The Angler's Counterattack, and the Collapsed Breakwater

The next morning, the sports newspaper headlines stacked on the convenience-store racks of downtown Gyeongju were plastered wall-to-wall with Ma Gang-cheol's name. The photo of the boy being carried off in agony after the bloodbath in the rain and that dramatic winning goal was more than enough to stir the entire nation. Online communities erupted into heated debate over whether he would even play, while the homepage of their next opponent, Seoul Shin-dap Elementary, was flooded with netizen comments pleading, "Don't go hard on an injured kid" and "Don't crush children's dreams."

But while the world was in an uproar, the "tragic hero" himself, Ma Gang-cheol, was stretching in a thoroughly comfortable pose inside his lodging room.

"Ahh... that hits the spot. Nothing beats a good steam after rolling around in the mud."

Humming under his breath, Gang-cheol rotated his ankle in lazy circles. Far from swollen, the system's recovery boost had left him feeling better than yesterday. That is, until the door burst open and Coach Park Tae-su stormed in.

"Gang-cheol! You okay? The reporters have set up camp in the lobby!"

Gang-cheol reflexively flopped onto the bed, clutching his right leg and letting out a groan.

"Ugh... Coach, it still hurts... Walking's a little rough."

"Aigoo, you little punk. Don't push it. The semifinal... it's basically impossible, right?"

Coach Park looked down at Gang-cheol's leg with pity. After watching that murderous tackle yesterday, hoping for a full recovery was pure greed. A semifinal without the team's ace. Defeat looked all but certain.

"I'll... at least sit on the bench. Can't let the kids lose their spirit."

"Yeah, yeah. Just having you there means a lot. Get some rest."

The moment Coach Park left, Gang-cheol sprang back up and started shadow-boxing on the bed to loosen up.

"So gullible."

Then a presence stirred by the veranda window.

"Oscar-worthy acting. Seriously."

It was Han Se-hui. She had been peeping into his room from the neighboring veranda, a pharmacy bag in her hand.

"Huh? Manager Han. Spying on other people's rooms? That's a nasty hobby."

"Shut up. I dodged the reporters to bring you this, and the so-called patient is doing a tap dance?"

Se-hui slid the veranda door open, stepped inside, and tossed him the bag. Inside were compression bandages and pain-relief patches.

"What's this for? You said I was fine."

"I know. But... people are watching. If you're going to fool the reporters and the other team, wrap it properly. You told them in yesterday's interview that your leg was done. So at least put some effort into looking hurt."

She perched on the edge of his bed and pulled out a bandage.

"Give me your leg. I'll wrap it."

Gang-cheol obediently stuck out his right leg. Se-hui was no taping expert, but she had a crystal-clear mission: protect Gang-cheol (or at least make him look injured). She padded his perfectly healthy ankle with cotton and began winding the bandage around it like a mummy.

"Hey, isn't that way too thick? Blood's not gonna circulate. What is this, a cast?"

"Quiet. It has to be this thick so the other side thinks, 'Yeah, that kid can't even run.' Wrap it thin and they'll go, 'Looks like he can still play,' and start flying into tackles. You have to look like you're in agony."

Her logic was airtight. For the finishing touch she plastered on strips of medical tape until anyone looking would swear it was a serious injury.

"Perfect. Even the opposing coach for the semis will buy it. Artistic score: ten out of ten."

Gang-cheol lifted the massive cotton club that was now his leg with a satisfied grin. Se-hui looked proud for a moment, then her expression darkened.

"But Gang-cheol."

"Yeah?"

"Seoul Shin-dap Elementary. They're actually good. Clean sheet through the group stage. Their defensive organization is supposedly pro-level. Even if you fake the injury and suddenly start running, do you really think they'll just open up?"

Worry flickered in her eyes. She had learned over his shoulder that a tactically complete team was hard to crack with individual brilliance alone.

Gang-cheol leaned back against the headboard, eyes gleaming.

"Manager Han. You know the fatal weakness of a team with great organization?"

"What?"

"They worship the data. They'll have analyzed me — my speed, dribbling patterns, range of movement. And now they've fed in the new data point: 'critical injury.'"

He tapped his temple with a finger.

