Meanwhile,
Steve, who was watching the game from the stands, tilted his head in confusion.
"This is more one-sided than I thought."
"Yeah, no kidding," Bob, seated next to him, agreed.
The second-year team clearly had the upper hand in overall skill level.
Even without Carl, their stats alone suggested no significant weaknesses.
The problem lay in their tactics.
Every single attack was focused solely on Carl.
Perhaps that's why the game continued in a similar fashion.
It was as if Carl couldn't stand the thought of letting the first-years get the better of him.
Bang—! Swoosh!
Carl kept charging forward.
Displaying peak performance, he effortlessly cut through three or four opponents.
And just when a single pass could have easily turned into a goal—
"…!"
Of all people, Park Ji-hoon was there to block Carl's path.
At that point, what would happen next was painfully obvious.
Despite having the option to pass,
Thud-thud-thud!
Carl stubbornly drove into enemy territory.
Sure, managing to outmaneuver Park Ji-hoon was impressive.
But the real problem was—
Flash! Thud!
In the end, he would always end up stopped by Tennessee.
"How many times has this happened now?"
Did he have some kind of personal grudge?
Whenever Carl faced Park Ji-hoon, he seemed incapable of making rational decisions.
"Feels like I'm at a bullfighting ring," Steve remarked.
A bull, agitated by the matador's red cape, eagerly charges forward without thinking.
Its focus is solely locked on that fluttering piece of crimson fabric.
But the matador himself remains unseen.
That was exactly the state Carl was in.
The moment Park Ji-hoon appeared before him, seemingly glowing in red—
"Arrghhh!"
Carl, as if possessed, lowered his horns and charged.
And in that very instant, Tennessee, like a spear, unerringly targeted Carl's weak spot.
Not that Carl's second-year teammates could do much to help.
Even if they managed to break the momentum with fouls, the first-years would dominate the scrums, repeatedly regaining possession.
"How long do you think he'll keep that up?"
At Bob's question, Steve shrugged.
"Probably forever."
"Even though he's clearly going to lose?"
"That's just the kind of guy he is."
"…?"
The type who gets angry if the team wins but his personal performance is lackluster.
The so-called embodiment of greed.
"If the team wins and he doesn't score, or if the team loses but he shines individually, which one do you think he'd choose?"
"Feels like he's already chosen the latter…"
Naturally.
Carl was playing as if beating Park Ji-hoon alone equaled victory.
As if following his own private set of rules.
Because of this, at this very moment, the second-year teammates were nothing more than background players in Carl's personal game.
"That's not rugby."
Bob's comment may have sounded a bit cynical.
"But what's the surprise?" Steve countered. "It was the same last year. That guy has never actually played rugby. He's just always been like this."
Steve's assessment was even more unforgiving.
"Still…"
"…?"
"I hope his frustration doesn't push him to do something reckless."
"Reckless?"
At Bob's question, Steve quickly shook his head, as if refusing to even entertain the thought.
"No. Forget it."
He hadn't even been running for that long, yet—
***
"Huff. Huff…!"
Carl felt like he was gasping for air, his lungs burning uncomfortably.
His eyes gleamed with irritation, fixed solely on Park Ji-hoon.
'So what if you've had a few successful ventures? You think the world belongs to you?'
That had been his sole thought when stepping onto the field.
He had entered the game determined to tear apart that unbearable arrogance.
And yet.
As the first half neared its end, his attacks had failed time and time again.
'Didn't you say this was your first time playing rugby since enrolling?'
'Didn't you spend all your time running businesses?'
Then why?
Why do the sons of senators, the heirs of dukes, and everyone else only seem to look at you?
"..."
Perhaps this was the very thing Carl had always desired.
Without shouting or threatening, a natural leadership that compelled everyone to follow willingly…
Shudder.
The problem was, what Carl desperately wanted was something Park Ji-hoon happened to possess.
'What if this world… really does belong to him?'
The creeping dread quickly morphed into rage.
I'll destroy you.
