Enter the Villains
Cheongjin Joongang High 0 : 6 Wirye Jeil High
Dongdaemun Baseball Stadium, where the quarterfinals of the Blue Dragon Tournament were underway. At some point, the game had slipped into the seventh inning.
And on the mound stood a pitcher, firing the ball with a razor-sharp glare in his eyes.
"It's as if he's announcing to the world that he plays on a completely different level, isn't it? This is exactly why they were talking about him skipping straight to the youth national team. Even deep into the seventh, his pitching hasn't changed one bit from the first inning."
"Can Cheongjin Joongang High possibly turn this around? Now stepping to the plate — Lee Seung-kwon."
He left behind a teammate who had just been struck out before his very eyes and walked into the batter's box.
Lee Seung-kwon, second-year at Cheongjin Joongang High. He was widely hailed as the best position player in high school baseball right now, expected to be taken early in next year's draft. What kind of player he was could be summed up in two facts: he was his school's starting shortstop, and his home run tally this season was identical to Kim Yi-seon's. Granted, Yi-seon was a pitcher with less than half of Seung-kwon's plate appearances — but his rate stats were absolutely overwhelming.
Home runs aside, his slash line this year read .400 batting average, .500 on-base, .700 slugging — an insane, borderline absurd line. Any pitcher facing him would be tight with nerves, committing to his very best pitches.
"Kim Yi-seon comes set. Here comes the first pitch."
"Ah, look how composed Kim Yi-seon is. The classic problem young pitchers face is freezing up when the heart of the order steps in. But look at him — same routine as always, and not a trace of stiffness in his delivery."
But no. The one who was nervous was Lee Seung-kwon himself.
He'd gone down on strikes in both of his previous at-bats. And not just ordinary strikeouts — he hadn't been able to read Kim Yi-seon's pitches at all.
"There's the first pitch! Strike! Count one and one."
"Beautiful. As always, Kim Yi-seon shows nothing of what you see in young pitchers late in a game — no loss of velocity, no shying away from head-on battles. That's only possible because he has absolute faith in his own stuff. His heart is huge."
"Lee Seung-kwon steps out for a moment to reset himself."
That was the problem. That monstrous four-seamer.
The raw velocity alone was fast, but it carried power beyond even the numbers on the radar gun. According to our coach's analysis, that guy's long limbs meant he released the ball from way out in front, so it arrived even faster than the read speed. What kind of cheat-code human being does that?
And if that were all, fine. But Kim Yi-seon's four-seamer seemed to rise far more than expected on its way in. In his previous two at-bats, the guy had thrown nothing but five fastballs, and Seung-kwon hadn't so much as laid a bat on one before he was out.
The second pitch followed.
"Pitch two, a breaking ball low — called strike! Count two and one."
"And that curveball arrived at a merciless moment, didn't it? When that happens, the hitter has no choice but to stand there and take it. Even with mediocre break on the pitch, this is what it means."
"Lee Seung-kwon finds himself in an increasingly difficult battle."
And that second pitch had been a curveball.
It had come screaming in at an impossibly perfect time — a timing he hadn't even been thinking about. Honestly, judged purely on its own merits, it was a flimsy curveball a middle schooler could have thrown. And yet he couldn't touch it at all.
Well, of course — if you have to account for that thing in your timing, you can't hit the fastball either.
But he couldn't keep going like this. He could not let his name be attached to the record of ten consecutive strikeouts in a national tournament — the first in high school baseball history.
Forget the game itself. This was about pride.
He loosened his stiffened body as much as he could and prepared. Come on. The curve was already written off — no pitcher throws the same pitch twice in a row once you've seen it.
The third pitch came flying. Location: up in the zone. Kim Yi-seon's favorite spot.
150 kilometers per hour? Plenty of pitchers throw that hard, you or no you. And I've hit extra-base hits off pitchers exactly like that before.
He swung the bat as big and hard as he could. The swing felt so clean, so crisp, that his instinct told him: I timed it right this time.
