The Dethroned Crown Prince
The Brazilian players, still dazed by the opening goal that had exploded just ten seconds into the match, finally snapped back to their senses right after that strangely crisp “How~” celebration echoed across the pitch.
“What the hell are you doing? Why couldn’t you stop one Asian kid and give up a goal right from the start? Hey, Fred! Did you leave your brain on the bench?”
“…I wasn’t careless.”
“Then what? Did that pretty Asian face hypnotize you? You want to get drilled from behind or something?”
Alex Fred didn’t flare up at the crude remarks from his teammates. He simply wore a heavy expression and issued a warning.
“Be careful. That Asian… he’s dangerous. Even if we mark him again, I don’t think we can stop him.”
“His ball control looks impressive, but… is it really that bad?”
“You won’t know until you face him yourself. There’s something more than what you can see… and I have no idea how to deal with it.”
The faces of the previously grumbling Brazilian players hardened. They knew Alex Fred’s ability better than anyone; his ironclad man-marking had been proven time and again in their one-on-one betting games. For someone like him—the ever-confident Fred—to sound so defeated after just one duel was chilling.
Yet not everyone felt intimidated. One player’s competitive spirit ignited instead.
“Why are you all so scared? That’s exactly the kind of play Brazil should be showing. Listen up, everyone. Watch me. I’ll show you what real dribbling looks like.”
“Jefferson’s right. The kid’s copying Brazilian style pretty well, but he’s still just one man. The rest of the Koreans are ordinary Asians, aren’t they? No matter how much he runs wild alone, he’s only one player. Stop being cowards and let’s show them who the real Brazilians are.”
Gabriel Jefferson, the ace leading Brazil’s attacking trio, spoke, and the forwards responded with enthusiasm.
“An Asian dares to show off dribbling in front of us? Let’s show them ours.”
“Feed me the ball. I’ll tear him apart.”
The blood of the Brazilian attackers, who prided themselves on never yielding to anyone when it came to individual skill, began to boil.
At the center mark for the restart, Brazilian forward Lucio approached the Asian standing at the very front of the Korean half and whispered.
“Hey, yellow monkey. I’m not letting you run wild anymore.”
“What’s this black monkey babbling about?”
“Wh-what!? You just used a racial slur… wait, how do you even understand us—?”
“Hey, Ref! This guy just called me a yellow monkey. He’s a filthy racist. Aren’t you giving him a card?”
“What!! N-no no no, no no, that’s not what happened! I didn’t! Wait, he—he called me a black monkey too—”
“Ref! He’s making another racist remark!”
The restarted match descended into chaos. Right before the kickoff, Lucio had been accused of racism, sparking an uproar, and once play resumed the Brazilian players completely lost their minds—not in a brilliant way, but in a literal, frenzied stampede.
“Lucio! No! Come back!”
“Jefferson, drop back! I said drop back!!”
“Hey, hey!! Fabian!! Can’t you see Enrique cutting inside? Pass the ball!!”
Despite the desperate shouts from the midfielders, the Brazilian attackers kept charging forward with reckless dribbles. Even the coach screaming from the touchline made no difference. These sixteen- and seventeen-year-old Brazilian boys, hearts full of dreams, hope, and passion, had been provoked by the very style that made any Brazilian’s chest swell with pride.
The results, of course, were disastrous.
“Lucio has the ball. Bruno Santos cuts inside. Our players need to cover the flank. Lucio hesitates in front of Baek Do-hyeong, tries to go past—Baek Do-hyeong stops him!”
“Gabriel Jefferson! This is dangerous—there’s no one marking Jo Malcom in the center! Jo Malcom is free, and he’s lethal from long range! Someone close him down—wait, what? Gabriel Jefferson is going himself! Baek Do-hyeong steps up, he’s beaten—tackle! Baek Do-hyeong’s magnificent tackle clears it! What a defensive masterclass from Korea’s captain! Ah, Jo Malcom is protesting to Jefferson—probably asking why he didn’t pass.”
Brazil’s attackers possessed undeniable individual talent; they hadn’t been selected for the national team for nothing. But they were no Messi. In the highly evolved modern game, fewer and fewer players could dismantle organized pressure through skill alone, and even those rare talents struggled without team support. If it were that easy, anyone could be Messi.
“Brazil’s play is far too rushed right now. They’re not combining at all—they keep trying to solve everything individually.”
