Ficorpio
Chapter 1
“When I was in my prime, they wouldn’t have even touched the ball!”
“Match-fixers!”
“Give us our money back!”
The Team Locker Room was a wall of chaos—shouting, cursing, the sounds of people shoving and scuffling. Not a single player answered back.
Then the windows started going.
One after another, glass shattered inward, spraying the room with glittering fragments. Outside, supporters were crammed against the doors and broken panes, waving banners plastered with abuse.
Ethan Sterling jerked awake.
His eyes snapped open to the sight of a room full of dejected, broad-shouldered men with their heads hanging low.
Where the hell am I?
A wave of dizziness hit him. Then the memories crashed in after it, foreign and familiar at the same time, until his situation became horrifyingly clear.
“Would you all shut up?” Ethan roared. “Some of us are trying to rest!”
His voice hit the room like a stadium speaker. The noise dropped almost instantly.
He had crossed into a parallel world.
A world called Blue Star.
And in this world, he was a reserve fullback for Portugal—so far down the pecking order he couldn’t even get minutes in a training match. To make things worse, he also had an awkward identity: mixed Drakorian and Portuguese heritage, which had brought him no end of trouble.
This world, meanwhile, was obsessed with two things above all else.
Football.
And martial arts.
He looked toward the scoreboard in the room. The red numbers on it were impossible to miss: 2–0.
And beneath that, two giant 1–0 scores.
This was the 2026 World Cup, and so far Portugal had laid three complete eggs.
What kind of nightmare was this? Cristiano Ronaldo was on the squad, and they still hadn’t taken a single point?
Ethan shot to his feet. His legs were lean and powerful, packed with muscle. He stamped once, lightly.
The table beside him rattled three times.
The supporters who had forced their way into the locker room instantly recoiled, necks shrinking back.
If those legs landed on a person, they’d burst apart more cleanly than a watermelon in summer.
Ethan bent down, found a football under the table, and nudged it up with his foot. His right leg drew back, ready to drive through it.
The supporters inside the room visibly tensed. A few had bulging pockets stuffed with God knew what.
Ethan stood there with every muscle in his body drawn tight, like an enraged tiger ready to explode.
“Quick—quick, film this! He… he’s about to shoot!”
One sharp-eyed supporter lit up with excitement and yanked out his phone.
Ethan narrowed his eyes. A crooked smile pulled at his mouth.
Then he swung.
Boom.
The ball blasted into the heavy metal door.
The impact wrecked it on the spot, the twisted door buckling open as the ball still had enough force to keep driving another twenty feet.
“Cristiano. And the rest of you too.” Ethan’s voice rang across the room. “It’s only 2–0.”
“It’s not like we’re already on a plane home.”
Inside and outside the locker room, silence dropped like a curtain.
The supporters who had been screaming a moment ago could only stare, mouths hanging open in shock.
Ethan grabbed Ronaldo by the front of his shirt and hauled him upright.
“Take a good look,” he said coldly. “These are your loyal supporters. One mistake, and they’re ready to curse your entire bloodline.”
He glanced back over his shoulder.
The people in front immediately dropped their banners and retreated into the crowd behind them.
Ethan paused.
For a moment, he thought of someone from his old world—a man who had rewritten the history of the 110-meter hurdles, only to be torn apart by the public and the media over one mistake. Forced into retirement. And in the end, all anyone remembered was his failure, not the glory that came before it.
On the field, who wanted to lose?
Who made mistakes on purpose?
Everyone present was staring now, wide-eyed and holding their breath.
Who was this lunatic?
He was bold to the point of madness.
But… he wasn’t wrong, was he?
It was only 2–0.
And even if Portugal went out, Cristiano Ronaldo was still the football icon they loved most in the world.
“Ethan, you—”
Ronaldo was the first to snap out of it. He hurried over, then looked at the mangled metal door and clicked his tongue in disbelief.
This guy was way too fierce.
How had he never noticed that before?
But Portugal still wasn’t dead. If they could fight in the second half, maybe—just maybe—they still had a path through.
Ronaldo turned toward the doorway and the packed crowd beyond it.
“To all our supporters… I’m sorry,” he said. “I know everyone’s furious and has nowhere to put that anger. But in the second half, please—believe in us.”
He bowed deeply toward them.
Ethan picked up the scoreboard and smashed it apart with one slap.
“Is playing a World Cup really that hard?”
A mocking voice came from the crowd outside.
“You’re just a reserve defender. Acting that arrogant when you probably won’t even get on the pitch? Hah.”
A few snickers followed.
Ethan tossed Ronaldo aside, yawned, and stretched lazily.
The next second, he vanished.
When he appeared again, his hands were full of the supporters’ banners.
The things written on them were filthy.
Without a word, Ethan tore the lot into pieces as if they were made of paper.
“That was… Drakorian kung fu?”
A few supporters had just barely seen him leap, disappear, and reappear in midair.
