."
"The Art of War? How do you break the enemy?"
"If they take my bait, the seeds of discord have already been planted in their camp. If Manager Igor had read my mind games he would have stayed cold and calculated… but at Zenit the Gazprom executive holds absolute power."
Han Shin's gaze locked onto the dark force that meddled so deeply in Zenit's football.
"The ones who lose their reason are always the people who know nothing of war. So instead of the battle-hardened Manager Igor, someone else will end up in the dugout. Or simply interfering with Igor will be enough."
"Oh…"
"If we create cracks inside their ranks before the battle, we can win far more easily than by simply outplaying them."
If they answer the provocation, they will walk into the tiger's den of their own free will…
VIP box.
Zenit Vice-Chairman Dmitry sat at a table with his secretary Yulia and Manager Igor, listening to Han Shin's speech.
There were only two chairs with bottoms on them.
The middle-aged Slavic Dmitry had Yulia perched on his thigh while he knocked back Russian vodka.
"That… son of a bitch… what did he just say? Russian football is rubbish?"
Yulia stroked his hairy chest.
"Please calm down, Vice-Chairman… it's obviously a cheap trick, a provocation."
"What does a woman know about football? Get the hell off me!"
Dmitry shoved Yulia away.
"Aah!"
She landed hard on her backside.
But as a Gazprom executive with absolute power, Yulia did not dare make a sound. She swallowed the tears that threatened to burst and sat on a chair, filling the empty glass with ice and vodka.
He downed the 40-percent vodka in one shot, then crunched the ice loudly.
"Crunch, crunch. Manager Igor!"
Igor Ivanov, the true head coach who could only set tactics and had no say in transfers—a classic puppet manager.
"Yes, Chairman Dmitry."
"You can beat Sunderland, right? No—can you destroy them?"
"Of course. Even if we just play our usual game, they're an opponent we can beat easily."
"I want that Chinese bastard Han Shin crying his eyes out in front of me. Crush him completely."
"It will be done."
"Good. Yulia. Cigar!"
Yulia pulled a cigar case from her jacket, snipped the end with a cutter, and lit it with a torch.
"Here you are, Vice-Chairman."
Dmitry clamped the Cuban cigar between his teeth and took a deep pull.
No-smoking signs were posted, but he paid them no mind. He had already stuffed the Sunderland staff assigned to monitor him with thick wads of rubles.
"Hooo~~~ Put every single one of those expensive Brazilian kids into the match."
"Sir? That would destroy the balance… and Gabriel has a minor injury."
"Замолчи! (Shut up!) Igor, are you defying me right now?"
"No, sir. I will field them."
Igor planned to let Gabriel walk around for five minutes as a show piece in a friendly, then sub him off.
"Drop a few defenders too. Pure attack. Attack for the full ninety minutes."
"Sir?"
"Are you hard of hearing? Everyone joins the attack. We score five goals—no, ten—the other way."
"You don't need to go that far. Leave it to me and I'll cook them like pancakes. The opponent is just a rookie manager…"
"Еблан! (Fuck!)"
Still holding the cigar in his mouth, Dmitry jabbed his fist into Igor's solar plexus a couple of times.
"Igor, show me the fighting spirit of the Bolsheviks. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Enough to make our great departed Comrade Lenin rise from the dead in revolutionary glory. Got it?"
"I will plant our flag here so that the name of Leningrad is never dishonoured."
"Good~ That's more like it. Finally we're speaking the same language. Yulia! Ashtray."
"Yes, Chairman."
"Hooo~~ I miss the Soviet days."
7 July, Stadium of Light—day of the friendly.
Two hours before kick-off.
Russian away fans who had flown in after hearing the news and Sunderland supporters had taken over Millennium Way leading to the ground. Mounted police were on the scene, watching carefully for any bloodshed.
Skinheads marched with beer bottles and set off red flares, hurling every filthy insult imaginable.
"Let's show that Chinese manager the greatness of Russian football!"
"Han Shin is a retard~~!!!"
Just then the Sunderland Three Musketeers—James, Robin, and Harold—appeared.
James asked Harold,
"What are those bald Russian bastards saying?"
"Hold on. I'll translate."
Harold ran the audio through his phone and read the result.
