KTSR | Chapter 4

In Korea, the Horse Racing Association limits bets to no more than 100,000 won per game. Naturally, for those looking to make a bigger score, underground horse races, known colloquially as “muzzle matches,” spring up in the shadows.

Among these, the Colosseum stood out most prominently. It took on the significant financial risks involved in managing and running actual races. Consequently, the rules here were essentially non-existent, dictated solely by the whims of those in charge. The typical betting strategies like exacta or double wins based on source information were pointless here. It was almost like drawing blindly, and people thrived on the thrill found in this information desert.

Thrill is one thing, but what happens beneath the surface at the Colosseum was something even Seon Ijin didn’t know, much like the fate of the jockeys who couldn’t adapt and vanished without a trace.

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How long had Bbang been here, given this place’s lack of morality, law, or order, let alone a history? Nothing was known about when it was established or how it has been maintained. All Ijin knew was about the two years since he had arrived.

“What did the team leader say?”

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“Two weeks. He said if I don’t get back into the top ranks by then, just removing me from the long races won’t be enough.”

“Hmm.”

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Fatigue etched deep lines into Bbang’s face, making his expressions hard to read due to the static muscle tone and crisscrossing wrinkles.

“That messed-up guy might seem light, but he doesn’t resort to threats. Not with money or people’s lives.”

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“So, what should I do? I need to win.”

Ijin’s voice was desperate.

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“That’s the same for everyone.”

Ijin kicked at the ground in frustration. His plight was not unique. Though he respected Bbang, he didn’t want to rot here forever. He dreamed of leading his own stable, even if it was in a remote area with poor internet.

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“If I don’t make the top three again, starting tomorrow I’ll have to do menial tasks. If you want to win so badly, why not just secretly suck up to Ppochi and be done with it? At least then you’d get a break.”

“No way.”

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Ijin refused instantly. He had his pride; cumbersome and perhaps a luxury he couldn’t afford, but he couldn’t bring himself to discard it entirely, fearing he’d lose his sense of self.

“Cleaning horse dung and organizing the racetrack, feeding the horses—that’s hardly work. I’d rather do that.”

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But it wasn’t really a choice. He wanted to do those things. Despite the stench and blisters, cleaning up after the horses was far preferable.

“Just struggle through tomorrow. After that, I’ll make sure you get easier tasks.”

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Bbang had a soft spot for Ijin, who knew this, though only vaguely why. When he first arrived, he was a mess and filthy. Bbang was the one who cleaned him up, made him look human again. Perhaps Bbang pitied him, a feeling that hadn’t faded.

Ijin reached out his hand to Bbang, who stared at it before finally taking it.

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“Thanks, uncle.”

His hands were not large, but they were pretty and surprisingly firm.

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Jockeys are typically very small and thin. Ijin was no exception. Although taller than many other jockeys at just over 170 cm, he never appeared small. His face was delicate, almost beautiful, which probably made him look tough rather than frail, a reason why the toughs were especially harsh with him.

Ijin wouldn’t break. Even dirtied, he remained unmarred. While this might be a virtue in another world, here, it made him a noticeable anomaly, a disadvantage in survival. Thus, Seon Ijin was an endangered species.

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“Ijin-ah, be a bit sly, will you? Even if you have something to say, sometimes it’s better to hold your tongue.”

To this rare breed, Bbang finally spoke.

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Ijin just grinned, his split lip bleeding anew.

“If being sly means sucking up to the manager or the supervisor, I’d rather be dumb.”

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As Ijin turned to leave, steadfast in his resolve, Bbang grabbed him. He had heard something today—not particularly useful to Ijin, but Bbang felt a strong need to tell him. It was an intuition.

“They say a new boss is coming. An Executive Director, sent from above.”

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There were a few bosses managing illegal gambling besides the races. They were called ‘Bosses.’ The big fishes in small ponds, really just thugs with titles, referred to each other as such. The boss above Ppochi that Ijin had dealt with was the highest thug he’d encountered. An Executive Director who could command such bosses was unimaginable.