Wasn’t that the kind of aerial movement from Drakorian action movies?
But instead of being scared, the supporters became even more excited. Their faces lit up with fanatic energy as they shoved forward, desperate to get closer.
Chapter 2
Ethan frowned and let out a cold snort.
That only made them lose their minds more.
To them, he looked exactly like some icy, overpowered martial arts master come to life. Not only were they not afraid, they were practically crawling over each other to get near him.
At Ethan’s side, Ronaldo stared in disbelief.
Most of the supporters were wearing number 7 shirts. Obviously, they were his die-hard fans.
And he knew something else too—only real fans could be this extreme. Which also meant they’d be the least able to accept his failure.
But now, for the first time, hope flickered in his eyes.
Ronaldo was a man with influence all over the world, a player so iconic he had become almost synonymous with Portugal itself. Supporters everywhere would trample each other for the chance to get close to him.
And right now, he’d been completely ignored.
“If we lose this match,” someone shouted, “Portugal can pack up and go home early!”
“This is all because of you benchwarmers!”
Ronaldo got back to his feet behind Ethan, looking more than a little awkward. Getting lifted by the shirt in front of everyone had definitely not been dignified.
He cleared his throat.
“Everyone, don’t panic. We’ll fight harder in the second half.”
But when Ethan had flashed out to seize those banners, Ronaldo had broken into a cold sweat.
The man was too fast.
His leap was absurd.
He moved like a ghost.
So he really did know martial arts.
Ronaldo doubted he could have laid a finger on the edge of Ethan’s shirt if he tried.
Since when did their team have a monster like this?
If Ethan could get on the field, then maybe a miracle wasn’t impossible after all.
The coach had been about to deliver an entire speech full of encouragement, only for the supporters to drown him out and force every word back down his throat. His face had gone so red it was almost purple.
He looked at Ethan first.
Something was definitely wrong with this guy today.
He was impossible to read.
But the way he shut people down?
That had been unbelievably cool.
And the Drakorian kung fu? What man could watch that and not get fired up?
The coach planted his hands on his hips.
“If we win the second half 3–2, we finish second in the group on the spot!” he barked. “And if we’re second, we go through. Simple as that!”
This World Cup had expanded the field and changed the rules to accommodate one particular country.
Unfortunately, that country had been so hopeless it hadn’t even made it through qualifying—and even the extra spots tied to it had all gone home.
Ethan rubbed his temples.
The coach was loud, but he wasn’t wrong.
If Portugal lost this one, they were locked into dead last in the group. No miracle, no respectable finish, no chance to benefit from FIFA’s weird extra qualification wrinkle.
They’d be going home in shame.
“CR7,” Ethan said, turning to Ronaldo, “I’m going on in the second half. They think beating us in the first half was the end of the story. But when I step onto that pitch, I’ll rewrite it.”
Ronaldo felt his scalp prickle.
The words came out in Portuguese, and somehow they sounded so intense it was like they were hot enough to scorch the tongue.
But God, they sounded good.
They lit a fire deep in his chest.
For the first time in a long time, Ronaldo felt something pouring off Ethan—something like the aura of a leader. Dominant. Absolute. The kind of presence that made your blood run hot without your permission.
He hadn’t felt that in years.
So what if it was 2–0?
As long as the referee hadn’t blown the final whistle, they still had a chance to equalize.
Maybe even win.
Ethan’s large hand came down on Ronaldo’s shoulder. His eyes were steady, hard, full of certainty.
“Second half. 3–2. Do you believe it?”
That single question seemed to wake the entire room.
Ronaldo’s eyes widened. It only took him a moment to work it out—if Portugal could overturn the goal difference and edge the other two teams, they could still take second place in the group and keep their World Cup alive.
“Come on!” Ethan shouted, thrusting out his right hand. “If you’re with me, then let’s go do this!”
It wasn’t over yet.
Anything could still happen.
Ronaldo was the first to slap his hand on top of Ethan’s. A smile finally touched his mouth.
Even if they had to fall, then they’d fall on the pitch.
“Arrogant!”
“Who the hell do you think you are? Congo’s the biggest dark horse in the tournament!”
The heckling started up again from the crowd at exactly the wrong moment.
Coach Victor Santos snapped. He hurled the paper cup in his hand to the floor so hard it burst apart.
“That’s enough! So what if they’re the dark horse?” He jabbed a finger toward Ethan. “Ethan, you’re going in for the second half. Show them what Drakoria grit looks like!”
He started pumping his fists like a boxer, which, paired with his thick build, would’ve looked ridiculous if he weren’t so fired up.
“Give me everything you’ve got! Come on!”
“Let’s go!”
The locker room exploded.
What Ethan had done a moment ago had completely won the squad over. Some of them had spent stupid amounts of money taking self-defense classes, only to find out the real master had been sitting beside them the whole time. Thinking about those tuition fees alone was enough to make them grind their teeth.
