Chapter 68 – Swimming Emperor (12)
In the old era without P’s aptitude tester, no one could discover their true calling.
Even Nam Hae-soo, the Emperor of Swimming, didn’t have swimming as his aptitude. That says it all.
Yet this guy knew her aptitude?
‘It’s definitely you, Nam Hae-soo!’
The suspicious man who, while confessing to Park Han-hee (who was preparing to become a track athlete), told her to “become a singer”—it had to be Nam Hae-soo.
I had been worried he’d completely forgotten his real-world wife and started over fresh.
I felt like an idiot for even thinking that.
Still, just to be sure…
“I can’t figure out why he suddenly told you to sing. Ah! Did you ever go to karaoke together?”
“Of course not! Paying money just to sing is such a waste.”
“…Right.”
So she threw away both the chance and the talent to sing high notes to her heart’s content. Got it.
“Why do you ask?”
“That guy acted like he knew everything about you. There was another one recently, remember?”
“Ah! That sleazy jerk!”
“What if it’s the same person?”
“…It could be!”
I decided to enlist the help of the “wife” he was still obsessed with.
Please find your “husband” for me.
I’d created a plausible link, so I asked,
“Do you know his name?”
“No. I wasn’t interested.”
“But you remember his face, right?”
“Hmm… he gave off the vibe of a second-generation chaebol dripping with class.”
“Hoo~”
A pattern suddenly came to mind.
Dream worlds revolve around the “protagonist.”
A terminally ill middle-school second-year—cliché, but it made sense.
Magic Boy Choi Kang-min.
Novel protagonist Kim Eun-jung.
If the dreamer is incompetent and unattractive, with nothing going right in reality, they have every reason to cling to the dream.
Because life inside the dream is so satisfying and happy that they can’t wake up.
‘Or else…’
Like Song Sun-young, they’re obsessed with changing their past (their aptitude).
Either way, Nam Hae-soo is no ordinary person.
“But it probably isn’t.”
“What isn’t?”
“If he really were a chaebol second-gen, he wouldn’t be attending cram school, right? He could just buy his way into a top university with money.”
“Ah!”
So in this era you could literally buy your way into elite colleges?
One shock after another.
‘Still, he’s definitely a chaebol heir. Or he became one himself.’
Would someone who’s lived through the old era not know a single way to make easy money?
Impossible.
In other words, the reason a filthy-rich guy attended cram school wasn’t the college entrance exam.
It was because his wife was there!
His goal was a natural meeting and building rapport.
“Today was fun.”
“Me too! See you tomorrow!”
“…Han-hee.”
“Yeah?”
The path I must take in this world suddenly became crystal clear.
“About what I said before.”
“…”
“Can you give me some time?”
“You mean… wait until you get over the girls who dumped you?”
“Exactly.”
“…You’re the first guy who’s ever made me wait.”
“As expected, it’s too much to ask?”
“You really are dense! I’m already waiting, dummy. See you tomorrow!”
“…Got it.”
The reason Nam Hae-soo is trapped in this dream became perfectly clear.
Regret and lingering attachment.
The desire to change a past that’s already gone!
‘Just keep watching from the shadows.’
I’ll scratch until it hurts!
***
Swimming is an extremely stamina-intensive sport.
That makes it overwhelmingly advantageous for someone like me whose stamina is practically infinite.
Butterfly, breaststroke, backstroke—
As I seriously started learning the other strokes, the results were crushing.
On the other hand,
Thud!
“Guh—?!”
In disciplines where technique matters more than raw stamina, I was utterly helpless.
“Haha! Your movement has improved a lot!”
“This is considered improved?”
The taekwondo master who floored me with a single kick didn’t sound like he was praising me at all.
“If I, who’s been training since I was three under my father, lost to a beginner, that would be hilarious.”
“Urgh…”
The road to fifty gold medals still felt very, very long.
The pure-white taekwondo dobok I wore was cinched with a white belt—the mark of a rookie less than a month in.
//Standing before me was Master Gomushin, his black belt signifying that he had passed at least two dan promotions.
Two years of experience: black belt.
Ten years: black belt.
Fifty years: still a black belt…
From this point on, you can’t judge skill by uniform alone.
Yet,
‘He’s different.’
