Point of Change (2)
Ever since I possessed this body, Yoon Seung-hwan’s treatment had gone from orbital-change object to full-time ceremony clown—but if you strip all that away, the bastard is still the protagonist of this world.
It’s not one of those “we are all the main characters of our own lives” pep talks meant to boost your willpower. That son of a bitch is literally this world’s protagonist.
Because the novel is set in the modern day, it looks like ordinary Earth, ordinary South Korea. But this place is still very much inside a novel—the world of The Striker Scores Too Well.
Which means every stroke of fortune and every story thread is rigged so that fate flows toward the protagonist, Yoon Seung-hwan.
He has every cliché a soccer-novel hero is supposed to have. Unless he gets hit by a car, he doesn’t get injured. The yips never find him. His form climbs higher every single day. The guy is swimming in full-blown protagonist correction.
And this world’s favoritism toward Yoon Seung-hwan does not stop there.
The novel was set in a modern society where monogamy is the default… and somehow still carried a harem tag. What a batshit story.
Heroines. You can’t have a harem novel without them. And in this world, there are people who get flustered and restless with happiness the moment Yoon Seung-hwan so much as breathes.
Take my girlfriend A-yoon, for example. If I hadn’t put in the tear-jerking work of normalizing things, she would have cut me off by now and been pulling all-nighters gathering intel that might help Yoon Seung-hwan.
As if the author had mainlined a lethal dose of striker juice, our protagonist Yoon Seung-hwan walks around with the insane destiny of women attaching themselves to him even when he does nothing at all.
And among them was this particular heroine.
Ha Ji-yoo. Youngest daughter of the chairman of a conglomerate that actually built a capsule-type gaming device straight out of a game-fantasy novel and then used it to create a virtual-reality game that sits at the undisputed number-one spot worldwide.
She isn’t just rich. She has a fierce love for soccer, and because of that she plans to learn real management so she can eventually become a club’s sporting director—a heroine with that kind of ambition.
A-yoon had always been my one-and-only, so I never memorized the other heroines’ storylines in detail. Still, I knew enough.
The future I knew for Ha Ji-yoo went like this.
Her father, the conglomerate chairman, also has a serious soft spot for soccer and is seriously considering buying Suwon CF. While she looks ahead for players who might help grow the Suwon club her father will eventually acquire, the one who catches her eye is none other than Yoon Seung-hwan.
A super-rookie who, the moment he debuts for Jeonbuk, shows insane ability and sweeps every award in sight.
Whether she was already thinking of signing him for the club she would one day run, she finds ways to build a connection with Yoon Seung-hwan once he has successfully established himself in the first team—and eventually claims her place as a heroine.
Yes. That was the future I knew for her.
She should have heard her father talking seriously about acquiring a club a year ago, daydreamed about becoming Suwon’s director someday, gone off to study in America, and been watching Yoon Seung-hwan’s highlight reels in her spare time.
“What the hell. Why is she here?”
“Huh? Yi-an, you know Ji-yoo? What? How do you know her?”
“Huh? No, A-yoon, that’s not the important part right now.”
“Not the important part? Ji-yoo transferred here not long ago—you’re not supposed to know her. So how do you? And why are you staring so hard? Is she so pretty you just can’t help yourself?”
Ha Ji-yoo, who should have been studying in America, had transferred to a girls’ high school in Jeonbuk. That alone was enough to make my head spin—and now A-yoon was grilling me with both eyes blazing. I was dying over here.
What is this? Did the future I knew just change?
Even if it had, it wouldn’t be a huge problem for me. Still, the shock was real.
Well… Seung-hwan locked down his place faster than the original novel’s pacing, so maybe it isn’t that weird?
I was briefly wondering whether all of this was because of my possession when my gaze stayed fixed on Ha Ji-yoo a little too long. A-yoon’s brow instantly furrowed and she pressed her body right up against mine.
“Spit it out, Baek Yi-an. You’ve got a girlfriend and you’re still ogling some other girl? Who was your role model again… Giggs! Are you planning to pull a Giggs and start cheating?”
