Who Got Caught? -1
The match against Real Sociedad had left me with a lot.
I'd been feeling uneasy since around the end of last season.
Fouls kept getting called on me, which struck me as odd. There was no way La Liga refs had suddenly leveled up that much in such a short time.
I kept rewinding videos in the analysis room, wondering if I had some habit from before the fouls even happened.
But no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't spot anything in my own play. Then, during the Real Sociedad game, I saw a yellow card get rescinded, and it hit me.
These bastards blow the whistle first and ask questions later, huh?
These crazy La Liga refs—whenever a player near me went down, they'd whistle right away. Then they'd hand me a card based on how much the guy was writhing.
What should I do?
How could I get out of this mess?
I kept pondering it.
Even during training the next day.
"Where'd Jesus wander off to this time?"
"Said he had some thinking to do and went home."
On the way home with Yohan in tow, I was still mulling it over.
"Paa-! Play with me when we get home!!"
Even while playing with Yohan at home, the thoughts wouldn't stop.
"Man Geun Chu!"
"Kiiing-! Paa-! Give me the ball! It's Yohan's turn!"
Anyway, after all that long, drawn-out agonizing, I finally reached a conclusion.
In the Real Sociedad game, they'd canceled the yellow when I protested. So why not just keep acting all aggrieved?
I resolved to test it in the next match.
"Paa-! Hate you! Yohan won't play with Paa anymore!"
I kept the ball without letting him take it, so Yohan got sulky and stomped inside.
"Woof-!"
Partasu, who'd been watching me play with Yohan from the grass, gave me a pathetic look as Yohan huffed off, then trotted after him.
Left alone in the yard, I stared blankly at Partasu's retreating back.
"Seriously, at this point, isn't that dog reincarnated from a human?"
Before the Girona match kicked off.
In the tunnel, I ran into a familiar face.
Girona's center back, Emmanuel Bernard, spotted me and came over with a bright smile. He greeted me and immediately launched into what he wanted to say.
"Hey! Jesus, you know how Reborn as a Normal-Grade Monster and Got Depressed, But Turns Out I'm the World's Strongest Volume 11 just got translated? Japan already has 13 out, but Spain's translations are so slow, it's depressing. Anyway, Volume 11 was insane—talk about humans being humans, right? That whole 'better mutual destruction than letting you win' vibe, linking up with the demon world and all..."
What the...? Mental attack?
Emmanuel Bernard mixed plain Spanish with French-accented Spanish and occasional straight-up French words. His weird speech pattern left my head spinning.
I barely held onto my fading sanity and put off talking until after the game. He misunderstood, got all emotional, and left.
"Whoa... classic Jesus. You don't chat with the enemy before a match, huh? Guess that's how you become the world's best—I gotta learn from that. What's it called in Korean? Toojungsseum? That right? Ah... you said after the game. See you then! Good luck on the pitch!"
In the wake of that verbal storm, Luis Garcia approached, pale as a ghost.
"What the hell was that guy? Why's he talking so damn much? Sounded like Spanish, but I couldn't understand shit."
Still dazed, I just nodded vaguely at Luis Garcia.
"Couldn't make it out either."
Is this how the other players feel when I speak Korean?
While Jesus was getting mind-screwed by the mirror match.
Yohan was grunting over a tablet PC. Finally admitting he couldn't do it alone, he jumped up and bolted to Song Yuna.
"Maa-! Soccer! Soccer!"
Yohan grabbed her arm and tugged, so Song Yuna walked slowly—making sure he didn't trip—and opened the sports streaming app. When Jesus's face filled the tablet screen, Yohan got excited and wiggled his butt.
"Paa-! Paa's Paa!"
Song Yuna chuckled softly, remembering how Yohan had thrown a fit a few days ago, vowing never to play with Dad again.
Jesus sensed something off about Emmanuel Bernard's balance.
Why isn't he lowering his center of gravity?
As he lightly shrugged off the puzzled Emmanuel Bernard—
"Aaaahhh—!"
The guy suddenly screamed and hit the deck.
While Jesus stared in confusion—
The ref blew the whistle and flashed him a yellow.
Wearing a dumbfounded look, Jesus protested to the ref.
"He fell on his own—why's that a foul?"
The ref's eyes wavered under Jesus's fierce protest. Watching that, Jesus knew his hunch was spot on.
These bastards really do card first and sort it out later!
To the rattled ref, Jesus kept his cool, putting on his most wronged expression as he insisted he hadn't touched the guy, the yellow was unfair, VAR would prove it—and if anything, Emmanuel deserved one for that Hollywood dive.
"I didn't even touch him. This yellow's bullshit—check VAR and you'll see. He should be the one carded for that Hollywood act."
The ref's eyes darted wildly amid Jesus's protests and the jeers from the Santiago Bernabeu crowd.
"Puta! Madre! You rigging this shit, ref?!" "Why's falling on his own a foul, you bastard!!"
But the authoritative ref didn't rescind the yellow.
"Q-quiet down! Any more protesting and it's a red!"
Jesus shot the ref a murderous glare at that, then sighed deeply—like he was swallowing his anger—while quickly reading the room.
Even if I went full rampage now, that ref won't dare card me anymore.
Emmanuel Bernard's Hollywood flop had planted real doubt in the ref's mind about the dive, thanks to Jesus's genuine outrage.
Jesus decided to exploit it.
The Real Madrid fans' fiery fireworks display off to the side was just icing.
The game rolled on.
Soon enough, I got my revenge chance.
Emmanuel Bernard blocked my path again. This time, he lowered his center of gravity—guessing he sensed the ref doubting him now.
Duh, you'd have to be blind not to notice that, or you couldn't call yourself a pro.
Anyway, he dropped low to waste time, trying to team up with teammates to steal the ball.
He probably figured I'd play it safe with a yellow already.
But Jesus, man of steel—no yellow scares me. What I truly fear is losing the freedom to smack fools on the pitch as I please!
With that resolve, I shoved past the obstacle in my way.
Tak-!
I deliberately dragged my dribble a bit long.
He lunged to clear it.
But I was a step quicker.
I pulled the ball back with my right, flicked it forward with my left heel—a Marseille turn to shake him off. In that split second, I lightly grazed Emmanuel Bernard's ribs with a precise jab.
"Damn it! Block him!"
Emmanuel Bernard tried yanking my jersey the instant he got nutmegged, but some weird throbbing pain in his ribs dropped him to the turf.
While the ref eyed him like why the hell's this guy down?—
I calmly slotted a low, quick shot through the keeper's legs. Goal.
The gates of hell had opened for Emmanuel Bernard and Girona.