Chapter 6

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Translator: Silver Dragon

Chapter: ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠6

Chapter Title: The Veteran's Stance Against Racial Discrimination

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Seeing that black guy spewing racist remarks and grinning like an idiot put me in a strange mood.

That sugarcane bastard's lost his mind.

If I were just your average rookie Asian player, I'd probably let it slide. I'm the newbie, and he's still the vice-captain from La Masia, Barcelona's prized possession.

But I'm a veteran. I'm different.

Guys like that need to be crushed early on.

Club discipline?

Fine, dish it out if you want.

I'll immediately leak the racist audio and blow up Unhappy.

I've got plenty of evidence.

These days, mini-recorders are top-notch.

His remarks are probably captured crystal clear.

And above all...

How could I hold back when it felt so damn good?

I turned off the recorder in my pocket and blasted the ball right at his head.

Bang-!

I heard his thick skull crack, and a white chunk flew out of his mouth.

With all my experience, I nailed the target perfectly.

As he crumpled, I threw both hands up like it was an accident and shouted,

"Whoa? Oh man, you're so dark I couldn't tell where your face was! Should've done some whitening!"

The other black players looked uncomfortable at my words, but since the vice-captain started with the racist shit, they stayed quiet for now.

"Hey? Dembélé? Alain! Alain!"

He must've passed out from my shot.

The captain frantically called for the team doctor, and the training ground erupted in chaos in seconds.

Luckily—or not—he came to just enough to be loaded into an ambulance and rushed to the hospital for a full checkup.

"Ugh? Why am I lying down?"

And so, third captain Luis García relayed the situation to manager Vasquez, who requested a serious meeting with me.

"He called me Corona."

I spilled everything straight up.

When the racism came up,

Vasquez nodded like he'd suspected as much.

"I'll talk to the club. Sorry this left you with bad memories."

"Thank you."

And the next day, the manager got sacked.

"It was absurd to have a manager who couldn't inherit Barcelona's spirit."

"Obviously. A true Barcelona manager has to be La Masia bred."

Seeing the captain and vice-captain's clique get even more cocky,

Barcelona's clearly gone as far as it can.

At least that gang stopped messing with me,

so I'm holding onto the recording without leaking it.

If they block my move to Real Madrid later, I'll unleash the racism scandal on Unhappy.

By the way, La Liga has buyout clauses, but clubs can refuse them.

In that case, Real Madrid pays me the buyout, and I pay the club directly.

That triggers 40-50% income tax.

Oh dear, fuck me.

My buyout jumps to 66 billion in a flash?

That's how Neymar bolted to Paris with an astronomical sum.

Ahh. Maru really foresaw Barcelona's future.

Anyway, what a shitty rule.

And apparently, this rule was pioneered by our great prophet Luis Figo.

Just Figo-ment.

This time, I'll blaze your trail

and create a new rule!

Yeah. Decided. Another goal this life: Get ceremony bans against your parent club.

A new manager was appointed.

"Looking forward to working with you all."

The man was Usman Griezmann,

who'd been managing Barcelona B.

Watching his appointment, memories from the future flashed back.

"Barcelona's finally opened the gates of hell."

Barcelona's hellish treble.

Racism, tax evasion, bribery.

He clinched the three-way infamy

and buried Barcelona CF's reputation in the dirt—the legendary manager who emerged.

Usman Griezmann, who raised the captain and vice-captain from childhood.

Even their racism...

"That bastard's the root of it."

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

Nothing to say.

And "you all"?

Fuck. Does he think he's Francisco Franco?

···He kinda looks like him.

Descendant maybe.

I nodded at today's paper.

Hmm. As expected of a legendary manager. On another level.

After five rounds in the league,

Barcelona's record: 2 draws, 3 losses.

Considering those draws were against relegation fodder,

it was a pathetic scorecard that screamed sabotage.

Why am I excluded?

I haven't played a single minute yet.

Back in Korea, they made a fuss about adaptation or whatever.

Here, I'm just... expendable. No one even recognizes me.

Walk the streets, and Barcelona fans in kits yell "Hey, ni hao! Chino!" with racist glee.

What a city.

I almost hit back with "Hello, Frenchie,"

but held off—might kill my Madrid chances too.

I haven't t-bag Barcelona yet.

Anyway. After enduring that patience-testing time,

Finally.

Time to honor the contract clause! Fuck you, Barcelona bastards!

"Hey, Jesus. You're starting tomorrow. Get ready."

The master of the pitch, the god-given goal machine

Lord Jesus descends on Granada's home Estadio Nuevo Los Cármenes!

The day before the match, Barcelona's squad bus rolled out to Granada.

No sooner had it arrived than local fans gave the Barcelona players a warm welcome.

"Filthy Barcelona scum!"

"Get out of our city right now!"

"Ukiki ukiki! Monkey bastard, go back to your country!"

Hmm. Beautiful.

Monkey impressions to greet us and everything.

The bus headed to the team hotel,

with friendly Granada fans drumming and trumpeting support.

-Dong! -Dong!

-Poo! -Poo!

The players, used to it,

unpacked, had a light dinner,

popped in their earplugs, and crashed.

As the lineup dropped before Barcelona CF's match at Estadio Nuevo Los Cármenes—seating nearly 22,000—Granada fans ignited.

"They put an Eastern rookie against us! Kill those bastards!"

"¡Ay, mi Granada!"

"¡Ay, mi Graná! ¡Ay, mi Graná!"

Amid the fans' furious chants and cheers, the players took positions.

The ref's whistle blew.

Kickoff to Luis García, then I bolted forward.

Granada players panicked at the sudden run.

Luis García delivered a perfect shuttle pass right to my feet, as planned.

I flipped past the defender with a flip flap, curled it half a beat early.

Swish-

The ball sucked into the net.

To the stunned Granada fans, right off the bat with a fantasy curler,

I busted out Adebayor's reverse sprint celebration.

"Kill that bastard!!"

Fiery Granada fans erupted in red smoke,

toilet paper raining from the stands.

Ooh. Pretty smoke.

I slammed in two firecrackers,

did two ceremonies, ate two yellows,

and got sent off.

Manager and squad stared, dumbfounded.

Their eyes screamed,

'What is this guy? Friend or foe?'

Like grunts spotting a panty-only officer on base.

And that day, my early multi sealed a 3-1 win.

Jesus Joo. 1 match, 4 mins played. 2 goals. 2 ceremonies, 2 yellows. 1 red.

In the M.O.M. interview, I did my best to dodge sanctions.

[Why the ceremony toward the Granada stands?]

"Granada fans doing monkey impressions caught my eye. Just went to check it out."

[···A protest against racism?]

"No idea what you're on about. I just went to see a white guy ape around."

There. Ball's in the Royal Spanish Football Federation's (RFEF) court.

Go ahead, sanction this too!