More Brazilian Than a Brazilian
The coin toss was over.
The players had taken their positions in their respective halves, waiting only for the referee's whistle to pierce the air.
Baek Do-hyeong, the sturdy center-back and captain of South Korea's U-17 national team, scanned Brazil's forward line, mentally rehearsing his countermeasures.
Lucio loves attempting bold dribble breakthroughs against easy marks. Like Se-jin said, he'll probably test the waters early against me. The pattern's clear... a body feint with upper-body movement, followed by a sudden change of direction. Or a sharp stop-and-go. Counter with physical shoulder-to-shoulder pressure... damn. Why am I sweating so much already?
He'd brimmed with confidence during training, even striding onto the pitch with it intact. But now, with the match looming, that surge of self-assurance had evaporated in an instant.
Baek Do-hyeong kept rubbing his palms against his uniform shorts.
Stay calm. If I stick to practice, I can handle this... but wasn't our prep time too short?
It had been just three days since the Venezuela match.
Three days in name only—the actual practice amounted to barely a day. The day after Venezuela was written off for recovery training, match day itself was off-limits, leaving one measly day. Even that was limited to an hour each in the morning and afternoon, tactical drills tailored to their energy levels.
Of course, Baek Do-hyeong had stayed after team sessions for one-on-one special training with Jo Se-jin, prepping against Brazil's aggressive individual tactics. He still couldn't dream of stopping Se-jin's breakthroughs, but the relentless reps had honed his senses to a razor's edge.
Up until kickoff, he'd been dead certain he wouldn't get breached easily—not by Brazil's players, who all looked inferior to Se-jin no matter how he sliced it. He'd envisioned an iron wall. But now, with the whistle imminent, a nagging doubt bubbled up that he couldn't shake.
He knew it was baseless worry, pointless second-guessing. He knew that... but knowing didn't make it stop.
People weren't machines, after all.
Baek Do-hyeong realized his chronic affliction had flared up again.
The reason this Korean center-back—hailed as the next Kim Min-jae, a towering presence—drew so little overseas buzz. He was peerless in everyday play, but in big matches, he faltered once per game, earning the mocking nickname of sae-gaseum.
I can do this. Stay calm. Just play like normal... like always...
Gnashing his teeth against the self-doubt and loathing, Baek Do-hyeong's eyes suddenly locked with a teammate's.
Up front, at the forefront of his fellows, face-to-face with the Brazilians.
...Jo Se-jin.
A soccer player who looked better than any actor.
At first, he'd seen him as a junior to mentor. Their initial meeting had thrown him with the kid's brash words and attitude, but he'd chalked it up to youthful cockiness... He was wrong. The one needing guidance was himself.
A weirdo with bizarre quirks off the pitch, but on it, the most reliable... an overwhelmingly talented underclassman.
And now, that guy was mouthing something inexplicable.
What the hell? Gi... gi. Memory? Remember? Remember what?
A memory flashed through his mind.
In this match, you'll face Gabriel Nasciuto a lot. I'll mimic his playstyle—try stopping me.
Special training, an hour a day together.
He hadn't fully bought into it. Sure, you could ape another player's moves, but nailing the fine details was tough, and in real games, those nuances decided success or failure. No matter how genius Se-jin was, his imitation couldn't perfectly match Gabriel Nasciuto's.
But the kid's passion was admirable, so he'd gone along silently.
The day Brazil was drawn as their quarterfinal foe, everyone sank into gloom—Se-jin alone burned with winning fire, spitting out Brazil's attackers' traits and counters.
He wasn't shocked by the analysis. Player breakdowns and sharp insights? Scouting analysts and tactical coaches did that. Se-jin's tactical knowledge was actually shallow, almost undermining the rest.
What mattered was the will.
When even the coach sighed alongside the team, Se-jin alone blazed with passion for victory. No—certainty. Absolute conviction in winning.
Even if it was fool's gold, Baek Do-hyeong needed that conviction.
Conviction in victory. In himself.
...Get it together, Baek Do-hyeong. At least play like a captain, make your teammates proud.
Se-jin's gaze pierced him like a reprimand, and Baek Do-hyeong clenched his jaw with fresh resolve.
He wanted to show that cocky underclassman he wasn't embarrassed. Not because of those grueling special sessions that had left him puking.
What the...? Why's he grinding his teeth like that, then shooting me that intense look?
