The Holy Site, Bethel

To set the record straight: from Gigi Paul's perspective, that pitch had absolutely not been intentional.

"Of course not! A head shot means immediate ejection — why the hell would I do that?!"

He had already eaten into the innings, and as long as he walked away with the win, a bonus 'merit' payment would be waiting for him. A man for whom merit cash had been tasting far too sweet lately was never going to risk a whole game over one pitch.

Because what he'd seen after being summoned to Jeong Jae-yoon's office following his last victory had been glorious.

The cash-counting machine whirring away with a rrrrrrrrip!! — counting out his 'merit' right before his eyes.

"The pinnacle of ecstasy...!! A beautiful sight, and the most beautiful sound in the world...!!"

"Haha, if you like it that much, I'll arrange it again next time. So keep working hard for me."

Didn't it sound like an orchestra of jubilation?

It was money he had earned through honest effort — which made this a clean fortune. Righteous riches, surely. Nothing to be ashamed of.

'Cau-vin... if you live frugally and earn your money with honor, then this is cl-lean wealth... keep going...!!'

To him, a Reformed believer of the modern age, the words of Teacher Calvin in his heart could not possibly be wrong.

'A little blasphemous, maybe... but I'll put extra in the offering plate later.'

He failed to consider that the Great Devil sends his trials in many shapes and forms — for the moment that thought crossed his mind, the crucifix hanging from Gigi Paul's necklace gave off an ominous gleam.

Was it God reading the heart of this fallen little Sodom-and-Gomorrah, preparing his punishment?

Or was it, scientifically speaking, that the rosin bag was unusually dry today and left less pine tar on his fingers?

Or maybe he simply failed to find the seams at the last second and the ball slipped out of his hand?

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

For whatever reason, the four-seamer he threw grazed the helmet of Noh In-seong — the man who had taken a ball straight off the center fielder's face for the first out of the top of the fourth inning.

'Setting aside any malicious intent for a head shot... will this bastard actually hold back in this situation?'

The instant that thought formed in the umpire's head, he looked over at Noh In-seong with a face full of alarm — only to find nothing left but Noh In-seong's back, already sprinting toward the mound.

"You insane bastard, you threw at my HEAD?!"

Having completely lost his reason, Noh In-seong charged out, roaring.

Once the fuse was already lit, however it exploded would count as a perfectly natural detonation. Light a cigarette beside the powder keg, and you're the first suspect when the ammunition dump blows — because an ambiguous bit of dirty play followed by a head shot had, quite clearly, set Noh In-seong's nerves alight.

Naturally, Noh In-seong — who had been stewing in a fever of rage since yesterday — decided the pitch had been dead on purpose, and charged.

"F...fine, you leave me no choice! I'm not going down like a pathetic chump like last time!"

Gigi Paul squared up, because it had already happened to him before. Last bench-clearing, he'd been rushed by surprise, caught one clean shot, and that had been that. But facing a head-on charge like this one? This time the odds favored him. His movements said as much — the man was clearly no professionally trained fighter anyway.

Gigi Paul slowly swayed his head as he met the charging Noh In-seong.

'Dodge one punch, then bury a heavy one in his body!'

A running punch would be a wild windmill anyway, and the man was surely aiming for the head. But the head was surprisingly hard to hit clean — boxers spend their whole careers making sure of it. When Noh In-seong raised his fist, Gigi Paul planned to watch it all the way and slip it.

'He's here! Now... huh?

--But first, what is this sharp pain in my foot?'

Ahem. He had planned to dodge it.

CRUNCH.

"How many times do I have to explain that I don't throw punches before it gets through that rock skull of yours?"

Only when Noh In-seong had closed the distance to breathing range did Gigi Paul register, through the pain, exactly what was happening.

"...Th...this insane bastard just ground his spikes into my foot...!!"

Spikes first, then — pinning the opponent's foot to force it in place. In boxing terms it was a catastrophic foul that would rack up endless point deductions.