If I can't have it, I'll shred to pieces the hands clutching the world.
That's when it began.
Carl started shadowing Park Ji-hoon, always lingering just behind him.
Wherever Park Ji-hoon had learned it, his uncanny skill at fending off tackles was remarkable.
But no matter how skilled he was—
'It's not like he has eyes on his back, does he?'
Carl kept waiting for an opening.
Then it happened.
Vroooom!
A slightly overlong pass from Leo.
Thud-thud-thud!
Park Ji-hoon dashed toward the corner, chasing the ball.
Smirk.
Carl made a wide arc, circling toward Park Ji-hoon.
If he drove his elbow straight into Ji-hoon's spine?
He'd be in a wheelchair for at least a few months.
'Think you're so special?'
Flash.
'Then dodge this!'
Just as his merciless tackle seemed to connect with Park Ji-hoon's back—
Crack!
A bone-chilling, unpleasant sound.
So far, so good.
But then, to Carl's bewilderment, the person who should've been sprawled on the ground was perfectly fine.
'Wha… huh?'
Before he could process it, the world spun around him.
Thud!
Carl found himself crashing onto the ground, his back slamming hard against it.
What… what just happened?
Then, as if to provide an explanation, a searing pain erupted in his right jaw.
Damn it…
It seemed someone had struck his jaw just before he collided with Park Ji-hoon.
'Who the hell…?'
At that moment, through his hazy vision, a delicate face suddenly appeared above him.
'Te… Tennessee?'
But why does he look like there are three of him?
Perhaps to rouse him, Tennessee had stepped in.
Tennessee pulled his arm back and began patting Carl's cheek.
At least, Carl thought it was just patting.
Smack!
But with Tennessee's shoulder swinging at a wide angle—
Smack!
And his palm crashing down mercilessly—
Smack!
Not to mention the sting that felt like icy water being splashed on frostbitten cheeks in the dead of winter—
'This is assault!'
Carl became absolutely convinced.
Smack!
Stop… please stop!
But his cursed voice kept slipping back down his throat, unable to escape.
A short while later, his vision gradually refocused.
"..."
When the three Tennessees merged into one, "You did it on purpose, didn't you?" Tennessee whispered into his ear.
"Don't bother responding. I've already made up my mind."
Gulp.
Carl swallowed hard, his dry throat clicking audibly.
"You've just messed with the Grosvenor family."
No, no, I was targeting Park Ji-hoon—
Smack!
"You like dragging your parents into fights, don't you?"
Carl frantically shook his head.
"Isn't that why you've always called them in for every little spat?"
More frantic shaking.
"Try it again this time, why don't you?"
Smack!
"I'll rip out every last foundation of that fancy department store of yours."
At this, Carl shook his head so hard it was a blur.
And then—
Smack!
With one final slap, "Looks like you're finally back to your senses."
Tennessee raised his head and signaled to the referee.
***
Tennessee was given a 2-minute suspension.
The reason? He had rammed Carl's jaw with his shoulder.
And while he claimed he slapped Carl's cheeks repeatedly to keep him conscious, the number of slaps clearly exceeded what could be reasonably excused. A 2-minute penalty was, if anything, a lenient ruling.
Still, none of the second-years voiced any complaints about the referee's decision.
Even they fully acknowledged that Carl's actions had been out of line.
Regardless, what on earth did those two talk about?
After Tennessee was sent off,
"It's all your fault," Carl muttered incomprehensibly in my direction.
"Everything is because of youuuu!"
And with that, he completely lost it, going berserk.
Every time he got hold of the ball, he charged straight at me, as if venting all his pent-up rage for the day.
With such a clear gap in skill level, and no Tennessee to back me up on defense—
"Ugh."
Stopping Carl was next to impossible for me.
Sure enough—
Whoosh!
Carl feinted to the right.
Thud!
Then, with a single sharp change of direction—
"…!"
I ended up giving way.
Fortunately,
Thump-thump-thump!
