The Greatest Bargain Price in History

"Player Noh In-seong!"

The door burst open.

It was around the time spring camp—that rarest of sights—was finally winding down and the exhibition game schedule was being set.

With no intention whatsoever of granting interviews, Noh In-seong had to be tracked down personally, and the reporters found him casually slicing into a steak at a steakhouse.

"Oh, right. Now that I think about it, something like that did happen."

...No, he hadn't remembered it existed at all.

Nonchalantly shoveling meat into his mouth between every word, Noh In-seong delivered a figure that landed like a bombshell.

"My salary? I signed at 1 billion won."

The reaction split cleanly down the middle.

"...A second-year player broke the all-time salary record?! Is this for real?!"

Even higher than Song Jin-wook's paycheck—the largest single-year raise ever for a player going from rookie to second season.

The shallow reporters were floored by a man tossing around 1 billion won like pocket change.

"Huh? That's it? Don't lie to me! How many option bonuses are attached?"

"You must have quite a few grievances with the club, don't you? Is a salary adjustment on the table?"

The reporters who actually understood baseball, meanwhile, could only lament that the value of 1 WAR had crashed this hard.

This was an era where it was hardly one or two players who went completely bust after cashing in on free agency.

Buying 1 WAR required far more money than it used to.

Yet here was a man who, all by himself, was putting up seventh-or-eighth-place-in-the-league numbers—for a measly 1 billion won?

As the reporters buzzed and clamored to deliver their piece—

"GET OUT!"

...the owner of the steakhouse had a slightly different opinion.

The greatest virtue of the Amended Constitution, Article 2: 'Whether you're a customer or the owner's mother, do not enter here barefoot.'

Pointing wordlessly at the double-barreled shotgun mounted on the wall, he ordered them out on the spot.

"Thank you, sir. This steak is truly excellent."

"Hmph, of course it is. That cut's been slow-smoked for hours to render the gelatin, then finished over the grill."

And so Noh In-seong was able to resume his meal in peace.

"And it's this delicious, and yet he claims he's full. Unbelievable."

Every time steak came up, his teammates would whine, 'Too greasy, I can't eat that stuff!'—and Noh In-seong could only find them pathetic as his fork traveled back and forth to his mouth.

"One more plate! What's the recommended cut this time?"

"...You've had eight plates already. You're still not full?"

His upgraded body came with a proportionally upgraded maintenance cost.

***

After the meal—and after experiencing a brand of vivid violence quite unlike anything Korean culture had to offer—the reporters waited outside, sweating in the faintly warm weather.

"Shall we take a few questions, then?"

They had, after all, come all this way to see him. A small reward couldn't hurt.

It was pure whim—a Noh In-seong in a good mood after gorging himself on prime beef.

Thus was held a brief press conference in the steakhouse parking lot.

The first question, naturally, was a repeat of earlier.

Q1. What on earth are you thinking, playing for that kind of money?

A player as mercenary as Noh In-seong, satisfied with pocket change like that? Impossible.

Consideration for the team? Call it what it is—the team's finances, not 'consideration.'

'No way that's it. He's got something else going on.'

'Isn't he exactly the type to demand they empty the vault for him?'

The reporters eyed him with naked suspicion.

And—unsurprisingly—their instincts were dead on.

The team's FA war chest? Please. As if he'd spent a single second thinking about that.

He'd just muttered something polite-sounding earlier for form's sake.

The smallness of his salary relative to his production was the same story. It was purely symbolic—he'd taken 1 billion won for the hell of it.

"Obviously I could've gotten a lot more if money was the goal..."

Noh In-seong grinned.

"But more than that, I want the fans of the other nine teams to feel sick to their stomachs every time they look at us."

Only a man who couldn't care less about anyone outside his own fanbase could say such a thing.

He had the basic professional ethic that his own team's fans deserved to enjoy themselves.

But when it came to how to make them happy? That was where his methodology diverged completely.

You could play hard, post great results, and delight your fans that way. Or—

"Or you could grind the opposing teams into dust and make our fans happy that way. Am I wrong?"

Comparative advantage. Basic economic literacy had steered Noh In-seong down a slightly different road.

"The Doubles can win a championship spending this little. So why can't your teams?"

That was the question he wanted etched into the brains of the other nine franchises.

Ugh, here we go again. Every single year they overspend on useless pieces and whiff on the ones we actually need!

We need starters and they buy relievers. We need a right-handed slugger and they bring home a contact-hitting slap hitter from the left side...

And what's with these flashes-in-the-pan going full overpay mode the second FA season opens? Absolute clowns!

Fan resentment toward front offices wasn't built in a day.

Botch one free agent signing, or pay even slightly above what fans consider fair, and the abuse came pouring out.

Just look at Jung In-woong in Daejeon. Because the Doubles kept sniffing around the FA market, the Phoenix got forced into paying extra—and the moment fans saw the final figure, the profanity flew.

"For fuck's sake, they couldn't even win it all, their fall baseball was a one-week sparkler, and they overpaid by HOW much?!"