“A-yoon, Giggs cheated with his brother’s wife and his mother-in-law…”
“What? So you’re going after Seung-ah and my mom now?”
Why does the conversation keep going there? I’m an only child—there is no brother’s wife or mother-in-law for me to go after.
And Giggs? Original Baek Yi-an might have liked him, but I sure as hell didn’t.
My role model has always been Bruno Guimarães—the Newcastle legend who single-handedly brought justice back to a justice-free EPL.
I cupped A-yoon’s puffed-up, teary cheeks and immediately pressed my lips to hers.
A short kiss, and the mouth that had been chattering nonstop snapped shut.
That should be answer enough.
“I don’t give a damn about any girl except you, so stop worrying. And the only reason I know that girl’s name is because I saw her on the news.”
I’d seen her father plenty of times, of course. I’d never actually seen a news story about her, but still.
If you’re the daughter of a conglomerate chairman who revolutionized the gaming industry and climbed to the top of the world, some reporter would have asked about her at least once, right?
If I went this far, even A-yoon—who was one step away from losing her mind to jealousy—ought to understand.
“Hehe. You’re right. There’s no reason Yi-an would care about any girl but me. Hihi.”
See? A moment ago she’d been glaring at me like a pufferfish swollen with poison; now she was completely limp.
I roughly held the murmuring, boneless A-yoon with one arm and looked over at Ha Ji-yoo, who seemed to be talking with Yoon Seung-hwan.
I don’t dig deep into articles that aren’t about me, but I’ve never even seen a rumor that her father’s company, Meta Vibe, is buying Suwon. So the official talks probably haven’t started yet. The real question is why Ha Ji-yoo—who should be studying in America—transferred to A-yoon’s girls’ high school.
I ran through the possibilities for a moment, then decided not to think too hard about it.
After all, even if she did something outside my expectations, it wouldn’t really mess me up that much.
Seung-hwan isn’t dumb enough to seriously consider some half-baked offer like “want to come to our team later?” from a club that hasn’t even officially been acquired yet—something that wouldn’t even work on an elementary-school kid.
More importantly, if Ha Ji-yoo and Yoon Seung-hwan were meeting now, the most that could come of it was personal sponsorship or a simple introduction.
Of course, if her father bought Suwon faster than expected, they might try to sign Seung-hwan properly around 2031…
Not my circus, not my monkeys. By then I’ll already be in a big league, living the sweet life with A-yoon and hunting the Ballon d’Or.
There was nothing for me to do in this situation. Just watch.
Tch. Even in my original world they never managed to develop capsule gaming, so I was curious. Since things turned out this way, once I get on speaking terms with Ha Ji-yoo later, would it be okay to ask her to gift me just one of those gaming machines?
With that ridiculous thought, I pulled my gaze away from them, wrapped both arms tightly around A-yoon, and decided to enjoy the time we had left.
“Jeonbuk’s form is excellent right now. In the Daejeon match, where Baek Yi-an—the key to their back-line playmaking and defensive contribution—was suspended for accumulated yellow cards, they still ground out a 1–0 win. Against Gangwon, where they fielded a heavy rotation of substitutes and left most of the first-team regulars out, they still took a 2–1 victory. Nine wins, one loss. And their starters are all at full fitness.”
Silence settled over the analysis room. The man sitting in the middle of it surveyed the mood, then continued.
“And that same Jeonbuk side will face us on Children’s Day, May 5th. The Jeon-seol Match is being played on Children’s Day. You all understand how big that is, right?”
“With the big holiday crowd already coming, you’re saying we absolutely cannot lose to our rivals Jeonbuk, correct?”
“I’m not saying we simply ‘cannot lose.’ I’m saying we have to win by any means necessary.”
Thinking of the history of the Jeon-seol Match, Seoul United manager Nam Jae-yoon closed his eyes.
Jeonbuk and Seoul. Two clubs whose home cities are so far apart that people wonder whether a real rivalry can even exist. The spark that lit their war had, ironically, come from an idol group.
It was the opening match between Seoul and Jeonbuk.
For the event, Seoul United had booked an idol group to perform a special half-time show for the fans and the team.