"Han Shin is a retard, go home you slant-eyes?"
Robin exploded.
"What the hell!! Is that true? Our Han Shin is so polite and respectful and brilliant!"
Han Shin had sent the three of them a small thoughtful gift because they hadn't been able to attend the VIP event.
"I'm gonna—!"
"Robin, calm down, calm down! The police are right there. If we start a fight we'll only disgrace Han Shin!"
James had no desire to get mixed up in trouble that would smear Han Shin's name.
"Instead let's cheer until our throats burst! Above all he promised five goals and a win! It stings, but still."
"Bloody hell…!"
Harold flung a piece of rubbish from his pocket into the marching column and hit a Russian square on the back of the head.
The man's scalp turned bright red and began to swell.
"Nice one, Harold! Hahaha, let's scarper inside!"
The three men laughed like schoolboys at their prank and bolted.
"That felt so good! Serves them right!"
Robin shouted,
"Sunderland forever!! Han Shin forever!! Russia is rubbish!!!"
"Harold, what if that had started a fight?"
"What then, James? I'd have shown them a Viking fist!"
"Hahahahaha!"
After greeting the match commissioner and the referees, Han Shin submitted his starting lineup.
Back four: Dennis Cirkin, Niall Huggins, Jacob Brown, and Timothy Pembélé.
Diamond midfield: Dan Neil, Chris Rigg, Abdullahi, Jobe Bellingham.
False-nine twin strikers: Håkon and Clarke.
Then he read the Zenit starting list Smith had passed him.
"Done. We've already won."
A short while later Han Shin went to the toilet and happened to meet Coach Vladimir at the urinal one stall over.
Vladimir recognised the face; Han Shin only guessed from the features that the man was Russian.
Vladimir glanced sideways.
He's way bigger than me…? Hung like a horse.
Vladimir hurriedly finished and left. Han Shin waited for him just outside the men's room door.
Vladimir greeted him in English and offered a handshake.
"Hahaha, hello there."
"Nice to meet you. And you are?"
"Coach Vladimir. Well well, finally meeting the manager who learned football from a video game. Ready to get smashed in spectacular fashion?"
Vladimir? The man Emily mentioned?
"Hahaha, I'll be sure to learn a thing or two."
"Learn? What's there to learn? No need for manners. You said you'd beat us 5–0."
Han Shin answered the man's rude speech with polished, elegant vocabulary.
"You heard, did you? Hahaha. There's an old saying: from those better than yourself, learn their strengths; from those worse, find their flaws and avoid them…"
"I hear you've only got three coaches. Want me to introduce you to a Russian coach friend of mine?"
"Haha, thank you, but I already held interviews yesterday. A top-class coaching staff will be complete soon."
Squeeze——!
In complete contrast to the courteous words, Han Shin's hand clamped down with unbelievable force.
"Ugh… ugh… aargh… wait! Aaaaaaaaaargh!!!"
Vladimir writhed like a girl in agony.
"Oh dear, I didn't mean to… Isn't a strong handshake a Russian tradition?"
When Han Shin finally released him, Vladimir cradled the bones that had nearly been crushed.
"Ugh… that bastard's strength is pure savagery."
Unable to even think of matching him physically, Vladimir spat out nonsense.
"Let me give you one piece of advice."
"What is it? I'm not particularly curious about advice from a nobody."
"Hahaha. How do you think our team won seven straight Russian league titles?"
"Winning teams win because they play well, don't they?"
"The answer is the overwhelming gap in squad quality. Understand? So my advice is to park the bus for the full ninety. A draw is the best you can hope for. Ahh… that hurts."
"Thank you for the advice. In that case I'll park the bus as suggested. I'll be going now."
Vladimir forced a greasy, irritating smile, yet the unreadable Han Shin made his blood boil.
Son of a bitch… fuck, I almost cried.
Vladimir hid his trembling, swollen fist—so swollen he wondered if the bones were cracked—inside his trouser pocket.
Han Shin left him behind and sent a message.
Later, after a medical check, Vladimir was diagnosed with damage to the metacarpal bones and the knuckles requiring five weeks of recovery, and was said to have walked around with his hand wrapped in thick bandages.
In Korea, the commentary team appeared on screen for Sunderland's first friendly.