How to Cross a Swamp

"Hey, did you hear? Haeseong Elementary wiped the floor with Buksan Elementary—four to nothing."

"Buksan? Those thugs? Come on, don't lie. Their defenders are a brick wall. Last year they tore us apart and our guys came off the field crying."

"I'm serious! Haeseong's number ten did it all by himself. His free kicks were bending in like magic—looked like he was firing missiles!"

The area around the civic stadium buzzed with talk of Haeseong Elementary School.

A perennial first-round exit, treated like a walking points machine, had just crushed one of the tournament favorites—the "slaughterhouse" known as Buksan Elementary. The news rocked the entire city competition. Rumors outran feet, and curiosity dragged spectators in by the droves.

On the Haeseong Elementary bench, the boys' shoulders rode high under the flood of attention and stares.

"Gang-cheol, look over there. Kids from every other school are staring at us."

"Heh, I went to the snack stand earlier and the Buksan guys took one look at our uniforms and slunk away. Totally electric!"

Park Min-su hummed under his breath as he laced up his boots. Team morale was sky-high. Even Coach Kim Pan-seok was beaming, busy greeting parents.

But one person alone—captain Ma Gang-cheol—stood with arms crossed, calmly studying the pitch.

Don't get carried away. The real fight starts now.

From his previous life he knew nothing was more dangerous than early success. He had watched countless prodigies get drunk on that first sweet victory, grow arrogant, and slip.

And today's opponent was a completely different kind of headache from Buksan.

Quarterfinal foe: Cheongsol Elementary.

If Buksan was a firestorm that bulldozed with raw physicality, Cheongsol was a swamp.

Their coach was a fanatical believer in defensive tactics. All eleven players dropped below the halfway line and parked the bus in front of goal—the infamous "suffocation defense" that was their trademark.

"Gang-cheol."

A familiar voice called from beyond the spectator fence.

It was Team Leader Choi Hyeon-seok, sunglasses on. Beside him stood the blond foreigner who had been watching since the last match, arms folded.

"Team Leader? You came. And this is…"

"Say hello. Hans Schmidt, youth scout for Borussia Dortmund. He was on vacation in Korea; I dragged him here after hearing the buzz about you."

Dortmund.

A Bundesliga powerhouse, the endless wellspring of global prospects, famous as the "Yellow Wall" bee army. And one of their scouts was standing on this dusty Korean field.

Gang-cheol's eyes lit up. He hadn't expected a European line this soon.

"Nice to meet you. Hello, little friend. That free kick last match—very impressive."

Schmidt greeted him in clumsy Korean. His smile was friendly, but the blue eyes behind the sunglasses were coldly appraising.

I'll grant the kicking power. Technique's solid too. But physical superiority at eleven doesn't last. I've seen plenty of kids turn ordinary the moment growth stops. Will that sense still work in tight spaces?

Gang-cheol read ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the suspicion. Scouts were a doubting breed by nature.

"Thanks for the compliment. But I don't think you'll get a free-kick show today."

"Ho? Why? Condition off?"

"No. Those guys aren't coming out at all. They're determined not to give even a foul."

He jerked his chin toward the Cheongsol half. They were warming up only inside their own penalty box, like turtles guarding their shell.

Schmidt smiled, intrigued.

"Breaking down a defensive side is a striker's fate. No space, talent dies. So how will you crack them?"

"You'll see."

Gang-cheol grinned with pure confidence and turned away.

"When you fall into a swamp, you don't thrash around. You throw rocks until you fill the swamp."

Peeeeep—!

The referee's whistle launched the quarterfinal.

Exactly as expected. No—worse.

The moment the whistle blew, Cheongsol retreated like men whose will to attack had been surgically removed, every player dropping near the penalty box. One striker stayed half-heartedly at the halfway line; the other nine formed a double wall in front of the keeper.

The so-called "10-back."

"Whoa… that's nasty. If you're only using half the field, pay half the rent!"

Park Min-su shouted in frustration.

There was no space. Nowhere for Kim Cheol-su to sprint into, nowhere for Min-su to plant his backside and hold the ball up. The second anyone received possession, three or four bodies swarmed.

"Come ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on, try it! You can't break through, can you? Nyah-nyah!"

Cheongsol's captain—the goalkeeper—taunted from behind the posts. Their plan was crystal clear: grind out a 0-0 and go to penalties, or wait for Haeseong to tire, push up, and hit them on the counter.

Tenth minute of the first half.

Haeseong's attacks died one after another.

Min-su forced a dribble and lost the ball; Cheol-su had nowhere to run and just circled the touchline.

Jeers rose from the stands.

"Hey! Play soccer! This isn't hide-and-seek!"

