Same Choice, Different Result

...Blink. Blink.

He forced his heavy eyelids open with effort.

His vision was blurry. The familiar sting of disinfectant filled his nose.

The first thing that came into focus was a white textured ceiling studded with square fluorescent lights.

Not the yellowed wallpaper of a semi-basement room.

Still dazed from the lingering anesthesia, Gang-cheol muttered the famous line he had seen and heard so many times, as if by instinct.

"It's an unfamiliar ceiling."

......No, actually, it was a familiar ceiling. In his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠previous life he had visited hospitals more often than his own bedroom. "It's a cursed ceiling" would have been more accurate.

Wait. Am I... alive?

The moment of being hit by the truck flashed through his mind like a lantern show. The horrific pain, the taste of blood, and the blue system window he had seen at the very end.

"Patient? Can you hear me?"

"Blood pressure normal, pulse normal! Consciousness is returning!"

Urgent voices rose as if surfacing from underwater.

Gang-cheol slowly turned his head.

A doctor in a white coat and three or four nurses were staring down at him intently. Their expressions were closer to shock than relief—as if they had just watched a corpse sit up in the morgue.

"My god... he actually woke up."

"Look at the vitals. Does this make any sense? Crushed by a twenty-five-ton truck?"

Gang-cheol swallowed dryly and opened his mouth. His throat was parched.

"This is... a hospital, right...?"

"Yes, St. Mary's Hospital ER. Do you remember? There was an accident at the crosswalk."

The doctor shone a penlight into his eyes, checking the pupil response. A sharp-featured man in his mid-thirties. Gang-cheol recognized him at a glance. This was the very surgeon who, in his previous life, had delivered the death sentence: "I'm sorry, but your playing career is over."

Gang-cheol blinked, piecing the situation together.

He had survived. And he had woken up.

Then the most important thing was... his legs?

He focused every nerve on the legs beneath the blanket.

According to his previous life's memories, by now they should have been crushed beyond recognition. The hellish pain that came when the anesthesia wore off should have been starting.

Twitch.

He tried moving his right big toe.

It moved. Smoothly.

Next he rotated his ankle.

A sharp pain? A stiff foreign sensation?

Nothing. The joint turned as smoothly as a machine freshly oiled.

No—it felt even lighter than before the accident. From the tips of his toes to his thighs, it was as if a clogged highway had been blasted open and blood was surging through with force.

It's real. The system... that last message was real.

The message he had seen just before blacking out flashed through his mind.

Gang-cheol bit his lip to suppress the surge of emotion. He wanted to throw off the blanket and break into a tap dance right then and there, but that would only get him labeled a lunatic. So he began acting like an eleven-year-old.

"Doctor... my legs... are they okay? They hurt so much..."

He deliberately made his voice sound tearful.

The doctor scratched his head, looking thoroughly baffled. The expression of a man who simply could not accept what he was seeing.

"Well... it's strange. The paramedics clearly reported that your legs were under the truck's wheels. Your pants were shredded and you were covered in blood."

He flipped through the chart, tilting his head.

"But the X-rays and CT we just took... you're completely fine."

"Fine?"

"Yes. Not a single hairline fracture. Ligaments solid. Aside from some scrapes and bruises, nothing is broken. Should we call it a miracle, or did the entire ambulance crew hallucinate..."

The nurses behind the doctor murmured among themselves.

"He was definitely in shock when he came in..."

"This is insane. A twenty-five-ton truck. Just grazing it should mean serious injury."

Gang-cheol cheered inwardly.

The system's reward was certain. It had not merely stitched up the wounds—it had rebuilt his body as if the accident had never happened. No, better than that. Perfect.

My body... feels light.

He could tell even while lying in bed.

The chronic fatigue, arthritis, and knotted muscles that had tormented him in his previous life were gone without a trace. Every cell in his body seemed to be screaming, "Let me run!" This was the optimal physique in which talent could truly bloom.

"We'll move you to a ward and keep monitoring for a while. There could still be delayed aftereffects."

At the doctor's order the bed began to move.

On the rolling bed Gang-cheol stared up at the "unfamiliar ceiling" and clenched his fist tight.

A second life.

This time he would not be a limping third-rate player.

With this perfect body, he would stand at the summit of the world.

And this time, he would never live like a pushover again.

It was not a regular ward but a private suite.

He learned later that the LK Group secretariat, upon hearing of the accident, had called the hospital and ordered, "This child is the savior of the girl we owe everything to—put him in the finest room."

Lying on the wide single bed, Gang-cheol stared blankly into space.

To anyone else he would have looked vacant, but floating before his eyes was a translucent hologram window.

"......Oh-ho."

Gang-cheol curled the corner of his mouth.

The numbers on the status window were more than satisfying. No—this was a cheat character.

All A's... so the talent Real Madrid was drooling over was real after all. The system rebuilt my body brand-new, and top-of-the-line at that.