"A foul? Here? Why would there be one, my friend."

Unless you literally stomped your spikes into someone's face, nobody could call this anything. Once you'd agreed to settle physical superiority on a pitcher's mound, the only foul in existence was 'use of a weapon.'

With his leg pinned under his opponent's full weight, Gigi Paul's footwork was sealed off completely. He could try tearing his shoe off to escape, but that risked mangling the foot and collapsing right there. Unable to do anything, he whipped his head around and threw a jab.

"Hup!"

WHAM...!!

The sound felt like it rang out from inside his own body, drumming against Gigi Paul's eardrums.

Noh In-seong had sprinted up from the batter's box, still wearing his full set of protective gear. A jab was a light, probing strike meant to be buried in an opponent's face — and would a man who hit hundred-mile fastballs with his eyesight fail to track a single punch?

The answer was no. A slight duck of the head, and Gigi Paul's left hand became utterly useless.

"KRAAAGH...!!"

The jab slammed into Noh In-seong's helmet as the man bowed forward like he was taking a formal greeting bow. All that remained to Gigi Paul was his other hand — fire the right — but his window to move had already closed.

"The best defense is a good offense, you ignorant barbarian!"

And conveniently, his head was already thrust forward — so Noh In-seong's skull, mid-bob, shifted from vertical to horizontal motion.

Another boxing foul — a headbutt — landed squarely in Gigi Paul's face.

CRACK--!!

And not some demure, cunningly disguised little "accidental" graze, either.

"Kehk... kgh...!!"

This was the authentic Korean style, the kill-or-be-killed headbutt, delivered with killing intent, filling every inch of Gigi Paul's face.

Naturally, not a single player on either side spent those few seconds standing around gawking.

"Hey! Save him first! Assess the damage later!"

"Go, GO! If we don't rein that bastard in now, he'll do to Daegu what he did to those kids again!"

The Superstars players poured out of the dugout and flooded onto the mound — but they failed to save Gigi Paul, who was already nose-bleeding and nursing a partial facial fracture from the headbutt.

"Y...you bastards, what the hell do you think you're doing!"

"What are we doing? It's Korean-style body-blocking delay tactics, you haven't heard of it?! Are you a psychopath or what?!"

First, most of the Superstars were swallowed up by the Doubles players, who had by now grown accustomed to all this and locked arms in a scrum to wall them off.

Then, a handful who slipped free of that scrum made it through to Noh In-seong.

"GAAK...!!"

One went down after receiving a stomach-then-groin combination, one step shy of a permanent transfer to the weekend farm.

"YOU SON OF BIT..."

"This bastard's trying to turn decent honest humans into a FURRY! Just die!"

CRACK--!!

Joey Wheaton, who lunged in next, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had his own momentum turned against him — and with a string of profanity, a rapid species conversion, and guilt by association all rolled into one sentence, Noh In-seong whipped his right arm around at maximum velocity.

Caught in a full lariat, Wheaton spun half a rotation in midair and landed headfirst. Obviously he wasn't getting up from that.

Seol Ho-jin, who had watched the entire sequence while trembling in terror, froze in place, unable to take another step — and Noh In-seong, remembering their conversation from the day before, spoke to him.

"...You can go. Seol Ho-jin, you sit this one out."

"...Thank you, Noh In-seong."

With a casual wave of his hand, the opposing roster simply vanished as if by magic. The crowd erupted at the phantasmagoric violence-magic show unfolding in a blink.

WAAAAAAH--!!

KYAAAAAH--!!

...There seemed to be some screaming mixed in with the cheering, but that was surely just their imagination.

Gigi Paul and Joey Wheaton, meanwhile, had to show off some truly exceptional vocal cords amid all those screaming spectators — because their voices needed to reach the torture technician currently dismantling their legs in real time.

"UAAAAAGH...!! Please! PLEASE let go!!"

"My leg! MY LEG!! AAAH!!"

All manner of full-color techniques were being applied to the two men sprawled on the ground, enduring every second of it.

