A Lucky Day
Jo Se-jin couldn't quite pinpoint why, but ever since Rodrigo de Silva had awakened within him, daily life had carried on without any major hitches. Sure, there were minor annoyances—petty things, really—but nothing that amounted to a real problem.
This was possible because memories surfaced naturally as he went about his routines.
The catch was that those memories weren't complete.
Take smartphones, for instance.
As he fiddled with one, related recollections would bubble up unbidden. But they weren't a full manual on the device—just the most memorable bits, or the actions he'd repeated most often in his past life.
Which led to scenes like this.
Tok, to-dok, tok.
His teammates shook their heads at the sight of Rodrigo meticulously tapping away at the keypad, one letter at a time, phone propped on his chair.
"Whoa... my grandpa does that when he sends KakaoTalk messages."
"It's fucking cringy. That's gotta be a concept, right?"
"Who the hell picks a retard concept like that? Even for clout, that's too much."
"Nah, but he handles videos like a pro."
Exactly.
The only smartphone memories Rodrigo had dredged up were how to watch videos crammed with girls sporting freakishly huge eyes. (Admittedly, that included clips heavy on skin tones, too—but setting those aside, he was basically a grandpa discovering touchscreens for the first time.)
Even this much progress was thanks to Yu Seo-rin's patient tutoring.
"But who's he texting so seriously?"
"Dunno. Girlfriend, probably."
"No SNS, no games... First kid I've seen who only uses his phone for messaging."
They watched in silence as he deleted his painstakingly typed message to fix a typo, only to slump in defeat. It was a revelation.
"Looks really are everything. What a filthy world."
Undeterred by the chatter, Rodrigo kept hammering at the keys.
It came out as a mangled mess of twisted characters, but still.
The U-17 World Cup in Brazil—officially the 2027 FIFA U-17 World Cup Brazil, or Copa Mundial Sub-17 de la FIFA Brasil 2027—had whittled down the qualifiers, and group stages were finally over.
The surviving 16 teams now faced the guillotine of knockout rounds.
Brazil's opener against the U.S. ended in a resounding 3-1 victory, kicking off a string of results.
Korea's second-round matchup pitted them against South America's Venezuela.
Once infamous for economic collapse, Venezuela still grappled with hardship—but in soccer, this generation had turned heads.
Runners-up in the South American U-17 Championship (which doubled as regional qualifiers), they'd topped their group here too, bucking their nation's downward spiral with real momentum.
Even facing Asia's firepower kings, Korea, Venezuela packed a punch. Pundits called for a nail-biter.
The result? Korea's shocking 5-2 thrashing.
They'd eased off after seizing control, subbing out stars like hat-trick hero Jo Se-jin around the 60th minute, yet still padded the score. In truth, it was a one-sided demolition.
La Vinotinto—the burgundy-clad Venezuelans—were toyed with relentlessly by Korea. Or rather, by one player. They crumpled.
Korea had qualified for the U-17 World Cup nine times since their debut in 1987.
Their best runs—eighth place in '87, '09, and '19—ended there, no semifinals.
The tournament rarely drew crowds, but this team's scoring fireworks, capped by five goals against Venezuela, had ignited national buzz.
Yet the squad's mood was sour.
"We're fucked, aren't we?"
"Yeah. Totally fucked."
Their quarterfinal opponent was Brazil.
In Brazil. Against the hosts.
Formidable on paper, but home soil with wall-to-wall cheers? Exhausting, brutal.
The post-16ths high crashed into despair.
Players sulked; even coaches, tasked with pep talks, moped. Jang Gi-tae himself stared skyward, sighing gustily.
"Haa... Why does heaven curse me like this..."
If the boss was like that, what hope for the rest?
Amid the gloom, only Rodrigo stayed unfazed.
"It's fine. We'll win."
Heads turned toward his flat tone.
They nearly dismissed it as nonsense—
"Hmm... doable... maybe?"
"Honestly, no one's better than him. Admit it?"
"Yeah, we might actually pull it off."
Rodrigo sprang up under their stares and strode to the projector screen looping footage alone in the corner.
"Lemme say it clear: I'm better than that guy."
"Hey, Jo Se-jin! What're you—back to your seat—"
"Wait. Let him be."
"But, Coach..."
"I said let him."
Jang Gi-tae's weary command halted the coaches mid-protest. Rodrigo's hand danced across the whiteboard without pause.
"Their attack patterns are basic. Relying on forwards' flair—but I can counter that easy."
"Counter how?"
"Block me, and this'll be child's play."
"......"
His wild claim drew nods all around.
"Fuck it. If we gotta face 'em, go in confident."
"No easy outs in a World Cup. Let's just do it."
"Brazil ain't what they used to be. We got a shot."
The vibe had shifted.
2027 FIFA U-17 World Cup Brazil — Quarterfinals
South Korea vs. Brazil
Estádio Kleber Andrade, Cariacica, Espírito Santo, Vitória, Brazil
The U-17 World Cup, hosted in Brazil.
The hosts had steamrolled groups with 3 wins, 0 draws, 0 losses, then crushed emerging powerhouse USA 3-1 in the round of 16. Now, in quarters, they drew an Asian minnow.
Sure, this team led scoring charts—but still, Asia.
Asians always folded against South America. Brazil coach Carlos Luis knew it best.
"Friends, warmed up enough?"
Entering the locker room pre-match, he winced at the racket.
"You! Kill the music! Who's still on their phone? Fred! Turn it off!"
"Just this one, boss."
"Fred!"
"Yeees~ Got it, boss. Geez, just turn it off, right?"
Beards already scruffy, builds nearly adult—their antics were pure kid stuff.
No surprise; they were mid-teens, big bodies and all.
Herder of 15-to-17-year-olds, especially free-spirited Brazilians? Tough gig.
Luckily, Carlos Luis wasn't old-school drill sergeant. He fostered loose vibes, bantering like pals—but authority intact.
"Music off! Focus, you idiots."
"Yo, boss says kill it."
"Alright, let's lock in."
His grave tone finally snapped them to attention, one by one.
Loose when needed, tight when called for—that was the team culture he'd built over two years.
"Good. Eyes sharp, friends. Game's here. World Cup quarters await. No nerves is fine, but don't slack. Tournament rules—one loss, done. Got it?"
"Aw~ Boss! They're Asian. Where from? China?"
"Dumbass, it's Japan."
"Nah, Korea."
"Korea! Yeah! Island nation! Next to Vietnam! Right?"
"That's India, moron."
"Oh, smartass."
Pre-game jitters were good, but not total looseness—especially World Cup quarters.
Yet Carlos let it slide.
Because—
"Haha, no sweat on them. Play our game, smash 'em. Go get it, friends."
"Let's go!!"
"Wrap it quick, nap time."
He barely registered Korea at all.
The entry buzzer blared.
Carlos sauntered to the bench, light-footed.
Quarters against some weak Asian side?
Lucky break.
Truly, a lucky day.