T-ara, who were eyeing a jump to the top tier of idols at the time, had been so rushed by their schedule that they took the stage at Sangam still wearing their performance outfits.
Wearing the club kit would have been best, of course, but they were the hottest idols of the moment, so Seoul’s fans hadn’t really minded.
The stage costumes weren’t anything strange, after all.
The problem was that the outfits they happened to be wearing that day were fluorescent green—the exact color that symbolized Jeonbuk.
Seoul had spent good money bringing in an idol group, only to end up watching a bizarre scene in which their own home half-time act was essentially cheering for the away team.
It had been so absurd that, more than ten years later, the memory was still vivid.
Seoul fans staring with “what the hell is wrong with these people” written all over their faces. Jeonbuk fans holding their breath with “did our club somehow book a singer for an away performance?” expressions. And the idols themselves, completely clueless, standing there in fluorescent green that might as well have been Jeonbuk’s flag while shouting “Seoul United fighting!”
That utterly chaotic beginning had, through a series of further incidents, hardened into a full-blown rivalry.
By 2029 the two clubs were so deeply entangled that fans called the whole mess the “Gae-Mae-Pae”—Jeonbuk’s northern bastards and Seoul’s whatever—and the rivalry was ferocious.
And now that war was about to be fought at Sangam on Children’s Day, the day that might draw the biggest crowd of the year.
Which was why Manager Nam Jae-yoon needed to find a way—any way—to take a dominant victory over Jeonbuk.
That was the reason for all of this.
“If the briefing is ready, start.”
“Yes. First of all, the key to facing Jeonbuk is not the midfield. It is locking down their attack—specifically Yoon Seung-hwan.”
The reason professional analysts and coaches had gathered in the analysis room for a heated discussion ahead of the coming match was simple.
As Yoo Tae-ho, who held the dual role of coach and analyst, began his briefing, Manager Nam Jae-yoon listened carefully.
When the manager stayed silent and paid close attention, the rest of the coaching staff followed suit. Standing at the front of the room, Yoo Tae-ho began presenting the material he had prepared.
“Until now, every team that has prepared tactical adjustments against Jeonbuk has thought the same thing: somehow shut down the midfield. In reality Jeonbuk pushes their line so high that they even give the doble pivote midfield-battle duties, and a lot of teams have tried to exploit that. Most of them failed.”
“And what do you believe the reason is?”
“…There are the usual excuses about systems not being executed properly, of course. But setting all that aside, the reason teams that tried to fight Jeonbuk in midfield suffered so badly is, in my view, that they simply didn’t understand Jeonbuk’s real core.”
“The core…”
“Most people think Jeonbuk’s core is Baek Yi-an. And he is an excellent player—no question. His pass completion rate in the league sits at 93 percent, top 1 percent. Ball progression and recoveries are both around the top 7 percent. On top of that he has ridiculous aerial dominance at 191 cm and a top speed of 38 km/h. But the real core of Jeonbuk is not that player. It’s Yoon Seung-hwan. He’s the problem.”
With a steady delivery that held everyone’s attention, he immediately put Yoon Seung-hwan’s data up on the screen.
“Yoon Seung-hwan’s current league numbers are 10 goals and 3 assists. If you include the AFC Champions League and national-team matches, he has already scored 16. That is an unprecedented pace. Yes, Jeonbuk’s entire system is built so that Yoon Seung-hwan finishes the move, and they funnel the ball to him almost excessively. Even so, putting the ball in the net this often means his individual quality is currently on another level for the K-League.”
A striker with absurd finishing. Of course there are seasons when a player at peak form hits a high watermark—but for a quasi-pro called up from the youth side to perform at this level was clearly not normal.
He was a monster too big for the K-League to contain.
For Seoul, who absolutely had to take a win in the Children’s Day Jeon-seol Match, he was the biggest obstacle standing in the way—a mountain that had to be climbed if they wanted the title.
Seoul’s analyst Yoo Tae-ho saw Yoon Seung-hwan exactly that way.
Which was why the material he had prepared was, of course, all about him.
“So for the Jeonbuk match on Children’s Day, I am going to walk you through a system that can lock Yoon Seung-hwan down.”