Four Years of Silence and a Phone Number to a Psychiatric Ward

Four years had passed since Fly World Class 11 Season 1 aired its final episode.

Naturally, most of the kids who'd sworn to stay in touch forever had dropped off the face of the earth once the show ended.

Not that I was disappointed. Expect nothing, and nothing can let you down.

In my experience, the word "forever" was just a ceremonial greeting — right up there with "we should grab a meal sometime."

Most human relationships are like that anyway.

That said, a couple of people had actually kept texting me after the show. Only two, mind you — but even two was more than I'd predicted.

One of them was Kim Hyun-sung, who treated our chat room like a personal diary. The other was Yoo Min-jung — the woman with a proud history of selling my name on national television.

I wasn't going to rag on her for it. She'd only talked about me because I had given her permission in the first place.

Beep—

The moment I got home from school, a message from Yoo Min-jung was waiting.

The instant I replied, her response came flying back.

Does she sleep with her phone in her hand? That reply speed is absurd.

Nothing special, as it turned out. She was flying to Spain for a variety show shoot and wanted to know if I'd make a cameo.

The moment I read that last message, an involuntary pang of pity hit me.

She was the one who'd occasionally confessed to the pressure and instability of life in the entertainment industry.

She's clearly lost her mind.

For the record, that came from personal experience.

It was the psychiatric hospital I'd been admitted to back when the infinite regression had shattered half my mind. If not for the help of that hospital's doctors, and my parents' devotion and love...

I might still be living with a mind half-broken.

She kept clinging like leech after that, so I fished out a convenient excuse.

Meanwhile, at that very moment.

Joo Jae-rim...!

Yoo Min-jung ground her teeth after reading his reply. Nobody in South Korea had ever dared treat her — the country's hottest rising star at the moment — with such cold disdain.

"Aghem! Yes, Ms. Yoo Min-jung! Unfortunately... mission FAILED!"

For context, she was in the middle of filming a variety show. The mission: text her same-age friend, ask if he could appear on the show, and get his approval. With the difficulty rated as low, the production had essentially spoon-fed her the mission on a silver platter.

What the PD and writers didn't know was this:

...Same-age friend?

Aside from Joo Jae-rim, she didn't have a single "same-age friend" to call.

...How exactly is this rated low difficulty?

She couldn't fathom it. Convincing Joo Jae-rim of anything was—

—about as difficult as drinking a triple shot in silence.

She had fought for that mission like her life depended on it. She'd even deployed her ultimate aegyo on him, and what came back was a phone number of unknown origin.

"Wait, this is actually a psychiatric hospital's number?"

That detail only came to light when one curious panelist looked the number up on the internet.

And so Yoo Min-jung failed her mission and took the penalty.

Thankfully, she did manage to secure his permission to broadcast the day's exchange.

Among all the teams competing in the División de Honor Juvenil, there existed one universal, unshakable consensus:

Joo Jae-rim was a small, unstoppable calamity — one that defied all resistance.

"Puta madre. I wish they'd just fast-track him to the first team so he'd be gone already."

Gerard ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠López, manager of Barcelona Juvenil A and leader of Spain's strongest youth side, shared that sentiment entirely. No matter how he racked his brain, no reliable way to stop Joo Jae-rim came to mind.

Dammit. How long is it now — at least two more years?

López knew the reality as well as anyone: Jae-rim was far too young to debut at the senior level. Short of something extraordinary happening at Valencia, he'd spend at least two more seasons developing with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Juvenil side.

Which meant, in plain terms, that López's team would have to take the beating for at least two years.

I can't just sit here and absorb it.

Gerard López steeled himself. A listless defeat was something his pride as a manager could never forgive.

And above all — he was on the verge of being appointed manager of FC Barcelona Atlètic. Even if the first-team job never came, a strong run with Barça Atlètic would earn him offers from mid- and lower-table La Liga clubs, or sides in Spain's lower divisions.

So first... going by the mood, a 20-minute cap is the right call.

His task today was simply to look good against the "ecosystem-destroying invasive species" known as Joo Jae-rim. The plan: build the biggest possible lead in the first half. Valencia had capped Jae-rim at 20 minutes of playing time, so the calculation was simple — blow the score open, and Valencia wouldn't bother bringing him on at all.

But on match day—

"Why?!"

The moment Gerard López saw Joo Jae-rim in the starting lineup, he could do nothing but clutch his head.

I arrived at the Estadi Johan Cruyff, where the match would be played.

Ordinarily, Barcelona Juvenil A plays its home games at Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper — Camp 5. The Estadi Johan Cruyff is reserved for genuinely important fixtures: the UEFA Youth League, the Copa de Campeones de Juvenil, matches of that weight.

Did they consider today's game that significant?

It didn't take long to find my answer. Lionel Messi had shown his face in the stands.

...Huh.