This man—who coached the national taekwondo team of the country that invented the art—radiated a completely different aura.
A true strongman.
It felt like facing an untouchable white tiger!
The reason I gave up every Olympic event except swimming, fencing, and track was precisely because of him.
“Master Gomushin.”
Gomushin.
The man revered throughout Korea as the God of Martial Arts and the pioneer of taekwondo.
Watching him toy with young national athletes like children, it was clear the Olympics meant nothing to him.
“What? Want another round?”
I was no exception.
“Let me rest a second. How do you read my moves before I even make them?”
“Because they’re obvious.”
“…”
I must have heard that answer a hundred times.
“You should have figured it out by now with that much explanation. It’ll sound harsh, but you have no talent for fighting.”
“I know.”
My aptitude is shaman, after all.
“I was hoping you’d realize it yourself, but you seem to be struggling, so I’ll just tell you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your killing intent is too thick.”
“Ah!”
“You keep broadcasting exactly when and how you plan to kill me—how could I not know?”
“…”
That was a shock.
Killing intent.
It’s my weapon.
Ordinary people who aren’t used to the fear of death—like fencers are—can’t help but shrink before it.
And they lose their one and only life before they ever get used to it.
“If you keep relying on the same fighting style, you’ll regret it big time later.”
“Should I hide my killing intent?”
“Only if you don’t want to be one-sidedly crushed by opponents like me who it doesn’t work on.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good. You seem to understand—shall we spar again?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Come at me any—”
“Guh—?!”
Thud!
My cheap surprise attack ended with me on the floor again.
“Tch.”
“Ugh…”
The crown of my head throbbed where his heel had struck.
“You didn’t understand a thing. Either your body can’t keep up with your head, or—probably the latter.”
“…”
Meaning: no talent.
“Still going to continue?”
“…Of course.”
“Then get up.”
“Yes, sir!”
I fell, and fell, and fell again.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud…!
But I refused to give up, because I never wanted to relive the despair of being helplessly crushed by overwhelming power.
Then suddenly,
‘I’ll kill you!’
Driven by the urge to at least graze Master Gomushin’s collar, I thought of a trick.
Flinch.
His body made an unnecessary movement in response to my killing intent.
“Oh?”
The feint was instantly seen through, but it was the first opening I had ever found.
“Hap!”
I stepped forward and unleashed a spinning kick.
“Hm.”
Whoosh—
But Master Gomushin pivoted on his left foot like a top, and his right roundhouse kick—augmented by the momentum of my own spin—slammed into my solar plexus!
Bam!
The recoil, combined with my own force, knocked the wind out of me.
“Kuh—?!”
Even though I usually bounced right back up after taking hits, this time I couldn’t move a muscle.
Thud.
I collapsed backward, limbs splayed like a starfish.
“Impressive.”
“Cough, cough!”
“Excellent judgment. If your killing intent is too strong to hide, you might as well use it.”
“But you saw right through it…”
And that was the tiny spark that lit the long, long road to fifty gold medals.
“You need more practice. Doesn’t the seasoned liar always tell the better lie?”
“Ah…”
Master Gomushin’s lips curled into a grin; for once, his praise actually sounded like praise.
“Shall we go again?”
“Yes, sir! Please!”
I stood up, rubbing the spot on my chest where he’d struck me like I was giving it a massage.
Straight up!
‘Of course I have to.’
I’d make up for my lack of talent with time and flesh.
***
As the Olympics drew closer, the expectations piled on me grew heavier.
Swimming, track & field, fencing, taekwondo—
Only four sports, but when you break them down there are 72 individual events.
Meaning the maximum number of gold medals I could win this time was 72.
Not bad.
“Han-hee, good luck.”
“…Yeah.”
Park Han-hee hadn’t produced meaningful results, so her Olympic berth was canceled.
Was it because she was lazy?
No—just pure lack of ability.
The government had hinted they could sneak her onto the national team because she was “my girlfriend,” but she flatly refused.
“Want to run together? It’s been a while.”
“Yes!”
I’d been spending most of my time in the taekwondo gym, so I hardly ever saw Park Han-hee.
Lunchtime, maybe?
Even that had become difficult lately because of the conspiracy theories swirling around.