“Aren’t they underestimating our defense? Our back line is handling them well. Especially Baek Do-hyeong—he’s winning almost every one-on-one today, like he’s had some kind of awakening.”
The Brazilians weren’t ignorant of this reality. They knew. Yet—
“It’s Jo Se-jin again! Jo Se-jin is charging into the penalty area all by himself!!”
“He shakes off Emerson! Alex Fred comes charging in—he’s beaten! Fernando Enrique from the side—aaah, aaaagh!! How many players is this kid going to beat? He’s gone mad!!”
“Foul! Foul! Jo Se-jin wins the free kick! No one can stop this player today. Jo Se-jin is putting on an absolutely terrifying display of dribbling!”
How could they stay calm when an Asian on the opposite side kept repeating the same humiliating plays? Especially when he scored yet again and sprinted all the way to their bench to perform that “How~” celebration right in their faces.
“That… damned Asian bastard…”
He received a yellow card for provocation, but it did nothing to cool the boiling rage inside them.
After repeated failures, the Brazilian attackers, who had been glancing nervously at one another, began to lose their minds once more. And as they watched, the Brazilian coach, teammates, and even their own fans felt their hearts spiral into the same frenzy.
Even Alex Fred, who had tried his best to mark Rodrigo despite the odds, felt something inside him break the moment the third goal went in. That was the instant the football empire finally collapsed.
Kim Tae-jin still remembered the Real Madrid matches he had watched on television with his father, a lifelong Madrid fan. He remembered the dazzling plays of Lionel Messi and Neymar.
Why would a Real Madrid supporter recall Barcelona players? Because Kim Tae-jin simply loved dribblers. Real Madrid hadn’t had any proper ones back then.
Of course there were Isco, Bale, Kovacic, Modric, and Toni Kroos. But had any of them ever displayed the destructive dribbling power of Messi or Neymar? No—they couldn’t even be called true dribblers in the first place. At best, Isco and Kovacic qualified; the rest were merely good at carrying the ball forward or maintaining possession, not genuine dribblers.
What about Eden Hazard? The prince who once ruled the Premier League with Chelsea had, unfortunately, vanished somewhere on the flight to Madrid. He was not the same person as Real Madrid’s “Hamzar” or “Chubzar.”
That was how much Kim Tae-jin loved dribbling. He had wanted to become a dribbler himself.
Reality, however, had been cold.
“Dribbling? Modern football is about tactical movement. Off-the-ball runs are everything. You’ve got good football intelligence and a sharp eye for passing lanes, so focus on finding space and reading your teammates’ positions.”
“But I’m good at dribbling.”
“Tae-jin. You don’t have the talent for it.”
“……”
Kim Tae-jin’s ball control had been decent, but it was the kind suited for a classic midfielder—strong on retention rather than progressive carrying. In the end he had developed into a midfielder, and it had been a success. Among Korea’s countless young talents, he had become one of the most elite, consistently selected for age-group national teams, and even earned the nickname “Crown Prince” in this very U-17 squad.
The crown prince of Jang Gi-tae’s team. That title had once belonged to Kim Tae-jin. Until recently.
“Must be nice.”
A sigh escaped Kim Tae-jin’s lips as he sat on the bench, watching his teammates train with vacant eyes. The atmosphere around him was the complete opposite of the excited teammates who had just achieved the team’s first-ever semifinal appearance. Naturally so—Kim Tae-jin hadn’t played a single minute in this World Cup.
No matter how well the team was doing, a player couldn’t simply be happy when he himself hadn’t stepped onto the pitch even once. There had been a time when he orchestrated attacks and was called the crown prince, yet now he could only watch his teammates shine.
Of course, there were excuses. It wasn’t that his ability was lacking; an injury had held him back. Even now his body wasn’t fully recovered. But none of that eased the ache in his heart.
Kim Tae-jin’s gaze naturally drifted toward the player who had replaced him… no, the one who had far surpassed him.
“Jo Se-jin…”
Wherever he went, the eye was drawn to him. Strikingly handsome, exceptionally skilled, and carrying an aura that somehow dominated his surroundings. Above all, he was the player who performed the very style Kim Tae-jin had always dreamed of.
A tangled mix of admiration, awe, jealousy, and resentment swirled inside him.
As Kim Tae-jin stared at the pitch with a complicated expression, someone else was watching him with an equally complicated look.
“What should I do? I still have to give him at least one chance.”
It was national team manager Jang Gi-tae. His eyes moved toward the starting lineup for the next match.