What I couldn't understand, however, was the man who appeared right after Messi.

Why is that geezer here AGAIN?

Cristiano Ronaldo.

The moment his personal schedule wrapped, Cristiano Ronaldo had made a beeline for Barcelona.

There was no special reason for the trip. None at all. He'd merely heard the news that Lionel Messi would be visiting Barcelona.

Ronaldo sat in his car, waiting for the exact instant Messi would enter the stadium.

As tradition dictates, the protagonist always arrives last.

He'd even prepared a contingency: if Messi didn't show, he'd simply drive home.

And so, while Ronaldo waited quietly in his car, Lionel Messi entered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the stadium — and only then did Ronaldo make his own entrance.

"Oh, my dearest old friend!"

Cristiano Ronaldo greeted Lionel Messi with ostentatious warmth.

There were, after all, plenty of cameras pointed at this spot.

And sure enough, the fans in attendance began filming the two of them — Messi and Ronaldo, the rivals of the century — exchanging pleasantries.

The match kicked off with the home side, Barcelona, in possession.

Was this what they called the pride of the continent's finest youth academy? Even going up against me, the FC Barcelona players didn't shrink back a single step — they came out swinging with an aggressive game plan.

Brave of them.

For the record: playing against an opponent whose will has already shattered gives me nothing. No thrill, no spark. Which is to say — Barcelona, right now, was making me feel alive.

But what's with that guy over there?

The odd thing was the Barcelona manager, whose eyes kept darting in every direction.

Whatever. Doesn't concern me.

I drove into the space behind their line and called for the ball.

"Pass—"

The midfielder who collected it wore a face of pure bewilderment. The look of a man asking, why are you THERE?

An amateur might have panicked and botched the pass entirely, but this kid played for Valencia's youth side — meaning he had real talent. And sure enough, his body was already reacting on autopilot, regardless of what his stunned expression was doing.

The pass is a touch off target, though.

Before the ball even reached me, I swept my eyes across the field. Barcelona's defenders, spooked out of their wits, were sprinting in to press.

Coming from both sides.

I feinted as if to receive, froze the defenders in place, then let the ball roll through behind me — and spun away in a single fluid motion to chase it down. Barcelona's defenders collided headlong and tumbled across the turf, and with one false step I was already inside the penalty box.

"B-block it—!"

The goalkeeper's scream rang in my ears.

Lower your stance before you open your mouth.

Scoring against a keeper who hasn't braced himself is—

Thud—

a very simple matter. For me, anyway.

Swoosh—

The moment Joo Jae-rim's shot split the Barcelona net, Lionel Messi let out a hollow laugh.

The truth was, he'd worried himself sick over the news that Jae-rim would return to Korea instead of joining Barcelona. Even the most brilliant raw gem loses its value if it isn't polished continuously, day after day.

But Messi had never forced that opinion on him. He knew better than most how brutal it was to live and adapt in a foreign country at so young an age.

And that boy's skin is a different color, on top of it all.

Messi himself had been mocked as a "backwater kid from South America" in his youth. A boy whose race itself was different would inevitably endure worse.

When word came that Jae-rim was training alone in Korea, Messi had fretted — solo training alone might not be enough to hone talent properly.

But having watched Jae-rim play with his own eyes today, his mind was at ease. The boy's talent still blazed as brilliantly as ever.

"Sure, Jae-rim has talent, but he acts way too much like a born genius."

The world refused to believe that Joo Jae-rim had built his entire game through self-teaching. Lionel Messi believed him completely.

That play simply could not be taught. Messi could say so with authority — he'd spent time as a youth coach at Barcelona, teaching players face to face.

Why can't they do this?

The most important element of dribbling is reading how your opponent reacts — and playing off that reaction. But most players merely watch the defender respond without ever thinking to weaponize it. That was precisely why Jae-rim's dribbling remained nearly impossible to stop even when defenders knew what was coming.

If the defender reacts to the right, he cuts left. If he reacts to the left, Jae-rim simply darts right again. A defender's balance collapses on its own, no pushing required.

Swoosh—

Joo Jae-rim razed Barcelona's defensive ranks to the ground and buried his second goal — while Lionel Messi fought desperately to smother the smile creeping across his face.

Barcelona was, after all, the club he loved most in this world.

Meanwhile—

As the goalscorer ambled back toward the halfway line with all the emotion of a man waiting for a bus, Cristiano Ronaldo launched vertically off the ground where he stood.

"SIUUUUUUUUUUUU—!"

At the sight of Cristiano Ronaldo wearing the supremely smug expression of a man who had just won the war himself, Lionel Messi — every ounce of the awe he'd felt watching Jae-rim's play evaporating in an instant — fell into a moment of utterly sincere contemplation.

...Why has that bastard never grown up?

It remained, to this day, the great man Lionel Messi's single greatest unsolved mystery —

the question of his lifetime.