"If the input is wrong, the output is guaranteed to glitch. Today I'm going to smash the calculator inside their heads."

Three o'clock in the afternoon. Gyeongju Civic Stadium.

The main pitch for the semifinal between Haeseong Elementary and Seoul Shin-dap Elementary was stretched tight with tension. The rain had stopped, but the ground still held moisture and stayed slick.

When the Haeseong players walked out, the stands erupted in thunderous applause mixed with pained sighs.

Leading the line, captain Ma Gang-cheol limped in with a massive bandage wrapped around his right leg, the limp so obvious it was impossible to miss.

"Aigoo... he's going to run on that leg? He's lost it, completely lost it."

"Isn't he pushing too hard? He can barely stand. Look how swollen it is."

Even on the Shin-dap bench the sight became the main topic. Coach Choi Young-su of Shin-dap stood with arms folded, studying Gang-cheol carefully.

"Coach. That kid really looks hurt. During warm-ups he didn't even touch the ball — just stretched. His face is awful."

Kim Cheol-min, captain and defensive anchor, reported. Coach Choi nodded.

"Yeah. The quarterfinal footage showed his ankle completely twisted. That's not a one-day recovery. Looking at that bandage job, he might even have a hairline fracture. He's probably out here running on pure willpower."

Choi gathered his players.

"Change of plan. Leave Ma Gang-cheol alone. No need to mark him. He can't run anyway. Pressure everyone else instead. Haeseong is a one-man team built around Ma Gang-cheol. With the ace dead, they're a rabble. We push the line up and finish this early. Clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

Color returned to the Shin-dap players' faces. The "monster" ace had shown up as a toothless tiger; victory already felt like money in the bank.

Meanwhile, in the Haeseong camp, Gang-cheol had his teammates huddled close, whispering.

"You heard that? They're pushing the line up. First five minutes. Just five minutes of playing dead. Even if I get the ball, I won't run — I'll just walk."

The kids bit back giggles.

"And five minutes later, when I give the signal... Min-su, you know what to do?"

"Yes. Straight into the space behind them."

"Good. Fishing is all about patience. Let's land the big one."

Peeeeep—!

The referee's whistle launched the semifinal.

As expected, Shin-dap came out aggressive. They dragged their defensive line all the way up near midfield and pressed Haeseong hard. Haeseong pretended to panic and dropped deep.

The ball found Gang-cheol. A Shin-dap defender closed in. Gang-cheol limped, laid the ball off sideways, and simply stood still. Zero desire to run.

"See! He can't run! Push them!"

A roar exploded from the Shin-dap bench. Convinced, the Shin-dap players pressed even harder. For the first five minutes of the half, Haeseong were pinned back as if playing half-court basketball.

The mood in the stands turned bleak.

"It's over. With Ma Gang-cheol like that, Haeseong has nothing."

"Sigh, injuries are the worst."

Only one person — Han Se-hui — wore a faint, knowing smile as she watched the clock.

"Four minutes fifty... fifty-five..."

The instant her countdown hit zero, a Shin-dap attack was snuffed out and the ball dropped at the feet of Haeseong defender Park Min-su.

"Now!"

Gang-cheol's voice cut across the pitch.

In that same breath the limping right leg straightened as if the injury had never existed.

Like a coiled spring exploding free, Gang-cheol blasted into the space behind Shin-dap's high line with terrifying acceleration. The thick bandage Se-hui had wrapped did nothing to slow him.

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

"Huh...?"

Shin-dap defender Kim Cheol-min couldn't believe his eyes. The kid who couldn't even walk a second ago was now rocketing away like Usain Bolt.

"Stop him! No — grab him!"

Too late. Park Min-su's long pass dropped perfectly into the empty space in Shin-dap's half.

Gang-cheol sprinted onto the ball, the cumbersome bandage flapping in the wind.

"Unbelievable! Ma Gang-cheol! He's fast! Incredibly fast! Was the injury fake?!"

The commentator's scream tore through the speakers.

Gang-cheol drove alone into a one-on-one with the keeper. The goalkeeper rushed out to narrow the angle, but Gang-cheol stayed ice-cold.

A light body feint sent the keeper the wrong way, and he simply rolled the ball into the empty net.