Rodrigo blinked in confusion at the captain's sudden fierce stare. Just because I helped with some training? It was no big deal.
But the moment passed. His eyes shifted to the Brazilian squad.
Brazil, huh. From the footage, they weren't... impressive.
Whether they'd only taped their bad games or the roster was the issue, his homeland after 35 years was a letdown.
They ran hard, pressed aggressively, circulated the ball endlessly... but that was it. No real threat.
This wasn't the Brazil he knew.
It was too ordinary.
The Brazil of his era had been freewheeling, creative, always sparkling with flair.
Now, tactics seemed to hobble them.
Was this what happened when a wild beast's savagery was chained by strategy?
He hoped it was his imagination... but in soccer, Rodrigo was a master. He wouldn't be wrong.
Tactical evolution isn't always progress.
For a fleeting moment, he missed the Brazil of old.
Not that he'd loved or cherished it back then—but blood was blood, after all.
If so, better to prove it decisively.
That Brazil suited untamed ferocity.
"Pass it back!"
The match kicked off with Korea's possession.
Rodrigo one-touched Woo Chang-hyun's feed backward, then exploded toward Brazil's half. His sharp call prompted Bae Ji-ho to reflexively return it, though the unscripted play left the pass underpowered.
As Rodrigo spun to receive, Gabriel Nasciuto pressed tight.
Sensing no pass incoming from the back-to-chest mark, Gabriel lunged instantly.
An Asian forward daring a dribble against a Brazilian? Laughable.
But his foe's response shattered expectations.
Huh...?
The ball vanished as the opponent elegantly turned. Scanning wide for a pass yielded nothing, leaving Gabriel baffled—until a teammate's shout pierced his ears.
"Over!"
Over?
Head snapping up, he watched the ball arc lazily overhead in slow motion.
And the opponent breezed past him.
By the time Gabriel whirled, Rodrigo had controlled the dropping ball and accelerated away.
Gabriel mumbled blankly, "Rainbow flick...?"
The famed "sa-po" flip over the head—a staple in his role model's highlights, which he rewatched endlessly.
Except this time, the star was an Asian, and the fool eating it was him.
Of course, Rodrigo wasn't Neymar.
He didn't even know who that was—and if he did, he'd scoff at the comparison.
The reincarnation of Brazil's greatest-ever, Rodrigo de Silva.
He feared no one in dribbling.
Sure, his current body was a far cry from his prime—but against green kids, it was plenty.
"I'll take him—cover!"
Brazilian midfielder Alex Fred blocked Rodrigo's path after the aerial control.
Gabriel Nasciuto was the touted ace striker, but Alex Fred was the engine, the true core driving Brazil.
A defensive rock who played center-back for his club, he dropped his center of gravity, standing firm. Rodrigo's stride hitched, dribble seemingly stalled.
Solid.
He'd feinted instantly to blow past, but the reaction was sharp.
Agile. Moves on instinct—great coordination. Physically, prime me-level.
A subtle weight shift and eye feint drew an immediate response. Near-instantaneous.
Not prediction—pure reaction. But so transcendent it covered any lag.
Innate gift enough to dominate youth levels, maybe even pros.
But against a veteran who could exploit it? Different story.
And this would be his first such encounter. Youth ball lacked that cunning.
In his past life, he'd have gone pure physical—squeezing agility and reactions to the limit.
It would've been epic.
But not now. His unfinished body couldn't handle it.
Cheating? Maybe. But seniors had to teach: soccer wasn't just physique.
Decision made, action followed.
Micro weight shifts, eyes, tensing muscles, breath—all cascaded in nonverbal fakes. As Alex Fred froze a beat, Rodrigo struck.
To onlookers: a 2-3 second standoff ending in a casual breach.
The ripple was huge.
"Mark him!!"
Brazil's trust in Alex Fred stalled their movement.
Others rushed from Korean marks, but Rodrigo was already storming Brazil's gut.
Best of all,
"Return."
He had leisure to toy with the desperate foes.
Like a matador taming a bull, he herded the reckless charges. Using freed teammates for basic 2v1s, he shed two more—goalie only now.
"...Huh?"
The keeper, braced for the shot, blurted dumbly.
A beat-early blast from the dribbling foot.
Unforeseen timing; he froze till the net rippled, collapsing in shock.
"G-goal..."
"A real goal."
"Did he just score?"
Just 10 seconds in.
South Korea's opener—and
the moment Rodrigo de Silva truly etched his name on the world stage.