A Psycho Never Forgets a Grudge, Even After Possessing a Novel Character

Most of the viewers watching Jeonbuk versus Ulsan expected Ulsan to win this derby.

Strip away the emotion and look only at the data, and it was last season’s league champions against a fourth-place side. Dig into the finer print, though, and Ulsan had spent the previous campaign devouring the league on their way to the title, while Jeonbuk had staggered through cycles of revival and collapse.

So when Jeonbuk unexpectedly began shoving Ulsan around, the match flooded with pure adrenaline.

After Yoon Seung-hwan’s unintentional opener, Ulsan abandoned any idea of patiently managing the match and came out swinging.

Maybe it was the coaching—trained under a manager who made a habit of vowing to crush anyone who challenged the throne—but they decided to draw their blades and charge, as if determined to stomp us for daring to attack without bowing to their authority.

“Normally Ulsan uses the best-quality squad in the K League like a dehydrator, wringing the life out of you. Didn’t know they could go full attack mode like this.”

It was a bold call, all right. They were accepting their own recklessness and trying to reverse it. Admitting a mistake was never easy; this had to be the product of some serious deliberation.

Of course, even a hard-won decision didn’t guarantee a good outcome.

“Whew, hot today, huh? Still, look at you working up a sweat. The ball’s kind of in the way of all that running, isn’t it? Here, let me clear that for you.”

“Wh—what?! When did you even get here?!”

The enemy charging aggressively? Other players might have flinched. I didn’t.

The reason I’d become a world-class defensive midfielder in my previous life wasn’t flashy dribbling or long-range rockets. It was rock-solid defensive fundamentals—marking, interceptions—and pass accuracy in the top one percent of the league.

The things Ulsan had identified as my strengths—beating the press, precise long-range passes—were secondary perks, not the main course.

If they hadn’t figured that out, well. Too bad for them.

“Aww… that’s not how you beat a press. Want a demonstration? First, hand over the ball.”

“Ah, you absolute bastard!”

Ulsan’s players surging into our half got swept away like autumn leaves in a gale.

If they’d worked numerical overloads, maybe. But if they kept trying one-on-one breakthroughs, the result was obvious.

Once their attack kept bouncing off me, Ulsan’s players decided central and side penetrations were a dead end and started floating long balls toward the opposite side of my position to hunt space. Except—

“Hell yes! Just run and—”

“Did you know? The highest-success-rate tackle is the one that jumps out from outside a striker’s field of vision.”

“Ah, you son of a—!”

Trying to break through at half speed was useless. I’d simply track them down, loop around to their blind side, and that was that.

Build from the back and you had to get past that wall of a midfielder. Go aerial and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the insane giant sprinted in to snatch every ball out of the sky.

Ulsan had nowhere to go. They must have been losing their minds.

Still, knock long enough and a door eventually opens. They kept hammering on our goal, and once—just once—they got through.

“Haa… sorry. I could’ve stopped that.”

“It’s fine. As long as we win, a clean sheet doesn’t buy us anything special.”

“Still. A long-range shot from that far out—I should’ve had it…”

Whether it was a secret weapon or pure frustration, someone from Ulsan’s side had lashed a mid-range rocket that our keeper mishandled, and it somehow counted as a goal.

Tae-young hyung, unable to forgive himself for that amateurish error, hung his head low. But standing there stewing wouldn’t change a thing. Better to forget it and lock back in for the win.

I wasn’t the only one thinking that.

“Hmm? Choon-jae hyung’s coming off—Seung-yong hyung’s coming on?”

“Yi-an. The manager changed the system. Press stays the same, but I’m dropping into the holding role. He wants you running box-to-box now.”

Same as against Suwon—he wants me to force a goal somehow… which means free rein to join the attack, right?

The manager was throwing the dice, shaking up the system just enough. Both roles were well within my range. No problem.

I was resettling into position for the win when it happened.

“…Wait. Hwang… who? Hwang Yo-han?”

A hollow laugh slipped out at the stadium announcer’s voice booming through the speakers.

Hwang Yo-han. I never expected to hear that name here.

Of course I hadn’t. That player had existed in my original world too—not just in the novel.

I knew him personally.

When I played for Jeonbuk in my past life, wasn’t he the bastard who tried to break my leg? Deliberate sliding tackle from behind, got sent off, then in the interview said it was “just one of those things that happen in a match” and he had no intention of apologizing?

I’d been lucky not to get seriously hurt. I still remembered watching that interview and cursing him out as a pro without a shred of professionalism.

