Chapter 9

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Translator: Silver Dragon

Chapter: 9

Chapter Title: Just a Madman (1)

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The chant for Jesus Joo, known as El ángel del Madrid—the Angel of Madrid. It's another nickname for Raúl González, who was loved so much in Madrid they called him Raúl Madrid.

Who could have imagined an 18-year-old boy getting a chant from a rival club's fans!

Yes, with Jesus Joo's composure, ball control, wide vision, and clutch finishing—despite being called a brat—he has that star quality the public loves. We might ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be witnessing the dawn of the Jesus Joo era, following the Messi and Ronaldo eras.

Jesus Joo appears just as soccer's popularity was waning due to a lack of star power! Oh! Right as we were talking about that—he receives a pass from Luis García, fakes out Sergio Pepe with a smooth first touch! Then one! Two! Three! He even beats the keeper! Shot! Gooooooooal!! Messi! Messi! Right now, in this moment, the god of soccer, Messi, has descended upon the Santiago Bernabéu!

Yes, as you can see, he took possession with a perfect first touch, then dismantled the defender with just a body feint. He followed up with la croqueta, leaving the supporting defender looking foolish. No flashy big moves—just a simple body feint and ambidextrous dribbling so skilled you couldn't tell which foot was dominant. He beat the keeper and scored. Definitely gave off vibes of Messi's old goals.

Yet Usman Griezmann, the manager, refuses to play a talent like Jesus Joo in the Champions League due to "adaptation issues."

The commentator tapped the caster's thigh to calm him down after that last remark. The caster snapped out of it and apologized to the viewers.

He's likely to feature in the upcoming Napoli clash.

Barcelona, sitting second, needs to win out. We could see a Korean derby in the Champions League.

The referee's whistle blows, end of the first half.

The first half was all standard Madrid attacks, with Barcelona holding firm. Thanks to our pride of Korea, Jesus Joo's brace, Barcelona leads 2-0.

Despite the lead, Barcelona exposed several issues in the first half.

How well Barcelona patches those holes, and how Real Madrid breaks down their defensive setup—that'll be the halftime locker room talk.

While the managers of Real Madrid and Barcelona ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠CF ponder, viewers, go to the bathroom and dig into that chicken you ordered.

After my second goal, I raised both hands ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠above my head in a no-celebration gesture. Barcelona fans, seeing a move reserved for your home team, shot me dirty looks—but since we were winning, they wore satisfied expressions anyway.

Currently, in the halftime locker room, Usman Griezmann was issuing his tactical instructions.

"Block 'em! Block no matter what! If anyone's lining up a shot, twist their ankle!"

Hmm. What a tactical genius.

No specific tactics at all—just yelling to block. Staring at Usman Griezmann made my chest swell with grandeur.

He muttered something about Jesus this and that from his mouth. But I quietly closed my eyes and rested.

It's basically just "go score," right? Whatever.

Usman Griezmann glared at Jesus Joo, who ignored him and rested.

José Sierra, the assistant coach, alternated between the flushed-faced manager and the serene Jesus Joo, itching to quit.

'An idiot and a madman. Why has God given me such trials?'

Today, too, assistant coach José Sierra was busy mediating between the racist manager and the Real Madrid-bound madman.

"Jesus, sorry to interrupt your rest, but can you drop deeper in the second half?"

"Drop deeper? Sure. Whatever."

"Thanks."

"No problem. It's nothing."

And so the second half began. Watching Jesus Joo refuse to leave the shaded enemy penalty area, Usman Griezmann and José Sierra clutched their necks.

"Puta! That fucking bastard. Is he defying orders?"

The sun's brutal. Why play soccer on a day like this?

Amid it all, hotter than the sun, the passionate cheers from Madrid fans rang out.

Is soccer more important to them than their own skin?

I value my skin more than soccer, so per the manager's orders, I stood on our shaded defensive line.

Barcelona players, Real Madrid players—all stared at me like I was a madman for following the manager's instructions so well.

Their gazes made me feel a bit wronged.

Honestly, isn't a first-half brace job done? They can't complain if I clock out now, right?

As those thoughts crossed my mind, the repulsive racist on the touchline was throwing a fit.

"Jesus! You monkey bastard, run properly?!"

Filtering out the racist's words, I scanned for a dropkick target to send him to the bench for rest—when Real Madrid's veteran winger, Jorginho, spoke up.

"Hey, Jesus. Your manager's desperately calling you."

"Huh? Nah, it's fine. Ignore him."

Jorginho glanced at Barcelona's captain with a "you sure?" look, but after I blasted a shot into the vice-captain's head last time, he avoided eye contact with me entirely.

Watching that, Jorginho shook his head and muttered low.

"Barcelona's a total mess."

I nodded in agreement. His gaze shifted oddly.

"Yeah. Couldn't agree more."

"…"

That's the look he gives Sergio Pepe. He's insulting me. Guess I need to score one more.

As I passed the center circle, Luis García grinned mischievously at me.

"Did our little prince rest enough in the shade?"

"Mm. Gotta admit, I'm handsome enough to be called a prince."

Luis García went silent at my shameless reply, so I added,

"Oh, if that's your type, sorry in advance. I've got a girlfriend I promised my future to."

"…You bastard. Shut up and go up."

I gave Luis ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠García a playful salute. He pressed his temples like his head hurt.

"Sir! Yes sir!"

"Haa."

I thumbs-upped the head-clutching Luis García.

"For headaches, it's gotta be XXX!"

I approached our fine Madridista, Sergio Pepe. His eyes were bloodshot red.

"Yo, you crying?"

"…"

Tsk tsk. One more goal and this guy's gonna bawl.

As I moved to console him, Luis García called my name and passed.

"Jesus!"

On instinct, I hit a sombrerito flick on Luis's pass. Pepe stood dumbfounded like an idiot as I breezed past. The goal yawned wide open.

I unleashed a powerful mid-range shot aimed at the near post top corner.

Tang—

The ball ricocheted off the post and crossed the line.

Completing my hat-trick at the 75th minute of the second half, I headed toward the Barcelona stands.

"Siuuuuuuuuuuuu!"

I busted out the Ronaldo celebration.

"Booooooo—"

"Get lost, you bastard!"

Wait. Why are Barca fans booing a goal?

Why are Real fans cheering louder?

I really don't get it.