This Is Anfield vs Liverpool (1)
"Mahroudi, Bro~ You okay?"
Romain, headphones on and lost in his music, called out. Mahroudi pulled off the VR glasses.
"Of course."
They were on the team bus bound for the away match at Liverpool, sitting side by side as seatmates.
"Don't worry too much, Yo~"
"Yeah. I'm just gonna watch a little more of this."
"Okay~"
Mahroudi slipped back into the ARK Project. Immersion hit him in an instant. Han Shin's recorded voice came through.
"Against Liverpool, we go with a 4-3-3 head-on counter. Move to your positions."
It was Han Shin's voice reborn through AI synthesis—TTS, text-to-speech. Type in the words and sentences you wanted, and the system spat them out as speech with ease.
In the virtual space, Mahroudi followed AI Han Shin's instructions and shifted into his position. The first time he had experienced the ARK Project, the hyper-realistic atmosphere had crushed him under its weight. But over the past two days he had cycled through every position on the pitch—including striker—more than fifty times in proxy simulations, and the strangeness had worn away.
Today he decided to run a final check on his true position: centre-back. Han Shin's prepared voice returned.
"Arne Slot plays a build-up game that overloads the centre."
Being able to replay Han Shin's tactical lessons as many times as he liked was an enormous advantage. He could rewind anything he missed, and the system even let him look down on the pitch from above in real time to see exactly where he needed to stand—an original design no one else had.
Manager Han Shin is definitely a genius.
A player in a red kit approached him in the simulation.
"Watch the technique of Eberechi Eze, who'll line up as the right attacking midfielder."
Mohamed Salah, the Egyptian Pharaoh who had long reigned over the Premier League, had left Liverpool and all its trophies behind for the Saudi league. The contract alone was worth more than a hundred billion won a year.
Saudi Arabia—the same country that had spectacularly botched Neom City, the 170-kilometre straight-line megacity in the middle of the desert, turning it into the number-one architectural failure of the age—had poured money into football as part of a cultural push to wean its entire economy off oil. After years of astronomical spending and luring star players past their prime, they had finally produced results of a sort.
A professional career was short anyway. The Saudi Pro League had become an excellent transfer option for players who preferred a bigger paycheque over European silverware. La Liga players in particular found it irresistible. Sick of the salary cap and the brutal taxes that dwarfed those of other leagues, they streamed out to Saudi Arabia in droves. Unless you were Real Madrid, Barcelona or Atlético, your chances of winning the title were basically zero—so why not take the money?
The Premier League was in better shape, but even it faced a problem: broadcasting rights fees that had peaked and were now sliding. In other words, football itself was losing popularity. One reason was the absence of true star power. The greatest players and leagues always shifted with the eras—Pelé, Beckenbauer, Cruyff, Maradona, Gullit, Maldini, Baggio, Zinedine Zidane, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho and so many other legends. Everyone held the "golden generation" they had watched in their fiery, less world-weary teens and twenties as the absolute peak.
The 2010s had been driven by the once-in-a-lifetime rivalry of Ronaldo and Messi. When that era ended, new stars like Mbappé, Haaland and Bellingham rose. But ordinary people barely knew them. Without the two supreme masters on the grass, the football market had entered a recession. Young people's interest in the game itself had plummeted. One culprit was the ninety-minute match length. For the digital-native generation raised on one-minute shorts, it was an eternity of endurance. Those who only wanted goal highlights no longer had the patience to sit through a full ninety minutes on television—or sit still at all.
In short: no new blood.
That very point was why Han Shin, despite the licensing headaches, had been allowed to take the Sunderland job. Brexit had sent Britain's GDP tumbling back twenty years into a deep economic slump. The FA and EFL brass, desperate to clear the clogged arteries, had adopted more flexible operations and kept aiming at foreign markets. In that turbulent moment, the handsome Asian newcomer Han Shin was a blessing to them as well. A fresh face with wit and flair appearing at Sunderland AFC felt almost fated—as if the Premier League itself had anointed the next star manager it could push. They hoped he would become, alongside Wrexham AFC (the Hollywood-backed side chewing through the lower leagues), one of the Premier League's new faces.
Meanwhile Mahroudi, still lost in the ARK Project world, heard the announcement slam into his eardrums through the speakers.
"Anfield. We're almost there."
One by one the players peeled off their VR glasses and stared out the windows. Home fans greeted them with a crimson haze so thick it looked like roaring red flames. They were already buzzing at the sight of the Sunderland bus—the sacrificial lambs of victory.
"We are Liverpool, Tra la la la la!"
Pre-match press conference.
Han Shin sat at a white table with sponsors' banners behind him. He traded questions and answers until he gave the floor to a long-haired male reporter he had never seen before.
"Spencer from The Independent."
"Yes."
"Sunderland's back at Anfield after a long time, so we can't avoid talking about Tom Watson. Do you intend to succeed here and then move on to a big club?"
What kind of bullshit question is this… why even ask it?
"I have genuine respect for Manager Tom Watson, but answering a rude question like that is a waste of time."
Whether they were trying to needle the easy-looking Han Shin or leave a scratch on the club, a few reporters still lobbed low-level questions. What the Trent reporter had actually been needling was the surprising, special connection between Liverpool and Sunderland: the legendary first manager of Sunderland AFC, Tom Watson.