<Risk of Kang Moon-soo infection…>
<Assassins sent from abroad…>
<Government doing everything to protect the athlete…>
<Security at the athletes’ village reinforced…>
Rumors that foreign powers would deliberately infect me so I couldn’t compete and Korea would lose its guaranteed medal sweep.
I thought it was ridiculous over-imagination, but enough people believed it that even the government couldn’t ignore it.
“Please bear with the inconvenience.”
“If you get infected it’s a national disaster.”
“Tell us if you need anything.”
“We’ll disinfect you one more time.”
They say if I caught the virus and missed the Olympics, a lot of people—including the quarantine staff themselves—would lose their jobs.
‘This is basically a threat.’
On top of that, some presidential bodyguards had been reassigned to guard me against possible physical threats.
Eyes everywhere. I couldn’t move on my own anymore.
“Every time I meet you it feels like I’m getting a nasal swab up my nose.”
Park Han-hee grimaced after yet another test.
“If it’s too hard we can just call—”
“I hate that even more.”
Her firm tone drew a wry smile from me.
“Your stamina’s gone up a lot.”
“I worked for it.”
“Hmm…”
She could now run much longer than when we first met.
The lines of muscle on her thighs and calves were clearly defined, and the flab around her waist had vanished completely.
“Where are you looking?”
“Your body.”
“Be specific.”
“…I was admiring the proof of your hard work.”
“It’s definitely a compliment, but it doesn’t feel great.”
“Ahem!”
Embarrassed, I pretended to clear my throat and glanced behind us.
“…”
“…”
Far back, quarantine staff on bicycles were tailing us.
Their job: make sure no untested or unidentified person got near me.
‘Hm? What’s that?’
Two black vans were speeding toward us.
VROOOOM—!
Completely ignoring the village’s 30 km/h speed limit.
“…Run.”
“Moon-soo?”
I grabbed Park Han-hee’s wrist and started sprinting with everything I had.
The moment had finally come.
Nam Hae-soo was making his move.
“Hurry!”
They didn’t look like new quarantine staff or bodyguards.
If anything, they reminded me of the bandits that often appeared in *< Became the Youngest Daughter of the Count’s Family>: the ones who ambushed travelers on the road.
“This way!”
“Got it!”
We jumped off the sidewalk and into the garden beside the asphalt road.
If I was wrong, they’d stop or just drive past.
BAM!
BOOM!
But the two black vans didn’t hesitate; they left the road,: they veered off the road and kept chasing us.
They couldn’t catch a track athlete on foot, so they had no choice.
“Gasp!”
“What are those cars?!”
“What’s going on?!”
The quarantine staff finally noticed and panicked.
Meanwhile,
“Request backup…!”
“Block the roads now!”
“So the rumors were true!”
The bodyguards—who never truly believed physical threats were coming—were now filled with regret.
I felt the same.
‘Which insane bastard…!’
They clearly planned to run me over and kill me.
“Eek?!”
“Calm down!”
I dragged the terrified Park Han-hee behind a telephone pole.
VROOOM!
But the two black vans showed no sign of slowing.
‘They came prepared!’
There was no fear of death—only the absurd thought that I didn’t want to die pointlessly to some unknown thugs.
What now?
The decision was instant.
“Keep running.”
“Moon-soo?!”
I shook off Park Han-hee’s hand and charged straight at the vans.
SCREEECH—!
As expected, they ignored her and focused entirely on me.
‘Focus… now!’
Right before the bumper hit, I threw my body sideways.
CRASH!
The first van barely grazed me and slammed into a tree.
“And the other one… damn.”
The second didn’t charge—it braked hard and blocked my path.
Clunk.
The doors flew open, and burly men poured out.
‘Wait…’
I glanced back: men were also climbing out of the crashed van.
Each one holding an iron pipe.
They planned to shatter my bones with those.
“You Kang Moon-soo?”
One of the men surrounding me asked in a chilling voice—like a death sentence.
I scanned the circle and answered calmly.
“No guns, I see.”
“That matter?”
“Yes. A lot.”
Because now I had no reason to run.
Fighting an athlete bare-handed, without even guns?
It was laughable.
“For a fast little brat like you, these are more than enough.”
“Oh? Then come on.”
“…Kill him.”
“Haha!”
I’ll teach you why modern athletes are called monsters.