Now, this ball just had to meet his bat, and—
"Oh! Swing and miss on pitch three! Struck out on three pitches! He's completed the historic record — the first ten consecutive strikeouts in a national high school tournament! And this player is only seventeen years old in Korean age! A second-year in high school!"
"Heh heh. It doesn't show well on camera, but to the broadcast crew here at the ballpark, that ball looked like it stopped mid-air before coming in. An absolutely perfect changeup."
"Lee Seung-kwon still hasn't recovered from the shock — that's just how devastating a pitch that was!"
What, what? The ball had come in dead center of the strike zone.
For a moment he couldn't process what had happened, just staring blankly ahead — and for some reason, today of all days, the pitcher's face on the mound was perfectly clear to him.
The corner of that mouth, curling ever so slightly upward.
That son of a bitch. Seriously loathsome.
"Finally, the world is operating normally again. This is how it should be."
There I was, browsing the news articles on the portal sites with an expression of deep satisfaction.
Min-ah, who had tagged along to Director Cho's institute again today, was looking at me like I was pitiful.
"Yi-seon, honey. It really doesn't look like the concept of humility exists anywhere in your body."
"Humility? Pretending you're not great when you are great doesn't count as humility anyway. That's just deception."
What was I supposed to do, when objectively speaking, Kim Yi-seon and Wirye Jeil High were on another level? The ones acting abnormal were the haters who'd come swarming to tear us apart every time we got a decent result.
"Exactly. People spouted utter nonsense about your underhand delivery, and thanks to you, the ignorant voices of folks who don't understand the strengths and appeal of submarine pitching have finally died down. This is what healthy internet discourse looks like."
Director Cho, who had been reading the articles alongside me, chimed in. For the record, the Director wasn't upset that I or Jeil High were getting flak — he was upset that submarine pitching was getting flak. Truly a submarine fanatic.
I turned my head and threw a question at Kang Min-hyuk too.
"Kang Min-hyuk, you're confident about tomorrow's game, right? Us losing in the first place would be absurd."
"Yes. That level of confidence is exactly the attitude we ought to have right now. Anything less would be an insult to every other high school that has already fallen to Jeil High."
With even this stiff-necked guy agreeing, Min-ah gave a resigned sigh and nodded along.
Right? Wirye Jeil High is the strongest, obviously.
Nam Kang-min, who'd been injured, was back healthy and swinging a monster bat. The rest of the team was in fantastic form too — winning the Phoenix Flag had been a huge experience, and the Grand Slam goal seemed to be working as fuel.
Even Dae-hyun, our third-year senior, had something snap loose after his home run and was showing a markedly improved game, to the point people were saying he'd pick up additional scholarship offers.
And wasn't all of this the handiwork of me, Kim Yi-seon, building a superteam with future-sight cheats powered by my knowledge of the original story?
"Okay, that's enough of that. Your game is tomorrow too, you know. Time to get up already."
"Ah, right."
Since the Blue Dragon Tournament is held during the school semester, it runs on a schedule similar to a weekend league. The Phoenix Flag had taken place over vacation, so it was a brutal grind — play a game, rest a day, play the next. But the Blue Dragon ran like: round of 16 on Saturday, quarterfinals on Sunday, semifinals the following Saturday, and so on.
With rain cancellations and stadium rental issues screwing up the calendar, this week's schedule had us playing the quarterfinals today, Saturday, and the semifinals tomorrow.
"Kang Min-hyuk, who did you say our semifinal opponent was?"
Min-ah shot me a look that said, you don't even know your own school's opponent? Look, Min-hyuk's starting that game anyway — why would I need to know?
"Gwangju Jeil High."
"Oh, right. Going to be noisy again."
Another Real Jeil vs. Fake Jeil grudge match in the draw. The forums were going to be on fire.
I was pondering what kind of bait thread to write when Min-hyuk added a few more words.
"They're a tough team, but I'm confident too. At the Phoenix Flag, you carried me to the finals — so this time it's only right that I carry you. Are you confident about the finals, Kim Yi-seon?"
