Special Mercenary for Dad's Morning Soccer Club
He rolled around on the bed. Lately, he'd been touring major guilds to collect "fees" and even flew up to North Korea to uncover the truth behind the gates, burning through a ton of stamina. Today, he planned to crash without a care in the world.
Lying on his side, he mindlessly scrolled through his smartphone, watching a game stream.
Knock knock.
The door creaked open with a light knock. His dad poked his head in, dressed in comfy training pants he usually wore around the living room.
"Hey, son. Busy today?"
"Nah. Something up?"
He glanced over from his spot on the bed. His dad scratched his head sheepishly and stepped inside.
"Well, one of the guys in my morning soccer group called out sick today. We're short exactly one player. You used to love soccer, right? Wanna kick the ball around with your old man for old times' sake?"
His hand froze on the phone. Morning soccer. It was true—he'd gone out every weekend to play before the Gate Shock three years ago. But after awakening, once the system forcibly remodeled his body into this freakish magical girl form, he hadn't gone near a pair of cleats.
He slowly sat up.
"You think people won't mind if I show? They'd probably feel weird running around with this body."
"Pfft, I already asked around! The guys are losing their minds that our hero's coming. Just say yes, son."
His dad grinned wide, eyes gauging his reaction. That face full of eager hope was impossible to turn down.
"But where do I even buy cleats this late? I'd need kids' sizes for my feet."
"Haha! I came prepared—got 'em all ready! Even snagged the smallest uniform. Let's go!"
His dad pumped his fist and bolted to the living room. Overprepared as always. He sighed softly as he slid off the bed. Dad must've been dying to play ball with him sometime. Annoying as it was, he couldn't rain on that parade.
A well-maintained artificial turf field on the city outskirts. He stepped out of the passenger seat of his dad's car and headed to the pitch. Middle-aged men were already there, sweating buckets and warming up on this weekend morning.
As they approached, the stretching uncles' eyes snapped to them.
"Hey, everyone, heads up! Got our team's special merc!"
His dad slapped a hand on his shoulder and bellowed.
"You all know her from TV—the hero who saved Korea! My pride and joy, my daughter!"
Crass boasting. His face burned, but he held it in and bowed politely. He scanned the group after a quick greeting. He recognized a few of Dad's buddies. But something felt off.
Why's their hair so thick?
These were guys with shiny foreheads and bald spots before. Now they all sported thick, jet-black mops like twenty-somethings. One of Dad's old pals approached with a friendly grin.
"Tae-ho! Remember me? First time seeing you up close since the body swap!"
"Yeah."
He replied flatly, pointing subtly at the man's crown.
"But Uncle... you on meds or something?"
The uncle chuckled, slicking back his thick, stiff hair with flair.
"Hahaha! All thanks to you! They made baldness pills from the monster bits you hunted! You're not just Korea's savior—you're every guy's hero!"
"Cut it out. I'm no hero."
"Kuhahaha! Humble too!"
The uncles swarmed him, greeting one by one—patting his back, staring at his silver hair in awe. Even some new faces. Dad shoved forward a potbellied, friendly-looking guy.
"Tae-ho, call this guy President Park. Owns over a hundred blood sausage soup chains nationwide—loaded!"
"What an honor to meet the hero. Swing by my place sometime. I'll load it up special with extra meat."
"Thanks. I'll drop in."
After light greetings, Dad grabbed a sports bag from the bench. Yellow vest and pristine white cleats inside. He pulled the vest over his head. Even the smallest size flapped like a dress down to his knees.
He sat on the bench and laced the cleats tight.
"Dad. What's my position?"
"Huh? Attacking midfielder! Stamina for days—just run the center and ping those passes!"
He stood and tested the turf. The soft give of artificial grass tingled up his soles. That long-lost sweat-and-dirt smell. A pleasant thrill stirred in his chest.
Problem was his specs. Without mana, he was just a frail weakling. But cranking it to monster-shredding levels? The ball would explode like a cannonball and punch through the keeper's sternum.
He closed his eyes, fine-tuning his internal mana circuits. He drew up the tiniest trickle, wrapping it delicately around every muscle fiber. Erasing his fragile limits, he calibrated precisely to peak early-thirties adult male fitness.
He tapped a loose ball on the ground—thud, thud. Felt good. His smaller frame actually helped, low center of gravity making ball control silky smooth. As he warmed up, the ref uncle blew the whistle. Players gathered at midfield for handshakes, then scattered to positions.