Chapter 3
Everyone knew the same simple truth: if a regular guy ran into someone who actually knew how to fight, the regular guy was in trouble.
Ethan frowned.
He had been turning it over in his mind ever since the first half ended. Even with Ronaldo on the pitch, Portugal had looked this awful.
Then there was the group draw. Croatia was strong, sure—but the other two teams shouldn’t have been able to press them this hard. None of it added up.
Ronaldo was already forty-one. There was no chance he’d make the next World Cup.
And Ethan himself, in this body, was already thirty-six. Ancient by football standards.
Even if the coach started him now, how many matches could he still play?
In his previous life, he had been special forces. He had trained in martial arts from childhood. He had ended up before a military tribunal after killing several civilians from a hostile nation during a mission.
Of all things, he hated match-fixing and backroom corruption most.
There was definitely a rat in this group stage.
If he let them get their way—if he slunk off this field without a fight—it would feel worse than death.
Besides, he’d transmigrated into another life. Who was going to make him swallow this now?
Ethan studied the coach carefully.
Victor Santos froze under that stare. His face actually heated, and he lowered his head at once, unable to hold Ethan’s gaze.
Not him, Ethan decided.
If the coach were part of it, he wouldn’t have changed his attitude so fast and sent a bench player like Ethan on.
And Ronaldo? Impossible. The man still wanted that World Cup trophy more than anything alive.
Ethan shoved those thoughts aside and raised his voice.
“Wake up, boys! We win this second half!” He grinned. “And if we do, I’ll teach you all a takedown.”
That line lit the room on fire.
The players thumped their chests and shouted themselves hoarse. A move like that? In those overpriced combat classes, that was premium-level stuff. Looked cool as hell, too.
Learn a proper takedown and, in their minds, even a nobody could land an unbelievable girlfriend.
And honestly, after three suffocating matches, they were done feeling humiliated. They’d spent too long getting kicked dizzy.
Ethan glanced at the supporters still lingering there and laughed. “Why are you all still standing around? Waiting for the funeral meal?”
He had clearly underestimated how obsessed this world was with martial arts.
The supporters didn’t want to leave. They were staring at him with shining eyes, and half of them obviously wanted to learn too.
“Portugal and Congo, please return to the field immediately!”
The call for the second half rang out.
Ethan stopped talking. His sense of timing was ironclad. He grabbed Ronaldo by the arm and headed out.
Ronaldo’s face was cold, his steps steady, his eyes burning. He didn’t look back once as he walked onto the pitch.
On the green field, Ronaldo scanned the formation and finally noticed Ethan stationed all the way on the right.
He’d assumed the coach would place Ethan near him.
Instead, Ethan had been put in one of the least noticeable spots on the field.
So that was it?
Ronaldo drew a long breath and forced himself calm.
Fair enough. Ethan had never played before. Maybe, aside from that frightening martial arts background, the man didn’t know football at all.
That position might not seem glamorous, but it was still the second-last line of defense.
If someone got through there, a goal wasn’t far behind.
Ethan looked across at the opposition.
Every Congo player wore the same savage, aggressive stare. Dark faces, different builds, all hard and hungry.
And this team had somehow battered Portugal into a 2–0 hole.
Ridiculous.
The referee’s whistle blew, and the pitch came alive.
“Welcome back, everyone, to the second half of Portugal versus Congo! Congo have the kickoff—what a perfect start for them. They’ve got all the momentum right now!”
“Damn it.”
Portugal had already been on the back foot the entire first half. Now Congo opened the second as well. It was insult on top of injury.
The two Congo attackers at the front worked together beautifully, one left, one right. In seconds they were driving the ball straight at the defense.
Ethan dropped low, muscles tightening.
Then he saw the moment.
He burst forward and struck cleanly at the ball.
“Aah!”
A shrill scream ripped across the field, loud as a pig being slaughtered.
One of the Congo forwards crashed down instantly, clutching his left leg and howling.
The other man charged right up to Ethan, barking in a language Ethan didn’t understand, spitting as he yelled, his hand already raised like he wanted to swing.
The referee sprinted over, frowned, glanced at the fallen player, and then lifted his right hand.
Yellow card.
Straight at Ethan.
The referee’s eyes lingered on him with open curiosity too. It had been twenty-four years since a Drakorian player had appeared in a World Cup match.
That curiosity, however, didn’t stop him from making the call.
Only then did Ethan fully process it.
So this bastard was fixing the match right in front of everyone.
And not even trying to hide it.
He was absolutely sure he’d touched only the ball. Forget the guy’s shin—he hadn’t even brushed his shorts.
Even if he had clipped a leg, it would’ve been the right one.
So what was this act about the left?
Trying to play games, huh?
Fine.
He’d show them what real strategy looked like.
“Free kick!”
Ronaldo arrived a second too late, and when he heard the decision, fury spread across his face.