vs Manchester City (1)
I hadn't said anything particularly grand.
First, a shot at Linebri Kjell's looks — a man with no hair and no real claim to handsomeness who somehow still took pride in his appearance.
Honestly, I'm better looking, right?
Next, Dove, whose pride as captain ran sky-high, took another hit when I stacked him up against Wright.
I roasted the players, left the manager out of it just to stoke a little jealousy, and then drove the final nail home by calling Manchester City a club without roots. City fans were so furious that protests nearly broke out.
The protests were eventually shut down by the Manchester City club itself, but the trash talk showed no signs of stopping.
…Hmm. I only stated facts.
What was wrong with telling a rootless club that it had no roots?
This was a side that used to bounce between the bottom of the first division and the second tier — a team that only transformed once a billionaire owner and a world-class manager arrived. No real history. No tradition to speak of.
And of course, that will set them off again.
They'd come back with the usual — Arsenal has never even won the Champions League, has Arsenal ever done a Treble, and so on. I could see every line coming.
Right on cue, Juan couldn't hold it in and piled on.
"Win a Champions League first, then open your mouth!"
"What does a seventeen-year-old even know?!"
"Manchester City's history is long!"
City fans even made the trip down to London to shout it in our faces. That was only a fraction of it — the things I heard on the way to training were far worse. Some of it even went after my family.
"Haha…"
Arriving at the still-empty training ground, I hit a sudden wall of reality. How old was I supposed to be, taking this kind of abuse?
Maybe it wasn't enough to end the fight…
Watching them keep coming at me, it seemed I'd gone too soft. I needed to dig into the bone — make sure they couldn't lift their heads anywhere in England again. I'd only thrown in the "no roots" line because the heat had me a little fired up. Originally, I'd planned to stop there.
"Yujin, you okay?"
"You all right?"
"Ah — yeah. I'm fine."
My mental game wasn't so fragile that something this small would shake me. Leaving my teammates' concern behind, the moment training ended I picked the trash talk right back up.
After my two-hit combo of pure spite, the Manchester City players went silent.
"…Did I go too hard?"
Honestly, I almost felt sorry for them at this point. Hearing what the players around me had to say, I was relieved it was still within normal bounds.
For a moment it looked like the older City players would simply stay mute and let the trash talk die — but then:
Let's see… what were their weak points again?
I kept watching Manchester City match footage, analyzing every player. So I could leave every last one of them behind on the pitch.
"Padric. Just give me the ball. I'll cut through all of them."
"…Kid. You sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine. Full condition."
After Padric's pre-match interview, we headed for the Etihad Stadium.
"AAAAAAARGH—!!!! YUJIN—!!!! I'LL KILL YOU—!!!!"
"…Is it just me?"
Toward a place where someone's scream seemed to be ringing out.
(Baek Yujin walking the streets of London)
On the surface he just looks like a cute little brother — but the second he plays football or starts roasting teammates, he flips a full 180.
(Baek Yujin trash talk compilation)
You seeing this?
Calling City rootless, then flipping it to roast Linebri Kjell for supposedly having roots.
The guts alone are insane, and the fact that he only says things that are true and shuts City up completely is just… ridiculous.
I've felt this for a long time now — do NOT mess with Yujin….
Unless you want to get wrecked…
I'm in awe all over again that he's only seventeen.
My teammates told me I was fine — that I could keep going — so I needled them a little more. By the time we arrived in Manchester, the number of eyes locked onto us was staggering.
Ordinarily I wouldn't have minded the attention. The problem was that every single one of those stares was loaded with malice.
We slipped into the stadium like mice, went through our warm-ups, and as the lineups were being set I looked over at the man who was, arguably, the root of all this — Linebri Kjell.
Just under 190 centimeters, dark skin, head shaved clean. Even at a glance, he looked intimidating. Obviously, though, still uglier than me.
I must have been staring too hard, because Kjell turned his head and our eyes met. In that instant he put on a smile like a killer who'd already put a few people in the ground, and poured pure murderous intent straight at me.
The pressure was enormous enough to startle me for a second — then I just smiled back, deadpan. The kind of expression that asked, You're smiling?
It didn't matter.
You're going to break today.
I'd already made up my mind. Once, ten times — however many it took. I was going to bring Linebri Kjell down.
For any EPL viewer, this was the match everyone had been waiting for — League Matchday 37 at the Etihad Stadium, Manchester City versus Arsenal.
"With a match that could decide first place in the league, the Manchester City players look deadly serious."
"Same for Arsenal — if they win this one, they can start eyeing the title."
The commentary stretched on around the theme of Arsenal's underdog uprising.
"Arsenal are on an unbeaten run right now. It's absurd."
"It really is. No one saw this coming."
Then they slowly walked through the starting lineups.
"City have come out in their preferred 4-1-4-1. Anything you're watching closely?"
"Ah — just as Kjell said before the match, if he can pin Baek Yujin down, the game should open up for them."
"Exactly. Arsenal have never had a bad game when Baek Yujin is free to move."
"On the other side, Arsenal have brought out their usual 3-5-2. Looking to pour on the attack with outstanding work rate down both flanks?"
"That's right. Davis may be a wing-back by trade, but his attacking output is considerable, and Padric is a winger Spain knows well. They can hit on the counter at real speed."
While the broadcast crew kept talking, the referee's whistle blew and the match began.
"And we're underway! Arsenal on the right, City on the left — Arsenal with the kickoff, working the ball carefully."
Arsenal had to win this match to close in on the title, so they dragged their concentration up to the absolute maximum from the first second.
"City pressing hard — Wright clears it long."
"Hong Seoin takes it down. A short combination, and it goes straight into Baek Yujin."
Building patiently out of the back, Baek Yujin received the ball, read that there was nowhere useful to pass, and dribbled — precisely — straight at Linebri Kjell.
Kjell watched Yujin coming at him, murderous intent rolling off him in waves, and couldn't understand why the kid would deliberately close the distance.
What do I care. I'm ending him.
Yujin had mocked his looks, twisted the knife, and insulted the club. And he was the enemy. That was already more than enough reason to take the ball.
Kjell watched Yujin tap-tap the ball forward and dropped his stance low. He kept himself in a straight line with the ball so he could turn and run at any moment — and Yujin threw a body feint.
Riding the rhythm, closing the gap — and then, in a flash.
Whoosh—!
…Huh?
Baek Yujin shoved the ball to the right in a single instant and struck a shot. It painted a beautiful arc but didn't find the net, and a corner was awarded to Arsenal.
"Corner for Arsenal! Padric lining it up!"
"Is this the trash talk talking?! City's players look a step slow!"
What just happened?
While Kjell was still turning over something that had unfolded in a single breath, Baek Yujin stepped up in front of him and raised a single index finger.
Whatever it meant, it wasn't going to be anything pleasant. Kjell started toward him —
"Kjell. One more time and that's a booking."
"…Yes, sir."
— and the referee put distance between them.
As the corner was being prepared, Baek Yujin — wearing a smile that wasn't quite a smile — brushed past Kjell's side and said, low and quiet:
"Did that sting?"
"…"
It was Korean Kjell had never heard in his life, so he had no idea what it meant. It still pissed him off for no good reason.