A-rank by Republic of Korea U-12 standards. In neighborhood soccer terms that made him practically Lü Bu. No matter how hard kids like Park Min-su flew and crawled, they simply could not match him in pure physique.

But Gang-cheol's eyes locked onto the Special Note section.

Software Overload. The gap between brain (S+) and body (A).

So my body is a brand-new sports car, but my head is trying to drive at F1 speeds.

He wiggled his ankle on the bed.

In his mind the image of flicking a ball into the air and performing an Elastico was perfect. The angle of the ankle break, the spring of the knee, the upper-body feint—all replayed at a hundred frames per second.

Yet the moment he put power into his legs, a faint sense of dissonance appeared.

An eleven-year-old's muscles were excellent, but they were not yet mature enough to withstand the explosive impact his thirty-five-year-old soul remembered.

It's not that the hardware is bad. The software is simply too high-spec.

Gang-cheol gave a bitter smile.

An ordinary person would have cheered, "Wow, A-rank!" But he was a thirty-five-year-old man who had tasted the peak and crashed all the way to the bottom. He was never going to be satisfied with elementary-school A-rank.

I have to close this gap. To execute what's in my head at 100 percent, I need to make the body even stronger.

Still, one hopeful phrase caught his eye.

Growth Plates Open.

Those six words made his heart race.

In his previous life his height had stopped at 173 cm. That slight frame for a soccer player had constantly left him outmatched in physical battles. But this time was different. Eat well, sleep well, train systematically with the system's help, and 185 cm—or even more—might be possible.

Just wait. Once the physique catches up... Ronaldo? Messi? Bring them all on.

Just then.

A murmur rose outside the hospital room door.

It was not ordinary visitors. Measured footsteps of dress shoes, the crackle of radios. And a heavy presence filling the corridor.

Knock, knock.

With the knock the door opened.

Massive bodyguards in black suits entered and lined up on either side.

Between them walked an elderly gentleman with pure white hair combed straight back.

A face he had only ever seen on the news.

Lee Dae-su, chairman of LK Group, second in the Korean business hierarchy.

The maternal grandfather of the child Gang-cheol had saved—Lee Min-ji.

"So you are... the little hero who saved my granddaughter?"

Chairman Lee's eyes were sharp. The intimidating aura of a corporate titan who had weathered every storm. An ordinary elementary-schooler would have frozen solid and been unable to speak.

But Gang-cheol's soul was thirty-five. He had been through land battles, air battles, and underwater battles—a man who had hit rock bottom with nothing left to lose. There was no reason to flinch.

He got down from the bed and bowed from the waist. As politely as possible, yet without a trace of servility. His eyes met the chairman's squarely.

"Hello, Chairman. My name is Ma Gang-cheol."

"Huh...?"

The chairman's eyebrows twitched.

He had expected a child whining in pain or hiding behind his parents. Instead this kid carried himself with the composure of an equal adult.

"How are the legs? I heard it was a serious accident."

"Yes, fortunately my parents gave me sturdy bones. Aside from a few bruises I'm fine. I even polished off a whole bowl of rice."

When Gang-cheol rolled his arms vigorously to demonstrate, the chairman's rigid expression finally loosened into a hearty laugh.

"Well now, what a sturdy little fellow. Thank you. Truly, thank you. You saved my one and only granddaughter."

"I only did what anyone would. When a child is in danger, who has time to run the numbers?"

The chairman flinched. "Run the numbers"? Not a phrase that should come from an eleven-year-old's mouth. Yet the words struck a strange chord in his chest.

"Yes... what anyone would do... You managed something even adults find hard."

He drew an envelope from his coat. Not a blank check, but thick enough that the amount was clearly in the hundreds of millions.

"A small token of my gratitude. Give it to your parents. And if you need anything—anything at all—just say the word. Want to study abroad? A bigger house?"

An ordinary child would have shouted "Money!" or "Buy me a game console!" at that moment.

But Gang-cheol politely pushed the envelope back.

"Chairman, I gratefully accept the sentiment alone."

"You don't want the money?"

"No, I like money. I need it to buy bear-shaped pork cutlets. But I don't want to haggle over the price of a life."

The chairman's eyes widened. The chief secretary standing beside him swallowed hard. Gang-cheol grinned and drove the wedge home. This was the chance—to turn the giant standing before him into his unshakable backer.

"Instead, I have one request."

"A request?"

"I play soccer. I'm pretty good at it. But soccer turns out to cost a lot of money. Gear to buy, meat to eat."

He spoke with sparkling, innocent eyes. Outwardly a pure-hearted boy; inside sat a cunning old fox of a man.

"Until I become the best player in Korea, please be my solid fan. Not with cash envelopes—as a proper sponsor."

The chairman was silent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for a moment.