"Attack already, Cheongsol!"

But the Cheongsol kids didn't budge. The coach's orders were absolute.

Haeseong grew impatient. Forced dribbles, wild long-range shots—they started spraying the ball everywhere.

It's going wrong.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

On the bench, Coach Kim Pan-seok's lips were dry. Keep this up and they would collapse under their own weight—the classic pattern of a strong side getting ambushed by a weak one.

Yet in the center of the pitch, Ma Gang-cheol alone remained serene. He stood near the halfway line, scanning Cheongsol's defensive shape.

No space? Then make some. If they won't come out, force them out.

Gang-cheol clapped hard. Clap! Clap!

"Hey! Everybody stop!"

The boys mid-attack froze and looked at him.

"Min-su, don't go into the box. Come out."

"What? A striker has to stay in and fight!"

"I said come out! Drag the defenders with you! And Yeong-sik, don't stretch wide—tuck into the middle."

He radically reshaped their positions, pulling the front men out of the penalty area and packing the midfield tight.

Cheongsol's defenders panicked.

No one left inside their box—no one to mark. Follow or stay? Tiny cracks appeared in the line.

"Cheol-su, don't run today."

"Huh? I came here to sprint!"

"Instead, when I give the signal, go say hi to the ball boy behind the goal and come back."

"…???"

Cheol-su had no idea what that meant, but he trusted the certainty in Gang-cheol's eyes and nodded. Gang-cheol's word was law.

"All right. Commence bombardment."

Gang-cheol collected the ball. No pressure—the defense still wouldn't step. He set it leisurely twenty-five meters out, dead center of the arc.

Cheongsol's defenders stayed crouched inside the box. No way he shoots from there, their complacency said.

That complacency is your grave.

Without hesitation he swung his right foot.

Not a pass. Not a curl.

A full-weight, laces-through, clothesline of a long-range shot.

Boom!

The ball rocketed up with a cannon-blast sound, threading the narrow gap in the wall like a bullet toward the far corner.

The Cheongsol keeper flung himself desperately.

Thwack!

"Aaaagh!"

He punched it clear, but the impact nearly split his palm; the ball sailed toward the corner flag.

It wasn't just a shot. It was a warning: I can kill you from here whenever I feel like it.

"Whoa… what was that? A cannon?"

"A shot on target from that range?"

Fear flickered in the defenders' eyes.

And it wasn't over. Gang-cheol reclaimed the loose ball from the corner and, before they could reset, struck again.

Boom!

This time it smashed the post and bounced out. The frame rang and shuddered.

"W-what the hell! Why keep shooting!"

"Not coming out? Fine—keep taking them. I'll kick until the goal breaks."

Gang-cheol grinned like a devil and gestured for the ball again.

Only then did the Cheongsol defenders face the dilemma.

Stay deep and that insane shot power would eventually break through. Step out and the space behind them turned lethal.

"Hey! Stop him! Get out there and stop him! Don't let him shoot!"

The terrified keeper screamed at his back line.

At last two center-backs couldn't take it and charged out to close Gang-cheol down.

The iron double wall—the fortress—suddenly had a hole.

Open.

Gang-cheol shaped to shoot. The onrushing defenders flinched and braced.

But he didn't strike.

He scraped the ball with his sole in a perfect shot fake and glided past them.

The classic "shot fake."

Both defenders sailed past like scarecrows. Ahead of him now lay open space and the remaining panicked defenders.

In that instant he shouted to Kim Cheol-su, who still stood blankly on the touchline.

"Cheol-su! Say hi—now!"

"Huh? Oh—hi!"

Cheol-su waved wildly toward the goal and started running, as if racing to greet someone.

The utterly random move yanked the remaining defenders' eyes toward him by pure instinct.

What's he doing? Is someone behind us? Half a second of distraction.

That was the gap.

The ball left Gang-cheol's foot—not to Cheol-su, but arcing perfectly onto Park Min-su's chest.

Not a flat pass. A soft lob that just cleared the defenders' heads and dropped.

"Min-su! Rip it!"

No one stood in front of Min-su. The defenders had been so hypnotized by Gang-cheol's long shots and Cheol-su's bizarre stunt that the central channel was empty.

Min-su was unstoppable. That massive frame against the keeper, one-on-one.

"Raaaaah! Move! I'll smash everything!"

His furious drive tore the net.

Swish—!

1–0.

The suffocation wall that had looked so impregnable crumbled in absurdly hollow fashion.

"Yesssss! It's in!"

"Gang-cheol! Was that my assist? They all fell for it! The ball boy asked why I was waving at him!"