Calf slicer. Toe hold. Ankle lock.

A baseball player's lifeblood is his lower body — and every last joint in theirs was being worked over with wonderful, meticulous evenness.

In truth, Noh In-seong had never properly learned any of these holds. He'd just eyeballed them from somewhere, which meant the slightest mistake — bad luck, or nerves tightening his grip — and

"Come one step closer and these bastards' careers are over, permanently! DO NOT take another step!"

the threat he was making could very well become reality. So he guarded his perimeter with absolute vigilance.

"Ohhh?! Did he just flinch a little?! FRE--EZE!!!"

"AAAAAAAGH--!!!"

"...F, fine! I'm not moving! Stop, just stop!"

...On occasion he deliberately botched a technique because he wanted to torment them a little longer, but that was purely their imagination.

Naturally, the Superstars howled for the umpires to intervene.

"Stop that man RIGHT NOW! Do something, anything!"

"If we walk in there, what guarantees that lunatic won't fold us in half too?!"

Umpires are human too. Nobody had the courage to walk into the path of a man whose eyes had rolled back entirely.

"N...no, you insane bastard, BOTH of them are already hurt!"

Only the Superstars players and staff, still unable to process the situation, paced and wrung their hands in agony.

"...Um, Manager Jung Im-taek. As a personal favor — could you please, please wrap this up quickly?"

"We didn't adopt shock drones to electrocute our own players. Go persuade him yourselves."

Among the umpires, a serious debate broke out over whether they should or should not deploy an electric drone to subdue the madman. In the end — with Noh In-seong having run completely out of body parts that weren't yet bent — he was mid-way through folding Joey Wheaton's baby toes backward when it happened.

"GGAAAH...!! F**king psycho...!! F**king idiot...!!"

"Hmm? Done running your mouth? Where's the trash talk?!"

Jung Im-taek answered a phone call from somewhere, then walked out to Noh In-seong.

"Freeze. Move and I break it."

"Why's that my problem? He's on the other ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠team, isn't he?"

While Noh In-seong stood momentarily stumped by that airtight logic, Jeong Im-taek unveiled his negotiated settlement.

"In-seong! Stop now and it's a twenty-million-won fine ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and a five-game suspension — or else you're suspended until the end of the season!"

"Deal! I'll stop if that's all it takes — it was getting disgusting anyway. Tch."

Only after extracting terms from his own manager AND the league's mediation did the carnage on the mound finally come to a close. The longest bench-clearing brawl in Korean baseball history had ended.

And it was only then that Jeong Jae-yoon understood what he had done.

"...Huh? Wait. Our postseason...!!"

It was already mid-September. Where exactly was he supposed to find mercenaries now?

And the ones who had been feeding RBIs to the entire lineup — weren't those Jeong Him-chan and Joey Wheaton?

--No, wait, can you even win today's game at all? Four games back? Just how far did he think that gap was going to stretch?

"No. Noooo...!!!"

The price of briefly yielding to the devil's whisper inside him had been far too cruel. From the general manager's office of the Superstars — not merely flashing warning signs about the postseason, but with the fire utterly extinguished — came Jeong Jae-yoon's scream of grief.

Of course, Jeong Jae-yoon was not the only one screaming.

"AAAGH!! No! This can't be real...!! It's all rigged...!!"

Here were yet more people who had tasted heaven and hell within the span of a single game.

They had believed they were witnessing the making of a legend.

"You insane bastard Noh In-seong! The MOMENT he breaks the record, he gets ejected in his very next game?!"

They were the users of the Be The Legend app — people who had never once imagined that the legend would end in a defeat of legendary proportions.

If he'd just logged his fortieth hit, the natural next step was to march onward to fifty, wasn't it?

"Summit the peak, then immediately go stomp on somebody's face — what kind of sideshow is this?"

Those who had already banked forty games were, at least, the lucky ones — they'd receive their prize money.

"F***, I'm never reaching the record now, not if I live forever..."