Coming from me—once the reigning authority on dirty play—that might have been rich. But even I had never made a reckless attempt just to end someone’s career.

I was going to pay him back in kind when I got the chance, but he retired the very next season, and I transferred to Juventus. Never got my revenge.

They say a gentleman’s revenge is never too late, even after ten years.

When a psycho holds a grudge, he doesn’t forget—even after possessing a character in a novel.

Since fate had thrown us together, paying him back properly didn’t sound half bad.

Obviously, if I break his leg my reputation gets shredded… so maybe I’ll just leave him with one thoroughly humiliating memory?

A slow grin spread across my face as I watched Hwang Yo-han, already on the pitch, saying something to his teammates.

It felt like the moment had come to become Kang Yun-ho again—Newcastle’s thug, the heir to Guimarães, the gifted student from Charlie Adam’s School of Football Dirty Tricks.

Objectively speaking, Ulsan’s situation was not good.

They had clawed out an equalizer, yes—but only because a mid-range wonder strike had lucked in off a goalkeeper error. Momentum still belonged to Jeonbuk.

To win, they needed another goal. The only working route so far had been long-range flukes. And another wonder goal? Professional keepers weren’t idiots. They didn’t make the same mistake twice.

So Ulsan’s manager, Ahn Do-jin, had no choice but to make a cold decision.

“We’ll lock it down.”

Baek Yi-an’s unexpected presence had made the midfield battle a nightmare. On top of that, the high press Sun Ki-baek had brought was something the squad had never faced, and they were still reeling.

An unfamiliar system; not nearly enough time to adjust on the fly.

Winning this match was probably impossible.

Having reached that conclusion, Ahn Do-jin decided a single point was better than none.

“Yo-han. Shut them down however you can. That’s your job. Understood?”

“Yes, Manager.”

The verdict was to throw in a seasoned veteran and bolt the door.

He was older, but his fitness was still solid—and more than anything, a veteran’s presence could serve as a pillar for teammates currently drowning under Jeonbuk’s momentum.

This was the player already slated to retire at the end of the season. The manager still trusted Hwang Yo-han.

And Hwang Yo-han intended to live up to that trust.

How could he not? He was still burning with thirst for the game.

That was why he hadn’t complained even after five-plus years as a starter reduced him overnight to a rotation piece. The newcomers had pushed him out; just getting minutes was something to be grateful for.

Compared to those who rode the bench into a carefully staged farewell ceremony, his lot was far better.

Even so… why did it feel like this?

“I would’ve liked to score one cool goal before I retired. Shame.”

A sudden swell of emotion made Hwang Yo-han drop his head and blow out a long breath.

Just once would have been enough. Before he left, he wanted to repay the love the fans had given him all these years.

The dream scenario was scoring something beautiful at home—Munsu Stadium—and saying goodbye. But he was a defender, not a striker. Those chances almost never came.

Maybe that was why he’d run this hard, even at his age.

Because if he took one more step, maybe that chance would finally find him too.

You never know. In a match that desperately needs a winner, maybe my moment will come.

He was drifting through memories of his long football life, letting the fantasy unfurl—when a voice slipped right into his ear.

“You really want to score a goal that badly?”

What?

For a split second the opening of some regression novel he’d been reading before bed last night flickered through his mind. Hwang Yo-han nearly shouted “Status window!” before he managed to calm his startled heart and slowly turned toward the source of the voice.

“Whew. Hey, even so—chatting with the other team mid-match? Seriously?”

“Oof. I was just messing around. Why the murder face? You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Looking at Baek Yi-an’s smug little grin, Hwang Yo-han ground his teeth.

Who the hell was this kid, that a holding midfielder would stroll all the way over here just to run his mouth?

More than that—was he really that relaxed, making small talk with an opponent?

“Focus on the match. I get that you’re a rookie and you’re buzzing, but is all that giggling really the look? I know I sound like a grumpy old man, but horsing around during a game doesn’t sit right with me.”

“I didn’t even say anything special. You just looked so pitiful muttering to yourself. More importantly—before you retire, don’t you want to score just once?”

“A goal, huh. Yeah. I’d like to. Sergio Ramos was my role model, after all.”

It had been a football life packed with hardship.

In high school the coach had it out for him, so he’d barely scraped into university. After graduating he’d bounced around the K4 League until, by pure luck, he’d put his name on the roster of a powerhouse like Ulsan.