Ripple.

"Goal! Sixth minute of the first half! Ma Gang-cheol opens the scoring!"

"Waaaaaah!"

The stadium flipped between shock and pure roar. Gang-cheol sprinted toward the corner flag, ripped the tattered bandage off his leg with one hand, and hurled it to the ground. Then he turned toward the stunned Shin-dap bench and fired off a wink.

"Cheat! That's cheating!"

The Shin-dap coach charged the fourth official in protest, but pretending to be injured and then running was not a foul. It was simply ruthless tactics.

1–0.

And that was only the beginning.

Mentally shattered, Shin-dap became a broken dam.

The moment the premise of "injury" vanished, every scrap of tactical data they had prepared turned into garbage.

Fifteenth minute.

Gang-cheol tore open the right flank. Two defenders closed him down, but at full condition he toyed with them like scarecrows.

"Dong-hyeok!"

A low cross from Gang-cheol. Lee Dong-hyeok only had to stick out a foot for the finish.

2–0.

Thirtieth minute.

This time a central surge. While the panicked Shin-dap defenders scrambled, Gang-cheol slipped a no-look through ball.

A Haeseong attacker collected it with all the time in the world.

3–0.

When the halftime whistle blew, the Shin-dap players' eyes were already vacant. They hadn't played soccer; they felt like they had been possessed by a ghost.

Halftime.

The Haeseong locker room was pure carnival.

"Whoa, Gang-cheol! Are you a genius or a demon? Did you see their faces?"

"The coach's face went gray! When you ripped that bandage off I got chills!"

The kids swarmed him, cheering. Gang-cheol stayed cool, sipping water and damping the heat.

"It's not over. Don't get cocky just because it's three goals. Second half we stamp on them even harder. That way the finalists will be scared of us too."

His eyes were already looking past this match to the final.

Fear. That was the image Gang-cheol wanted to plant in this tournament.

Second half.

Shin-dap had lost the will to fight. Their coach screamed himself hoarse, but the players' legs simply would not move. The moment Ma Gang-cheol touched the ball they flinched and backed away.

Twentieth minute of the second half.

Gang-cheol collected the ball outside the box. The defenders kept their distance and retreated.

Space opened.

You want me to shoot? Then I'll shoot.

Without hesitation he swung his right foot through.

A clothesline of a long-range strike slammed into the top corner. The keeper never even moved; he just stared at the ball in a daze.

4–0.

A perfect execution shot.

The match ended.

Haeseong Elementary advanced to the final — and did it with a crushing 4–0 semifinal scoreline.

In the post-match interview zone, reporters swarmed Gang-cheol. Every question was the same.

"Ma Gang-cheol! What happened with the injury? A miraculous recovery?"

Wiping sweat, Gang-cheol took the mic. Dozens of camera lenses flashed in his face. He glanced up at the stands for a moment. Se-hui stood with arms folded and gave him a small nod that said well done.

"The injury? Well..."

He wore a meaningful smile.

"I thought it hurt. But the second I stepped onto the pitch, the fans' cheers made me forget the pain. Isn't that the power of soccer?"

Peak shamelessness.

The reporters, however, were already busy packaging it as "fighting spirit" and "victory of the mind."

"And a word for our final opponents, Daedong Elementary..."

Gang-cheol's eyes sharpened as if they could pierce the camera lenses.

"I'd get ready properly if I were you. Today was just a warm-up. In the final I'm planning to play for real — no bandages."

When the interview ended and Gang-cheol turned, Han Se-hui was waiting at the far end of the corridor.

As he approached she wordlessly smacked him across the back.

"Ow! Why'd you hit me again!"

"You little con artist. That interview line of yours. 'The fans' cheers'? Give me a break."

Se-hui snorted a laugh and tossed him a towel.

"Good work. You're annoying as hell... but you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠did well."

"That's a compliment, right?"

"No. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It's a warning. If you get hurt in the final, it won't be a bandage next time — I'll put you in a real cast."

Bickering the whole way, the two of them left the stadium.

Above their retreating figures the scoreboard still glowed with an almost unreal 4 : 0.

Only one match remained.

The national throne was waiting for Ma Gang-cheol.