“He’s going to be a real piece of work. Wonder how twisted he’ll be.”

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The thugs were scum, but their bosses, and the bosses above them, were worse. The thought made Ijin nauseous. As he spoke coldly filled with disgust, Bbang replied tiredly.

“Yeah, he’ll be the worst of the worst. I’ve heard things; never heard of anyone as brutal as him. Be careful.”

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Ijin shrugged. Whatever the villain or his deceitful guise as an Executive Director, he wouldn’t be involved.

“I doubt I’ll even meet him.”

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“You never know, kid.”

“Ah, besides that, I’ll clean the stable tomorrow. It’s mine, got it?”

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Ijin wrapped his swollen lips into a smile, which looked more like a grimace. Bbang clicked his tongue and closed his mouth.

Unlike the low-level thugs, jockeys, being an essential part of the game, were treated relatively well.

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The jockeys’ quarters were centrally located within the Colosseum, deliberately positioned so they couldn’t escape, right against the mountain on the right side where the main stables were.

Their lodgings, crammed with styrofoam between shoddy plywood, were cold in winter and muggy in summer. Each tiny 2-square-meter room had a bunk bed and a makeshift closet made from non-woven fabric. In Ijin’s room, a box was used as a makeshift desk.

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Ijin’s belongings were simple: a demi-season coat, an old winter padding, two shirts, three short-sleeve T-shirts, three pairs of all-season jeans, and two sets of work clothes, the latter provided by Bbang, handed down from the previous occupant. He hadn’t heard what happened to the predecessor and didn’t care to.

The communal bathroom was empty. After stepping on the half-torn slippers on the scaly tiled floor, he washed with cold water, which became lukewarm by the time he was finished.

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The average annual temperature here was lower than where Ijin had lived before. Cold was one of the hardest things for him to endure since it clung to his bones relentlessly.

Shivering, he stepped out of the bathroom, immediately crawled under the blanket, and curled up, waiting for the warmth of his body to heat up the blanket before getting up, still wrapped like a cocoon, swallowing painkillers without water, and lying down again.

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He fell asleep as if knocked out. His body emitted a scent like condensed milk candy from the ointment—a sweet, soft smell, unlike the wild nature of his dreams.

In his dream, he was the protagonist, but upon waking, his mind was filled with the faces of trainers and owners who had pushed him to this point. The eligibility to register as a private owner was extremely strict, and it seemed the owner’s finances had been tight enough to tamper with races. Even without manipulation, he would have been disqualified. But what about himself? His owner’s dire circumstances couldn’t justify his actions.

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— Ijin-ah. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

In front of Ijin, a middle-aged man with swollen eyes and several missing teeth was kneeling. It was the trainer, who had a close relationship with the owner and was part of the stable.

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— I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

Ijin held back tears. If an apology could fix things, he might have been better off, but it wasn’t enough. Seon Ijin’s name was permanently banned from the Horse Racing Association. Branded, Ijin could never work as a jockey again. The industry was too narrow; even shifting to a leadership role was nearly impossible. He had neither the funds to buy his own horse nor the means to rent a stable. His life with horses was virtually over. It was the end.

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— I was blinded by money…

Maybe I should have been blinded by money too.

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Although it would have been better if the owner had become rich from this, unfortunately, he was merely impatient, focusing only on the crumbs in front of him without seeing the bigger picture. The entire illegal racing scene was involved. Two competing organizations involved in illegal betting, as well as the Horse Racing Association and police, got involved. The lower organization selling illegal tickets was destroyed, and the bigger players retreated deep into the shadows.

Ijin didn’t know where the people he worked with, those who shared secrets excluding him, had gone. Pathetically, while they excluded him in their schemes, they ensured he was included in the fallout. He no longer wondered where they had gone. The only thing clear was the image of the beaten owner being dragged away, leaving a trail of blood and urine.

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