Born in Newcastle upon Tyne in 1859, Watson took charge of Sunderland, swept the early English league with three titles, and made his name. When Liverpool's first manager John McKenna resigned, the club paid a fortune to bring in Watson—then riding high—as their second manager. Watson delivered Liverpool's first-ever league title. At the same time he became the first manager in English history to win the league with two different clubs, and he ruled Liverpool for a record nineteen years—longer even than Bill Shankly, the great manager who forged the Liverpool spirit and the timeless phrase "Form is temporary, class is permanent." Watson, the architect who laid the early foundations, died at Liverpool.
So the Trent reporter had been cheekily asking whether Han Shin, like Watson, would succeed at Sunderland and then inevitably jump to a big club like Liverpool.
Han Shin answered lightly.
"My soul is in Sunderland. Next question."
A clean-cut reporter in rimless glasses took the baton.
"Elliott from the BBC. I understand you're handling an unusually large number of transfers at once. Isn't it dangerous to give up on players so hastily?"
"'Give up' is the wrong word. My job is to make Sunderland stronger, and the traffic control that comes with that is essential. There's no personal emotion like 'giving up.' We evaluate players with our own system and are steadily executing the plan with an excellent director."
"Thank you."
A reporter in a T-shirt and jacket stood up.
"Daily Mail. I watched the match where you beat Zenit 6–0. Impressive."
"Thank you."
"Liverpool and Zenit are different. What's the chance of victory in this friendly?"
"Hmm… chance of victory?"
"Yes."
"There is no such thing as a chance."
The reporters murmured.
"You mean zero percent?"
"No. The opposite. There is no such thing as a match we play to lose. No matter when, where, or who the opponent is, I will always say one hundred percent victory."
"Isn't that an unrealistic way of thinking? Not even considering defeat?"
"To me the word 'reality' means the sweat-soaked workplaces where the fans earn the money to come watch the match."
Han Shin continued.
"And the efforts of the coaches and staff who support us out of sight—that is reality. My players and I simply aim, every week and every match, to give them a dream on the grass that soothes their exhausted daily lives."
The reporter who had spun that plausible title looked satisfied.
Arne Slot, Liverpool's first-ever Dutch manager, spoke calmly at his own press conference.
"I will show you clearly why an away trip to Anfield is so difficult."
At the entrance steps into Anfield stood the plaque that symbolised the place: "This is Anfield," left by Bill Shankly. Abdullah and Romain reached out to touch one of Anfield's icons. Han Shin stopped them at once.
"You two—did you come here to play with Liverpool? Do not touch that. Even if we win today, do not touch it."
"Sorry. I wasn't thinking… it's my first time setting foot in Anfield as a player."
"Sorry Coach! My mistake."
The last time lower-league-wandering Sunderland had faced Liverpool was July 2017—a 2–2 draw at home. Jürgen Klopp had been in charge for about two years then, and it was the first meeting since he had left the famous line: "Sunderland are the most defensive team I have ever seen. They played with nine defenders." No matter how much image training they had done, a faint tension still showed on their faces.
"Everyone in front, listen carefully. You are players good enough to stand up to them. I'm sending you out because you can win. Understood?"
"Yes!"
"Liverpool are a famous big club. But today, at least, let's not admire them. Admiration is the emotion farthest from understanding."
The players were moved; they sharpened their fighting spirit.
"If we lose, shirt swaps are banned too. Clear?"
"Yes!"
Caster Bae Seung-beom read out the starting lineup.
"Goalkeeper Anthony Patterson. Back four: Dennis Cirkin, Mahroudi, Jacob Brown, Romain Mings."
Commentator Lee Jun-hee picked out the key points.
"Mahroudi, the signing from Nantes, is starting straight away. Has the manager already decided he's adapted, or is it forced by a shortage of centre-back options? We'll have to see."
"Sunderland have come out with a back four against Liverpool instead of a five."
"That means confidence. And two-footed Romain is starting on the right. Archie Brown begins on the bench."
"In midfield: Jobe Bellingham, Chris Rigg, Abdullah Ba, Dan Neil—pretty much the expected lineup from Han Shin."
"It means the first-team picture is already taking shape."
"Up front: Nelson Weiper and Jack Clarke. Will it be the 4-4-2 they submitted?"
"Given how fluidly he operates, I don't think it'll stay a straight 4-4-2."
"And Håkon, the player you told us to watch, is missing from the lineup."
"Could be he wants him as a super-sub, or maybe he thinks the German supernova Weiper's aerial ability is enough. We'll find out."
"Next, the home side—Liverpool's starting lineup. Goalkeeper Kelleher. Back four: Bradley, Gomez, Van den Berg, Tsimikas."
"Some Korean fans might be wondering where Virgil van Dijk is. Because of the North and Central America World Cup, certain players have been given pre-season leave."
"That's right. Then midfield: Curtis Jones, Szoboszlai, Takehusa Kubo."
"How Kubo performs today will be another key point."
"Korea versus Japan."
"Hahaha—manager versus player, though."
"And Carvalho, Diogo Jota, Eberechi Eze. Would you call this roughly a 1.5-team squad?"
"About one-point-five, yes."
"So, with Europe's first Korean manager facing Liverpool's first Dutch manager in what should be a fierce tactical battle—how do you see this match, commentator?"
"Cautiously, I'd give Liverpool the edge at about 6–4."
"6–4 divided by two is 3–2. A Pelé scoreline! Can we take that as your prophecy?"
"Ah, caster, you're full of wit. You could look at it that way. I'll boldly predict a 3–2 Liverpool win."