The child before him went beyond boldness; he possessed the vessel of a great man. Instead of grabbing the immediate lump sum, he was calculating how to make the vast backdrop of LK Group his ally. This was not the intelligence of an eleven-year-old. This was the face of a hero born for turbulent times.

"Hahahahaha!"

The chairman's laughter shook the room.

"Good! I like it very much! From this day forward I am your number-one fan. I'll assign the LK Sports Science Team exclusively to you. Until you become a national team player and lift the World Cup! Your support is my responsibility!"

Gang-cheol cheered inwardly.

Done. Money worries and backing worries are over. Now I just have to train.

After the chairman left, the hospital room door burst open and his mother, Park Yeong-suk, rushed in.

"Gang-cheol! My baby! Where are you!"

"Mom..."

She ran to the bed and swept him into a fierce hug.

Through the disinfectant came the sudden scent of his mother. Tears pricked his eyes.

In his previous life he had sobbed in this same embrace, "I'm sorry, my legs won't move." He had heard his mother's heart tear open then.

But this time was different.

"Let me see! Are your legs okay? What did the doctor say? Do you need surgery?"

Pale with fear, she threw back the blanket.

Gang-cheol's two legs lay exposed. A few bruise marks remained like medals, but they were perfectly straight and whole.

"Huh...?"

His mother touched the legs with a dazed expression.

"Does it hurt?"

"No, it tickles."

"Here? Are the bones okay?"

"Mom, I've got thick bones. The truck hit me and the truck got dented."

Gang-cheol hopped down from the bed and did jumping jacks right in front of her.

He even dropped into a squat and wiggled his hips for good measure.

Only then did thick tears fall from his mother's eyes.

"Oh my... thank you, God, Buddha, everyone... I aged ten years..."

She sank to the floor and began to cry in earnest.

Gang-cheol stepped behind her and rubbed her shoulders with his small hands.

It was not the touch of an eleven-year-old. It was the skilled massage of a second-life son saying, "You've worked hard, ma'am."

"Mom, stop. I'm fine. And there's good news too."

"Good news?"

"The secretary guy said the kid I saved is the granddaughter of a super-rich family. They're covering all the treatment and hospital fees. And they might even help with my soccer."

Gang-cheol grinned and leaned against the bed rail, beginning to stretch.

The cool sensation of his hamstrings lengthening.

Grrrroowl—.

His stomach clock chimed at the perfect moment. With the tension gone, savage hunger crashed over him. The system must have burned every scrap of energy reconstructing his body.

"Hungry? Should Mom go buy something?"

She stood, gathering her wallet.

The forced smile on her tear-streaked face was heartbreaking.

"There's a convenience store downstairs. Want cup ramen and a hot bar? You said you wanted a hamburger."

It was a menu that would have made the ordinary eleven-year-old Ma Gang-cheol cheer.

MSG-laden ramen broth, greasy hot bar, cola. Just imagining it made his mouth water.

But the soul of thirty-five-year-old Ma Gang-cheol ruled his brain.

Are you crazy? This body is in factory-reset condition. Clean as a blank sheet. Pouring instant garbage into it is like putting cooking oil in a supercar.

He shook his head firmly.

"No."

"Huh? You love ramen."

"Mother, do you know how much sodium is in a cup of ramen? Ninety percent of the daily recommended amount. It interferes with calcium ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠absorption in growing children and is the main culprit that eats away at bones."

"...What?"

His mother's eyes went round. The look of a woman wondering if the truck had scrambled her son's head.

"Hamburgers are out too. Trans fats clog the arteries. Right now I urgently need muscle recovery and bone-density reinforcement."

"Th-then what are you going to eat?"

Gang-cheol declared with a solemn face.

"Does the hospital cafeteria sell anchovy noodles?"

"Anchovy noodles?"

"Yes. Broth made from a very rich anchovy stock. Remove the guts. I need the calcium. And instead of kimchi, is there pan-fried tofu? I also need to supplement plant protein."

Park Yeong-suk stared down at her son with a blank expression.

This was definitely her son Ma Gang-cheol, yet the words coming out of his mouth sounded exactly like Old Man Kim from the neighborhood senior center.

"Ah, and when you come back, please buy me one carton of milk. Low-fat. Regular milk has too much fat."

Gang-cheol cracked his neck left and right on the bed, producing a satisfying pop.

"Ahhh... that feels good. Stretching really is the best."

His mother let out a hollow laugh.

She was relieved he was unhurt and healthy, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but the boy seemed to have matured in a slightly strange direction. Had the truck collision made him grow up too early?

"All right. My son will eat anchovy noodles and grow strong bones. I'll be right back."

She left the room.

Alone, Gang-cheol walked to the window.

Beyond the glass lay the hospital flower bed, and farther off, a school playground.

Children were running and kicking a ball.

He patted his own thighs.

"Just wait."

He grinned at the young face reflected in the glass.

"With this body, I'm going to rewrite history."