Cheol-su sprinted over beaming and threw himself into Gang-cheol's arms. Gang-cheol ruffled his hair and laughed.

In the stands, Schmidt nearly dropped the hot dog in his mouth.

"Oh, mein Gott…"

He scribbled furiously in his notebook.

Once the dam cracked, the flood was unstoppable.

Cheongsol's defensive scheme shattered; their mental game collapsed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into chaos. Push the line up and the space behind them got shredded; drop deep and Gang-cheol's long-range artillery rained down. Damned if they did, damned if they didn't.

Gang-cheol used the chaos to start the show.

Tenth minute of the second half.

Corner-kick chance.

Gang-cheol stepped up as taker. Cheongsol defenders and Haeseong attackers jostled in the six-yard box.

But his eyes weren't on the goalmouth—they locked on the edge of the penalty area, the so-called "D-zone."

Everyone expects a long ball. Aerial duels are a coin flip.

He took a short run-up and stabbed a low grounder.

The ball snaked through the forest of legs like a serpent.

Waiting there, exactly as planned, was midfielder Yeong-sik.

"Huh…?"

No one marked him. Everyone was coiled to jump for a high ball.

Yeong-sik flustered for a second, then remembered what Gang-cheol had drilled into him in training.

When the ball comes, don't think—just hit it.

He struck first-time. The shot was mishit, but it deflected off a defender's foot and spun into the net.

2–0.

"This… is tactics?"

The Cheongsol coach sank onto the bench and clutched his head. The ten-back system he had prepared was being dismantled piece by piece by a single genius.

Twenty-fifth minute of the second half.

This time Gang-cheol finished it himself.

While Park Min-su used his body to hold off defenders, Gang-cheol ghosted in from the second line.

"Min-su, duck!"

Min-su dropped his head; behind him Gang-cheol's right foot flashed.

Not power this time.

A precise inside-of-the-foot curl.

The classic far-post bender.

The ball painted a beautiful arc past the keeper's fingertips and nestled in the unreachable corner.

3–0.

The match ended there.

Cheongsol players collapsed on the grass in tears; Haeseong sealed their place in the semifinals.

After the game, in the players' waiting room, the boys were loud with victory.

"Yo, buffet tonight! Coach is buying!"

"Gang-cheol, that last shot was insane. How do you bend it like that?"

But Gang-cheol quietly packed his bag and stepped outside.

At the end of the corridor, by the vending machine, the blond man was waiting. Team Leader Choi Hyeon-seok was nowhere in sight.

"Congratulations."

Schmidt tossed him a can. Gang-cheol caught it lightly—an ice-cold sports drink.

"See enough? I filled the whole swamp."

"Impressive. Honestly, I'm surprised. You're the smartest Asian kid I've seen. When the body isn't enough, you use the head."

Schmidt produced a business card. The yellow-and-black BVB Dortmund crest gleamed on it.

"I'll be direct. Interested in coming to Germany? Our youth system is the best in the world. Your talent is too good to rot on Korean dirt. I'll write the recommendation myself."

Gang-cheol's heart thudded once.

Dortmund. The club on the brink of its Jürgen Klopp golden age. The yellow jersey of the bee army.

As a springboard to Europe it was perfect. The old him would have bowed and followed without a second thought.

Instead he slipped the card into his pocket and grinned.

"Appreciate the offer. But the order's a little wrong."

"Order?"

"Yeah. I shouldn't be begging you to take me. Your club should be begging me to come. That's how the transfer fee goes up, right?"

Schmidt's eyebrow twitched. Cocky little brat. But the cockiness wasn't unpleasant.

"Ho? Confidence is high. So?"

"There's a fun tournament coming up soon. Our chairman's going to make the stage pretty big. I'll invite the Dortmund youth team. I'll send the plane tickets—just show up."

"……?"

"We'll settle it properly there. If I outplay your kids, we rewrite the contract—much better terms. Starting-eleven guarantee, first-team training clause, the works."

Gang-cheol's brazen counter-offer.

Schmidt stared blankly for a second, then burst into a booming laugh.

"Hahaha! Crazy kid! Absolute madman! Fine—I'll be waiting. If you beat our boys, I'll stake my scouting career on bringing you in. I'll cut my own salary if I have to!"

He clapped Gang-cheol on the shoulder and walked off.

Gang-cheol watched the retreating back and clenched his fist.

Negotiator skill, huh… not bad.

He looked up at the bracket posted on the wall.

Semifinal opponent. No—the de facto final.

The team packed with elite transfers from Seoul, the tournament's number-one favorites, and the place where his true rival waited.

"Finally we meet."

Fighting spirit blazed in Gang-cheol's eyes.

The real monsters were there.

Only two matches left until the city championship.