Chapter 31
Chapter 31
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 31
Chapter Title: A New World (5)
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Jin-hyuk's events were lined up in this order: 100-meter prelims, long jump, 200 meters, and then the 400-meter relay.
Normally, prelims and finals for each event would be held on different days, but when had sports meets ever followed those rules? They had to run the Chungcheongnam-do provincial prelims and finals in just two days, then send the results to the national tournament committee—by mail and fax, no less. No wonder the organizers, coaches, and athletes all looked frazzled.
"Make sure Jin-hyuk and Ji-beom manage their stamina. You ate breakfast okay?"
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, shoot—."
"What is it, sir?"
Kim Young-tae smacked his forehead.
There was something he hadn't considered. Until last year, no one from Tae-yang Elementary had ever advanced past the prelims in track events. Park Ji-beom had represented them in fifth grade, which said it all about their lack of track talent.
But this year, they had Son Jin-hyuk.
If he advanced through prelims, he'd have to run the semifinals that afternoon too. The 100-meter prelims were first thing in the morning, and with his skills, advancement was a given. And semifinals? Piece of cake for him.
'That means we'd have to stay an extra day.'
They'd skimped on pork belly last night to save on food costs, and now this. Kim Young-tae grimaced in dismay, only to feel several pairs of bright, innocent eyes on him.
Catching the kids' stares, Kim Young-tae quickly schooled his expression.
"No, no, it's fine. Just pace yourself, Jin-hyuk. You've got a lot of events, so if it gets tough, you can sit one out. No pushing too hard."
"Got it."
I'll cover the hotel costs.
You just make finals.
Kim Young-tae grinned, picturing the emergency fund and the storm Jin-hyuk was about to unleash.
Beeeep—.
The microphone screeched, making all the participants flinch like it'd cast a spell.
Park Ji-beom took his place at the starting line as the announcement echoed through the stadium.
"Park Ji-beom, fighting!"
"Tae-yang Elementary, fighting!"
Bang!
Woooaaah!
Gunshot and cheers erupted in unison. Teachers and students screaming at the top of their lungs. It was just the school staff and athletes cheering, but the excitement and anticipation were palpable.
'Man... that's pretty cool.'
Jin-hyuk's chest swelled.
Even as an adult in his past life, he'd picked up various sports to kill time, but he'd never imagined sharing the thrill of racing and shouting with others could feel this exhilarating. It wasn't quite the roar of the Olympics or world championships on TV, but the emotion of watching the competition unfold live was every bit as powerful.
'Glad I came.'
A whole new world was opening up to Jin-hyuk once again.
Park Ji-beom crossed the finish line first in his heat.
"Whoa! Ji-beom ran it in 12.98!"
"Ji-beom's heading to semis!"
Times varied year to year, but 13.00 was rare even for elementary regionals. If he kept this up through semis, finals were in reach. Ji-beom hadn't shown it—good kid that he was—but how much must he have gritted his teeth watching Jin-hyuk? Kim Young-tae mentally scolded himself for overlooking Ji-beom's competitive fire in favor of his star.
'Sorry, kid.'
But what could you do? Jin-hyuk was just that freakish. Defending himself, Kim Young-tae turned to the next athlete.
"Jin-hyuk, pace yourself. You've got more races—don't burn out."
"Yes, sir."
He wasn't planning to go all-out anyway.
He knew all too well the scrutiny that came with exceptional talent.
Plus, he had confidence he could push hard without wearing himself down.
'Even full sprint doesn't tire me out.'
His recovery training had been as rigorous as his running.
Jin-hyuk rolled his shoulders and stepped into the starting area.
He'd checked the track yesterday. Not dusty sand, but a proper synthetic surface. The starting blocks gleamed new, lifting his spirits even more.
"On your marks—."
He kicked the blocks a couple times to test their grip.
Whoosh—he puffed his cheeks and exhaled deeply, emptying his lungs.
"Set—."
Hips up, upper body leaning forward smoothly.
Spring sun tickled his neck.
Deep breath in, exhale a third, lock the lungs.
Gun any second now.
Bang!
The public field's air split with a sharp crack.
Puh-haak!
Son Jin-hyuk exploded forward, knees and elbows pumping, roaring out a guttural breath.
"Pfft, Chungcheong-do's slow as ever."
"What? They've always topped speeding tickets! You know they talk slow but move fast. You're here to snag someone yourself, right?"
Someone once said their slow speech made up for lightning actions. Speeding everywhere—roads, beds, you name it. Funny dividing a tiny country like that, but not entirely baseless.
"Fair point. You're living proof, Bong-su."
Jeong Bong-su talked slow but ran fast, sure enough.
From elementary through college and pro club, he'd worn number 11 as a soccer player. Folks said he'd have made the national team with better foot skills and accuracy.
'If not for those injuries, he'd still be playing.'
Now he coached middle school soccer in Daejeon.
Who'd have thought he'd run into Lee Hye-dong—Suwon middle school soccer coach—here in Gongju?