Whether Jung In-woong's feelings got hurt or not, fans were cold and honest by nature.

Give him a slump of, say, two hits in ten games—

'You bastards. Sure, I can't get a hit, but at least I'm not making his salary!'—and the rage would follow.

"So no, you shouldn't be spending that kind of money on players—free agents or your own guys—who are far worse than me."

Noh In-seong intended to apply a fresh coat of paint over that raw, festering wound.

"...So you're saying you're going to slap a price tag on anyone worse than you?"

Nod.

"From now on, I will be a unit of measurement. The In-seong. One In-seong equals 1 billion won."

No player on earth was better than him, so you could assume no contract was a better bargain than his. Meaning—

"Anyone making more than 1 billion won will naturally be measured against the bargain of the century that is me, and..."

"They're going to get absolutely shredded online, aren't they...?"

"Now you're getting it."

Noh In-seong fully intended to feed the overpaid underperformers of the league to the mob, one glorious feast at a time.

"From this day forward, whenever you accept a salary your actual skill can't justify... you will need to make a certain choice."

Perhaps it was the red plaid shirt he happened to be wearing.

Or perhaps it was that pleasant, smiling face.

Either way, the reporters grasped his malice immediately.

"I simply refuse to watch these frauds with stats inflated six ways to Sunday ride a lucky era into a cushy free agency payday."

It was the confidence of a twisted soul backed by a franchise with zero bubble FAs on the roster.

"Especially you busted FAs. Brace yourselves before the season starts. If you can't prove your worth—it's death."

With that, Noh In-seong concluded the interview.

"In my era, inflated price tags are not permitted."

The brutal era of Noh In-seong. The first decree of the era's ruler was merciless beyond measure.

Specifically: so merciless that numerous players walked into exhibition games already bleeding from stab wounds.

***

"What is that guy even about? Whatever. Does he think he'll be good forever?"

Kim Soo-ho grumbled his way through his pre-game prep.

Originally Superstars property. Whenever their backup catcher took the field, the game fell apart, until Busan came crying and took him off their hands.

But as a Grade C free agent, there was no coveted prospect worth taking as compensation, so they'd settled for the cash.

His arm is hilariously weak though... automatic door status: OPEN

A contract so lopsided that nobody could even begin to appreciate what a luxury it was to acquire a player without surrendering compensation.

Noh In-seong's 1 billion won deal was slowly eating its way into the brains of every other team's fanbase.

And when ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the comparison was flaunted right in front of them during exhibition games, it got considerably worse.

[Noh In-seong takes off for second—second base!! SAFE! He's gotten even FASTER, folks?]

[Well, adding muscle doesn't automatically make you slower. Especially not over short bursts.]

[Indeed. Noh In-seong turns first base—untouched, undefended—into second. Kim Soo-ho never even considered a throw.]

"Aish, you son of a—! If he hands out stolen bases every damn day, when are WE supposed to ever record an out?!"

BANG BANG BANG...!!

One streamer—a rage-fueled internet broadcaster—could no longer endure his own team's free agent acquisition.

"So that's what it means. A 2-billion-won contract means the team and the fans died, and he's here to collect the life insurance."

Already furious, he now received a donation designed specifically to pour gasoline on the fire.

BANG!

"GODDAMMIT, stop sending donations like that when I'm already mad! You're banned! ...Ah! My keyboard just shattered!"

A streamer smashing his keyboard in a fury was still getting off easy.

Some fans had already declared surrender before the season even began.

Wise Busan fans, for whom even getting heartbroken once a year was becoming a chore.

***

The problem with 1 In-seong = 1 billion won is how easily it gets twisted into 'you have to produce what Noh In-seong produced for 1 billion won.'

Once 1 In-seong = 17+ WAR naturally congealed into public consensus, even the most efficient Doubles players started catching strays.

"There is literally no player alive who can't get hated on!"

A hitter batting in the high .300s would catch a 'why can't you hit .400?' level of flak.

But there really were madmen out there who genuinely believed all salaries should be slashed on the Noh In-seong scale.

People with this mentality watching baseball were, regrettably, an inevitable phenomenon.

"ARGH! For god's sake, is it really okay for me to get flamed for going one-for-four in a spring training game?!"

Song Jin-wook's Instagram was flooded with comments branding him 'a fraud collecting 0.8 In-seongs.'

It wasn't even a cold streak. It was an utterly ordinary 1-for-4 day at the plate.

The problem was that the 1-billion-won man beside him had gone 4-for-4 with four home runs in peak form.

Victim number one of the comparative advantage strategy: a friendly casualty.

***

"So apparently, to justify my 800-million-won price tag with bonuses, I need to go a minimum of 3-for-4 with three home runs..."

Song Jin-wook had come sniffling into the indoor bullpen in search of Noh In-seong.

"Do something about this! You're the one who unleashed this plague!"

"Do what, exactly? Hey, look—there's a defamation lawsuit template right here. Cross the line one more time and I'll administer some immediate financial therapy."