Jack came in just in time to back me up, preventing Carl from turning the field into a free highway.
But even then, Carl shook Jack off with a single body feint.
It looked like we might concede Carl's first score of the day—
"Check the opposite side!"
A booming voice came from the bench.
"…!"
It was Tennessee.
The same Tennessee who had never once raised his voice, restrained by his aristocratic demeanor.
But at this moment—
"Close the gap inside!"
Tennessee bellowed with full force.
Smirk.
Even if my defensive skills weren't the sharpest—
Whoosh!
Following orders and executing plays? That's the easy part.
While Gary and James clung to Carl as if trying to pull him down by his clothes—
Thud-thud-thud!
I moved as Tennessee had instructed, circling around to cover from behind.
And just like magic—
Whoosh!
Carl broke through both of them in one swift motion.
"...!"
Before I knew it, he was right in front of me.
If I let him through, it would be an immediate score.
'He'll never pass.'
And he won't try for a kick either.
It'll be nothing but another attempt to charge straight through.
'Left? Right?'
Or will he go for a head-on collision?
At that moment—
Thud!
Carl darted to the left.
I moved to follow him, but—
"Charging!"
Before Tennessee's call even finished, Carl drove his shoulder toward me, exploiting the momentary counter-movement.
A deliberate collision timed to take advantage of my shift!
If I hadn't been ready for it, I would have gone down immediately.
Bang!
Barely, I managed to stabilize my footing.
But then—
Bang!
He hit me with another shoulder.
It wasn't meant to finish me off.
It was a calculated move to create enough space to slip through.
Sure enough—
In the split second I was forced back by half a step—
Zoom!
Carl lunged forward.
The goalpost was just ahead.
In a situation where even a half-step gave a decisive advantage, he had already surged ahead.
All I had left was one option—a tackle.
In that instant, I hurled my body toward his thigh.
The opponent seemed to anticipate my tackle, pressing down hard on my neck.
At the same time, he furiously shook off my hand, trying desperately to break free.
But I wasn't easy prey either.
My neck, strengthened through countless scrums, held firm even under his full weight.
Grip.
No matter how fiercely he struggled to escape, my arms clung tightly to his thigh, refusing to let go.
And that wasn't all.
His enraged thigh muscles, which tried to sprint away, only worked to close the distance between us even faster.
No matter how fast he was—
No matter how much raw talent he possessed, far beyond high school level—
Once he let me establish a grip—
Flash!
The only thing left for him was to collapse, his legs giving out as he toppled backward.
In a last-ditch effort, he reached for my hair, trying to pull me off, but—
Thud!
By then, he was already sprawled flat on the ground, arms flailing uselessly in the air.
Just as Carl floundered in confusion, unable to grasp the situation—
Tweet! Tweet! Tweeeeet!
The whistle signaling the end of the first half rang out.
The tension drained from my body, and I let out all the breath I had been holding in.
"Hah… hah…"
For the first time, I had stopped him.
With the tackle I learned from Coach Devon, I had slammed him into the ground.
But my moment of triumph was brief.
I turned to Tennessee.
"What's with you giving all these orders?"
"Better than sitting around frustrated, isn't it?"
Even his sharp responses seemed oddly endearing now.
"But why didn't you call the last move?"
"You can handle something like that on your own."
"And if I couldn't?"
He gave me a look that said, Then you'd deserve to be scolded. What else?
I chuckled.
In seven-a-side rugby, the matches are short, and halftime barely lasts two minutes.
But then, something strange happened.
Carl, who had been lying dazed on the ground, slowly pushed himself up and walked off.
He didn't head toward his team's bench, though.
Curious, I watched as Tennessee added an explanation.
"He's not coming back."
"What?"
"What good is a broken sword?"
So, his will was already shattered?
Amazingly, Tennessee's prediction was spot on.
Like a man fleeing, Carl left the field and didn't return until the game ended.
The result?
With a score of 3–0 in the first half, and a final score of 6–3 by the end, we claimed victory against the second-years.