For someone who’d lived to be a footballer, it was more than satisfying.

But people were greedy animals. The header Ramos had scored in a match he’d watched as a kid still wouldn’t leave his head.

If he could do something like that just once, he could leave the pitch with no regrets.

Don’t get antsy. It’s still matchday one of the league… plenty of time. Challenge for it sometime this season.

Nothing is impossible. That had been his motto for life, and Hwang Yo-han had no intention of giving up easily.

Slap!

He shook off the clutter in his head, cut the chatter, and picked up his pace again.

They were still in a match. Focus.

The scoreboard showed about seven minutes left. With stoppage, maybe thirteen to fifteen. But if they conceded on this attack, recovery would be brutal.

So I have to shut it down no matter what.

He had to honor the manager who’d trusted him with this chance.

As the team’s most senior player, he had to show the younger guys a face they wouldn’t be ashamed of.

With that resolve, Hwang Yo-han poured every scrap of know-how from his pro career into the defensive effort—and the moment he saw Baek Yi-an drive into the half-space, he charged.

The ball’s bounced long off his foot! This is my chance!

I can take it! Decision made, Hwang Yo-han stretched his leg and lunged.

Thud!

“Guh—!”

In the blink of an eye, the ball Baek Yi-an had been holding vanished.

…What? What just—

No. It hadn’t vanished. The instant Hwang Yo-han committed, Baek Yi-an struck the ball—and it hit Hwang Yo-han’s own head!

Time slowed. Everything except the racing thoughts in his skull seemed to freeze, the way people described life flashing before their eyes.

D-did I block it?

In that crawling world he almost let himself relax—then checked Baek Yi-an’s face.

Wh—what?! He’s smiling?

The corners of Baek Yi-an’s mouth were curved so high they nearly stabbed the sky.

Why was he smiling? How was he this composed with a decisive chance snuffed out?

Wait—his mouth—!

His head spun from the incomprehensible situation, but as Baek Yi-an’s lips started moving, Hwang Yo-han’s eyes tracked the shape of every syllable on pure instinct.

“Con…grat…u…la…tions. You… scored… a… goal.”

Scored a goal? What on earth did that mean? The only net nearby was Ulsan’s.

At the nonsensical words, Hwang Yo-han’s eyes trembled. At the same time, the frozen world snapped back to full speed.

Thud!

“Ugh! Wh-what?! What just—huh?!”

Whoosh—!

When he turned his head, Hwang Yo-han came face to face with the catastrophe he had just created.

“Ahh…”

“Ha… it’s over. Fuck.”

Younger teammates clutching their heads and groaning.

“S-Senior. It’s okay. I’m really fine, so please don’t be too hard on yourself… all right?”

The goalkeeper, coming over to pat the shoulder of the man who had collapsed to the ground.

And finally—the big screen replaying the moment that had just happened.

“Ah… shit.”

The ball Baek Yi-an struck hit Hwang Yo-han’s head, bent on a miraculous trajectory, and sucked straight into Ulsan’s net.

The keeper had leapt to stop a ball loaded with perfect topspin—but by the time the dive began, the ball was already inside.

“When he said I scored a goal… he meant… this…”

Staring blankly at the disaster of his own making, Hwang Yo-han shifted his gaze to Baek Yi-an.

The kid was sitting on the advertising boards, chatting with a twin-like teammate, and every word drifted to Hwang Yo-han’s ears.

“Hey, Yi-an. Shouldn’t we go comfort that senior? He looks devastated.”

“Of course he does—he just scored an own goal. Still, we made sure he left with a parting gift, right? Damn, look at that. If it hadn’t been an own goal, that was a guaranteed Puskás. When he retires he could even make a living off it. Header specialist football instructor, former Ulsan player Hwang Yo-han. How cool is that?”

“Now that you say it, that does sound pretty cool. Still, I never dreamed I’d see a goal like that with my own two eyes. Even if you tried on purpose, that’d be hard to pull off.”

“Right? Right? Hey, Yi-an—I want a goal like that too. Can you loft one toward my head sometime? Seung-hwan’s already gotten plenty. Just once for me.”

Those brats, cackling as they watched his own goal like it was a movie.

Being humiliated by juniors that green made him want to spit blood—but

Hwang Yo-han couldn’t do a thing.

F-fuck… even I have to admit that was goddamn beautiful…

He’d seen backs arch like bows before. But a header that spun the ball’s trajectory and sucked it into the top corner…

Even in a football life that was almost over, that was a first.