"Transferred any kids lately?"
"Nah, damn it. Baseball team stole 'em all."
Sports coaches had one universal truth:
'You can teach skill, but not speed.'
He'd come to Gongju scouting fast-footed, big-framed sixth-graders for track prospects. No luck. The promising ones fell to baseball's money lures, and the ones without support picked cheaper soccer over baseball.
Thus, Korea's grassroots sports got nipped in the bud by cash.
Bang!
"Huh?"
Jeong Bong-su snapped to the track at the gunshot, pulling Lee Hye-dong from his thoughts.
Woooaaah!
Stadium roar like they'd rehearsed it. No crowd, yet deafening. But soon, both coaches joined in.
"Whoa whoa whoa—what the hell?!"
Overwhelming sprint.
Tall for elementary, broad shoulders—even compared to others. But above all:
Speed.
Evoked Ben Johnson's 1988 Seoul Olympics stride. No—more dynamic. Legs pistoning seamlessly, upper body thrusting forward like shoved from behind.
That build at that pace? Ankle power unimaginable.
Jeong Bong-su jabbed at the leader who'd just crossed first.
"Hey! Play soccer!"
Strong ankles for explosive static kicks were a soccer godsend—second only to speed in natural gifts.
Frustrated, Jeong yelled,
"Damn this hick scoreboard!"
A real board would've shown the time instantly. But they just scribbled on a whiteboard "track record sheet"—no times for spectators.
Jeong Bong-su and Lee Hye-dong bolted from their chairs toward the track, practically shoving each other.
'Gotta snag him.'
"Quit pushing, asshole!"
The two middle school soccer coaches unleashed their pro-honed physicality. Trailing them, baseball coaches from Cheonan and Gongju sauntered with hands in pockets. Sunglasses on, cool as ever—classic baseball swagger.
Thwack—.
A red flag went up.
"Number 91, foul."
Son Jin-hyuk's bib number.
First time trying long jump. Approach alone didn't cut it.
'Dang, mistimed again.'
20cm takeoff board, 10cm foul line.
First try, toes fully past the board—springy odd feel at the tip. Instant foul sense.
Second felt solid: run-up, plant, posture, landing. But shoe toe peeked over.
"Whew—."
Sigh of relief?
Kim Young-tae encouraged him.
"It's okay, Jin-hyuk. Good job. One more shot."
"Yes, sir."
Not disappointed—just catching breath. But Kim made sure Jin-hyuk didn't wilt. True teacher's touch.
Glancing at the pit as he patted Jin-hyuk's back, Kim saw sand smoothed over where Jin-hyuk's butt had dented it.
'6 meters?'
Seeing things?
Number 91.
Jin-hyuk was ninth and last.
Few entrants, so more signup than quals. Last slot meant subtle pressure on his chest.
But perks too.
'Ah, so approach isn't full blast from the start.'
Last jumper, one shot. Tension aside, he'd observed others keenly, spotting keys fast.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
Another jumper powered through approach.
'Ramp speed to 2-3 steps before board.'
Best so far—from Gongju. He'd watched him intently from first attempt.
'Build speed, upright torso two steps pre-plant, leap upward without leaning.'
Sudden entry, no regrets. Self-hypnosis kicking in, body programmed logically, Jin-hyuk dove into long jump.
'Solo event anyway. Nothing beats doing it alone.'
No worries about jostles, teammates underperforming. Opponents' marks? Irrelevant. Just him vs. him.
'Just nail it.'
Jin-hyuk's turn. To the runway.
Recalled international coverage from past life: slight knee bends syncing rhythm. No crowd pulse, but he bobbed his torso to his own beat, breathing steady.
Others eyed him oddly.
Thud!
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud!
Jin-hyuk ran like a charging Oggol chicken, neck and chest thrust forward chasing a tormentor. To onlookers: perfect upright form.
Whoosh!
Top speed quick.
Upright, deep breath.
Takeoff board now.
Smack!
Perfect—board cleared with margin.
Fast run, strong plant defied gravity, soaring high and far.
Whoooosh—like flight, weird wind whispering ears.
Chin up, eyes down for pit. Stands flash by, track below. Too high? Legs dangling awkward. Pedal air? One leg lags—bad. Thigh squeeze pulls it forward. Neat tuck.
Smooth sand.
Landing soon.
All strength to thrust chest ahead.
Teeth clenched, twist shoulders. Backward flop? Disaster.
Splaash!
Sand sprayed front and sides.
Jin-hyuk rolled sideways post-landing, eyed the judge on chair by board.
White flag!
Eyeballed the mark.
'Good?'
No clue without others' distances.
Pat-pat—brushed sand, exited.
Hands on hips, watched recorders measure from pit sides. Flushed Kim Young-tae and friends clustered. Other schools murmured.
Recorder called it.
Murmurs drowned it.
"6 meters—."
Kim Young-tae's jaw dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Then someone yelled.
"Here, here! Hurry! This kid's weird!"