The ones stranded at a cruel twenty or thirty on their streaks had no choice but to wail. Eleven to fourteen games remained on the schedule — even factoring in individual rainouts, that was all any of them had left. And all that remained to those users was the wreck of their own records.

It was the defeat of people who had overlooked one simple fact: the player who hit for average at a rate unlike anyone else in the league was also the player with the most ejections across two seasons.

What burned them up most of all was that, amid the wreckage, even the 12% who had picked Song Jin-wook had failed too.

"You bastards — you're on the SAME team, and you pull the exact same garbage!!"

Song Jin-wook, too, had been ejected, his suspension now a matter of record. Thanks to two lunatics tossed with a single hitless at-bat on their line, nearly 60% of users had been wiped out. The man who never picked a fight with anyone, of all people, getting ejected.

Noh In-seong tossed the question at Song Jin-wook, who kept spitting on the ground beside him.

"...Fine, whatever my deal is. What exactly did you do to get thrown out?"

"Ah, their guy grabbed me by the collar. Right out in the open."

Some old-school hazing-enforcement catcher he'd hated since their minor-league days, apparently. Seeing the man strut over with a smug little "well done out there" before reaching for his collar, Song Jin-wook had seen red.

"So I just bit his ear and tore it clean off."

--Ptooey. Why does it still taste like blood?

Having delivered this bone-chilling, deranged answer, Song Jin-wook kept spitting, muttering that his mouth still tasted like iron.

"...So is a lunatic coming to me, or am I just living among the lunatics."

Watching his own teammate commit a foul that would live forever in boxing history, Noh In-seong buried his face in his hands. Birds of a feather, indeed — never had the saying fit a pair of bastards so well.

Thanks to the two reigning kings of deranged fouls, the Doubles' strength had taken a massive hit — and yet, astonishingly, they cruised to a comfortable win in that very game.

"Either way, judging by how that brat In-seong behaves, I'd better keep someone warming up near the bullpen, no?"

The man who had quietly collected incident data all season long — Jeong Im-taek's fine play. The moment the bench-clearing erupted, he'd sent Yeom Dong-goo to the bullpen to loosen up at a leisurely pace.

"Knowing that lunatic, he'll never end things cleanly. Slow warm-up or not, the body will be ready in time."

"...Hmm. Yes, sir. Understood."

Call it the fruit of Noh In-seong's record-setting bench-clearing. The opposing starter was already clutching his own leg and weeping on the ground; all the Superstars could do was send up relievers to get hot as fast as possible. And they paid the price of fielding pitchers with nothing to work with, their offensive core stripped away.

The Doubles, by contrast, had a fully warmed-up Yeom Dong-goo, who chewed through three innings.

Come to think of it, even if the two ejected players' numbers weren't exactly irreplaceable, the opponent had lost its heart of the lineup all the same. Cleanup man Joey Wheaton was out with a leg injury, and the second baseman who'd taken the beating was looking at at least a year of recovery. The only hitter left who posed any real difficulty was Jeong Him-chan.

"Intentional walk, Jeong Him-chan. Take your base."

"...Argh, why do I get this treatment when I can't even RUN!"

When it came to administering the most airtight possible screwing to one solitary man, the Doubles had learned from the best. They then embroidered the remaining innings with zeroes all the way down, and by the time the Superstars' defeat had shaved the gap from four games to three—

"...Wait. Could it be...?"

"If we go on a run and just bite a chunk out of those bastards, then somehow, some way...?"

The beasts who had believed they'd sit at the bottom forever now came sprinting with their eyes rolled white.

The Superstars — suddenly stripped of their light — were beginning their plunge all over again.

"No... we can't go back to last year!"

Frantic effort alone couldn't lift a drowning man. Not when Noh In-seong's needle had punched holes clean through the life vest meant to keep him afloat,

"We shouldn't have done it! We should've just written him off as a lunatic and IGNORED him!"

and swimming with nothing but his own strength was, it turned out, the bitterest labor of all.