Tweet!
The game kicked off, opponents with the first possession. They held back early, mindful of his tiny frame. But that mercy lasted five minutes flat.
His team's defender cleared a ball from midfield—it rolled to his feet. He trapped it underfoot, scanning ahead. Two defenders charged from left and right.
To eyes that read monster waves of thousands, these neighborhood uncles moved like frozen slow-mo.
He nudged the ball right, feinting a turn. As their weight shifted, he twisted his ankle, yanking it left. Phantom dribble. One fluid move slipped him between them like water.
"Wha—hey?!"
Ignoring their yelps, he burst through center. The ball stuck perfectly to his foot, obeying his every whim. Dad and President Park surged toward the box. Gap in their backline.
Inside of his right foot sliced the ball's underside sharp. It arced high over the defenders, dropping perfectly into Dad's path. Perfect through ball.
"Nice!!"
Dad chest-trapped it and rifled a shot. Net rippled clean.
"Whoaaa! See that pass?!"
"Insane! Eyes in the back of your head?!"
His team's uncles charged over roaring. Dad slid on his knees like he'd won the world, scooped him up, and bounced him high.
"That's my kid!! My blood!!"
Ribs creaking, but he just patted Dad's back lightly. The second half was pure domination. Fully dialed in on power control, he owned midfield—intercepting passes, darting into space, threading killer balls.
Final minute, 3-3 tie. He grabbed it near halfway. Dad sprinted the right flank, heaving. Last chance. Deep breath, full instep—long pass rocketed out.
It sliced the air, magnet-snapped to Dad's feet. He slotted it past the rushing keeper. Theater goal.
Tweeet! Beep beep!
Long whistle—game over. 4-3, thrilling comeback win. Dad sprawled starfish on the turf, panting but grinning ear-to-ear. Sweat beaded his own brow, but that clean fatigue felt great.
Team huddled for sweaty group pics, he even signed a few backs, before they escaped the field.
Post-game spot: President Park's blood sausage joint. They shut the whole place for the soccer crew's modest afterparty. Tables groaned under steaming pork slices, head meat, bubbling soup pots. And rows of green soju bottles.
"Alright! To Tae-ho Hunter, who passed us to victory!"
President Park raised his glass high.
"To him!!"
Rough cheers shook the room. He grabbed his shot and downed it. Ahh. Sweet. Silver-haired cutie chugging soju like a pro—grotesque sight. But these uncles knew the score, just clapped warmly.
"Hero plays soccer different too! How's that power come from such a tiny body?"
"That Marseille turn? Thought Zidane showed up!"
Soju rounds heated things up. Uncles relived his goals, TV gate heroics—gilding him nonstop. Dad sat beside, downing glasses nonstop, beaming. Shoulders squared proud—nice sight.
"My girl's got ball sense from way back!"
Chowing Dad's boasts like appetizers, he matched every pour. Nice buzz. Lively human stink. Morning reluctance? Gone. Party wrapped after a graveyard of empties.
Penthouse entrance. Dad fumbled the code, staggering in. He trailed, half-lidded from booze.
"We're ho—"
Smack!!
Before Dad finished, Mom's palm exploded on his back from the dark.
"Ow!! H-honey! Why?!"
"Aigoo! Aigoo! I can't go on!"
Mom scowled in the entryway, unleashing hell.
"Kid's exhausted from constant call-ups, and you drag her to the field at dawn?! And this smell? Both of you drowned in booze?!"
Her glare swung to him.
"Our puppy too! Even if Dad begged, pounding shots at high noon?! You'll ruin your gut!"
"Uh... couldn't say no to Dad..."
He averted his eyes, mumbling. Mom sighed deep, aigoo, and stripped his jacket.
"Wash up! Mom'll boil spicy bean sprout soup for your hangover!"
She pattered to the kitchen. Dad and he stood side-by-side, stifling giggles at her back. Dad rubbed his stinging back, whispering.
"Mom's pissed. We gotta lay low awhile."
He leaned on the wall, unlacing his sneakers, then looked up at Dad.
"Dad."
"Yeah?"
"Call if you're short next week too. I'll kick."
Dad's eyes bugged like a rabbit's. Then his wrinkled face split into a kid's grin.
"You bet! I'll clean these cleats and wait!"
"But keep the afterparty chill. Don't wanna get smacked again."
Dad nodded furiously. Reeking of booze, they strolled arm-in-arm to the living room.