So he'd been quietly holding onto that, huh. That's why he asked for the round-of-16 start this time while telling me to enter from the round of 32 — he was lining up the rotation for this exact moment?
For my part, with our batting order hitting the way it had been lately, I figured we could give up three runs and still win, so I nodded like it was obvious.
"Hey, look at who the finals opponent is. Whoever it is, the moment they come at me, I win. Simple as that."
"Right. Incheon Dong High and Haedang High are playing the other semifinal on the opposite side. I don't know which one will come up, but whichever it is, I'm sure you can beat them."
Min-hyuk nodded, apparently satisfied with his own logic.
Hold on. Where exactly?
"Which school did you say our finals opponent would be?"
"Incheon Dong High?"
"No, not them."
"Haedang High."
Seriously? Those guys, of all people, at this timing?
The current atmosphere at Haedang High was tense with disarray.
Most of the third-years who had led the team had their college placements locked in, and two of them had even been selected in the draft. As a result, the starting lineup was riddled with holes.
On top of that, the second-years had so little game experience that nobody could say for certain who was a starter and who was a bench player. For a normal school, this would be the perfect setup to botch a national tournament.
Yet in the face of it all, Haedang High's manager, Koo Sang-min, spoke as lightly as if it were nothing at all.
"As of now, Seong-min, Su-min, Hyun-woo, and Ji-soo — those four are our fixed starters."
The eyes of the named students lit up. The other second-years shot them envious glances as they clapped with dead, lifeless hands.
"I say fixed starters, but that is based strictly on your current ability. If another student fights his way up, your spot is gone too. Am I understood?"
"YES, SIR!"
Manager Koo Sang-min nodded without a flicker of expression.
Once the announcements for the second-years wrapped up, they filed out of their seats en masse, and since the first-years were still in training, the only ones left in the baseball team building were the third-years — the ones who hadn't yet secured their college placements.
"Good work. Your season is over now."
A cold tone utterly devoid of emotion.
At those words, one student hesitantly, carefully raised his hand.
"Yes, Seong-cheol. What is it you want to say?"
"Um... Coach. The school I'm applying to requires a minimum amount of playing time... is there any way I could play, even as a sub?"
The instant those words landed, Koo Sang-min's face twisted like something out of a portrait of pure malice.
And then the roar came down like a hammer.
"You dim-witted fool! If you needed playing time, you should have performed properly during the season! Why are you complaining to me about your inadequate skill?!"
"But Coach... just one game, please...!"
"One game, my ass! Get out. I'm done listening!"
And with that, Koo Sang-min slammed the manager's office door shut behind him and disappeared inside.
This was how he ran his team. Ruthless hierarchy. Ruthless discrimination.
Second-years? No matter how well they played, they could never surpass a third-year. Third-years were guaranteed a full season, period.
Starters? Once you claimed a spot on merit, he backed you to the hilt. But students branded as bench players were treated differently in every conceivable way — not just game time, but how they were handled in practice.
Yet the moment the Phoenix Flag — the standard season for third-years — ended, or the moment a starter's performance fell behind a sub's, they were discarded without mercy.
It was the kind of operation you'd expect from a villain school in a manga. But Manager Koo Sang-min believed this method was effective — and in truth, it had produced results not just in win-loss records, but in his students' college placements and professional signings as well.
Human beings, after all, will give everything they have to climb over someone else — to protect the ground they stand on.
We drew a bunch of absolute pieces of shit.
Monday. The day after Min-hyuk had cleanly dispatched Gwangju Jeil High and clinched Wirye Jeil High's spot in the finals. I was setting up team practice with the baseball club, thinking exactly that.
Haedang High. If Donghyun High are the rivals, these guys are straight-up villains.
Granted, Donghyun High's play has its annoying aspects too, but that's mostly the influence of one scheming trickster of a player, and since they're in the same region as the protagonist school, Wirye Jeil High, it plays out as something like friendly competition. To borrow from other manga from my past life — think Karrot vs. Bater, or Nato vs. Sasuke.