Noh In-seong drew the nuclear option: 'Then die.'

"...Huh?"

"It's a false statement. I said I'm a 1-billion-won player. I never said 1 billion won equals 17 WAR, did I?"

Plus, since when had he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ever patiently endured every single one of these insults, anyway?

And as it happened, he was on translation duty again today—deciphering the pitching coach's alien language for the young arms—so he turned to Song Soo-ho and Jin Seong-min, who were diligently memorizing the secret scrolls of breaking-ball grips beside him.

"You two, watch and learn. You know what the single best response to hate comments is?"

"Uh... a lawsuit?"

Noh In-seong sighed at Song Soo-ho's remarkably shallow insight.

Like a chaplain administering moral education to rookies, Noh In-seong bestowed upon them the true optimal strategy.

"No. You sue them. And when that's not enough, you appeal. And when the appeal fails, you take it all the way to the Supreme Court."

One wrong word from their mouths, one wrong gesture of a finger, and off to court they marched, obediently, every single time.

"Keep the court summonses flying at them, and pretty soon they start feeling like their own lives have gotten very, very tiresome."

"Whoaaa..."

Do not look at people with those eyes, you damn brat rookies.

Having shared such a wonderful ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠method and STILL gotten hated on, Noh In-seong put on an expression of wounded innocence.

***

Time flowed on.

Exhibition games confirmed the gaps between teams, again and again.

FWOOOOOSH---!!

"What, did you think I'd feel threatened by you? Know your place, Dead Arm."

"...Wow. That was the fastest pitch I've ever thrown."

Sometimes a rookie would walk four batters in a single game and writhe in self-loathing.

"Hey, what can you do. At least you've never loaded the bases in a real game with four straight walks and forced in a run."

"...Ugh. That is not comforting at all, In-seong hyung..."

"Exactly. That's because it's mockery."

"......"

Sometimes, during spring camp—meant for building bodies—a team would discover their expensive foreign player had broken down.

"...No, goddammit. This is NOT acceptable!"

"OH... I am terribly sorry. But the shoulder joint... it has completely given out..."

The prized foreign pitcher they'd scoured the globe for had suffered a season-long injury—out a minimum of one full year—in spring camp. A catastrophe.

"...Am I supposed to be happy about this?"

Kim Jun-soo, who was well on his way to becoming a nearly flawless full infield utility man, was asking himself that question.

"Why does it feel like a player vanishes every time we play a single exhibition game?"

"AAAARGH—!!"

Daegu's backup second baseman and Seoul's starting second baseman had managed to destroy each other in exchange.

The second basemen both teams had gone out of their way to acquire were wiped out for the season—by each team's own stupid errors.

As the front offices, saddled with the massive burden of replacing two foreign players, scrambled desperately for available replacements—

"God, what an absolutely cursed harvest season. And Andy ripped a fingernail on top of it all."

Something so enormous had happened that Noh In-seong half-wondered if a monument declaring 'NEVER INVADE THE DOUBLES' was buried somewhere under their stadium.

"...Sorry. In-seong. I will be back quickly."

Andy had torn a fingernail mid-bullpen session. Three foreign players, sidelined simultaneously. A massacre.

The Doubles, having absorbed every ounce of bad luck the universe had to offer, swallowed their tears and rebuilt the starting rotation.

Noh In-seong — Jeong In-woo — Jeong In-young — Kim Jeong-mook — Jin Joo-hyuk — Song Soo-ho.

The moment two new foreign arms arrived, Jin Joo-hyuk would return to the bullpen and Song Soo-ho would be sent down to the minors—but at least the steady investment in starting depth had paid off. Jung Im-taek could feel a small measure of vindication.

"...That said. Can he actually carry the number one spot in the rotation?"

Noh In-seong, originally slated to coast as the number two starter, now had to take the mound on Opening Day.

When asked, his face soured a bit.

"Someone has to until Andy's back. It's not like In-woo hyung is number-one-starter material either..."

And so Noh In-seong reluctantly accepted the yoke of the ace—temporary position, admittedly.

"Can't exactly not play baseball... Haha. I'm losing my mind."

When life hands you lemons, you don't make lemonade. You hurl the lemons at the nearest human being and turn a profit.

"I was planning to pitch, what, number-two-starter workload this year and cruise to the finish line, goddammit..."

Noh In-seong's mindset had been, roughly, 'seventy percent of last year's output should be plenty.'

But when the universe stacked the deck against you this shamelessly, the natural response was a rising fury—and a reckless streak to match.

"Fine. Let's find out what happens."

Having spent all winter forging a body capable of surviving an entire season, Noh In-seong had at least one thing in abundance: confidence.

'As long as we avoid a bench clearing between the new foreign signings and Andy's return, we'll probably be fine, right?'

—Granted, anyone who threw at him would launch the season's first human rocket into orbit. But that was their problem.

The team whose greatest enemy wasn't slumping players or fatigue, but ejections from bench-clearing brawls.

The Doubles' Opening Day had arrived.