But Haedang High is pure, irredeemable villain, no two ways about it. Under the banner of "discipline," they divide everything into strict hierarchies by skill and age, and discriminate against the students on the lower rungs. Their ace-tier players are accordingly arrogant — and, fittingly, that much stronger.
Up through the second-year arc, you'd only hear the school's name — no image of them as a powerhouse. But once the third-year arc began, Haedang High's second-year aces — the ones who'd been buried under the third-years all this time with barely any playing opportunities — finally took the stage and planted their names firmly on the shortlist of the strongest teams in high school baseball.
Four projected pro draft picks — when even one per team is rare. Of all the opponents Kang Min-hyuk faced in the manga, the hardest game had been the third-year Phoenix Flag semifinal against these Haedang bastards.
The direction of that arc was so epic that I went in expecting the finals against Donghyun High to be even more incredible — and then the author dropped the whole thing flat with some bizarre plot development. I'm still pissed thinking about it.
Anyway — if we'd met them at the Phoenix Flag, we'd be facing their third-years, who are still chumps. But at the Blue Dragon, with no scouting data available, we have to go straight up against their stronger, second-year lineup.
"Haedang High? Their second-years, who even are they? Nobody, right?"
"Barely anything in the records about their playing time. Not much material to analyze."
But compared to my quiet panic, the mood on our team was downright serene.
"The finals? Honestly, the semis feel more like the real final. We'll win easy, no?" That was the general consensus.
No, you idiots, I'm telling you we drew an absolutely brutal opponent!
If Donghyun High is Bater, then Haedang High is Maiuo!
Gripping my throbbing head, I began explaining, carefully and slowly.
"Just listen first. Haedang only ever fields their third-years as a matter of policy, so even when a second-year is genuinely good, they don't get real playing time until they become a third-year. So don't go thinking they're weak just because they used to be bench players."
"Huh? What kind of weird school does that? If a second-year's good, you play him as a starter."
Right? Don't ask me, ask them.
"And at least four of them are major-league — sorry, pro-direct level talent. It's really not going to be easy."
Our guys... outside of me and Min-hyuk, none of them are pro-direct caliber, are they? If we pull off the Grand Slam, the premium might land them a low-round pick, but pure skill-wise, they'd be around rounds five or six, like Gang-cheol. And Gang-cheol only got a sixth-round offer from a single team, the Seoul Twins, with the championship-captain premium — so honestly he's a college-bound level player.
Anyway, these were kids the author suddenly shoehorned in when he ran out of villains for the third-year arc, so the setup doesn't quite add up — but they're genuinely, legitimately strong.
"Pfft, four pro-direct guys? We've got a major-league, youth-national-team pitcher. What's there to worry about?"
Cha Il-sung spoke jokingly, as if my words hadn't registered as serious at all.
"Uh, if you just shut them out like you always do, we win, right? What're you so scared of?"
I shoved down the surging sigh and said my piece.
"If you don't score a single run in nine innings, I'm killing you. Half to death."
"You lookin' down on us? 'Course we'll manage that much."
Honestly, I couldn't even guarantee we'd win. Without a single word of exaggeration, their roster is the strongest we've faced all year. A flimsy college team, we'd probably beat comfortably — but this?
At this level, one slip-up from even me and a shutout stops being easy.
"Hey, what's with the famous Kim Yi-seon tonguing his words like this? Can't you throw a shutout or somethin'?"
I ignored Cha Il-sung's baiting. The tougher the opponent, the more I needed to stay cold and calcu—
"What's a'matter, Kim Yi-seon got no confidence? Then tell yer mama we oughta watch the Korea-Japan game 'stead of our own, I reckon."
"... Nam Kang-min. What did you just say?"
"Nah, our game's in the daytime and the Blue Dragon Korea-Japan game's in the evenin', see. Didn't wanna make Ma waste her strength watchin' a daytime game for nothin', y'know."
This guy came back from the hospital with his accent even more insufferable than before.
"Fine. I'll throw the shutout. But seriously — you guys go scoreless, and you're dead. Dead, you hear me?"
This time, I'm not letting it go to extra innings. For real.