Stolen Talent, and the Fall of La Masia

The grass at Sangam World Cup Stadium gleamed an unusually vivid green, yet the faces of the Haeseong Middle School players were pale as death in stark contrast.

LK Global Youth Cup semifinals.

Their opponents: the Spanish giants, FC Barcelona U-14.

These were the prodigies forged by the world's finest youth system—the one called La Masia.

Even their warm-up before kickoff set them apart.

The Barcelona players formed a tight circle and began the drill known as the Rondo, passing the ball among themselves. The ball never seemed to touch the ground, dancing from foot to foot. Tap, tap, thock. It wasn't mechanical passing—it was rhythm, pure and fluid, like a dance.

"Whoa... what is that? Did they stick magnets on the ball?"

"How are we supposed to take that off them?"

Kim Cheol-su stared, utterly spellbound. This was a wall of a different order from Dortmund's power or Man City's tactics. This was the overwhelming wall of pure technique.

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

Gang-cheol tightened his laces and fixed his gaze on the Barcelona side. One player stood out above the rest. Number 10—Mateo.

Small and slight of build, yet his touch was already said to surpass that of many adult professionals. The boy they called the "second Messi."

"System. Analyze."

Figures. We can't win a straight fight on technique.

Gang-cheol bit his lip. He had bulked up over the winter, but flexibility and fine touch weren't things you built overnight. These Barcelona kids had grown up with a ball at their feet from the moment they could walk.

Peeeeep—!

The referee's whistle shrilled, and the match began.

Everything they had feared became reality. No—hell itself opened.

Barcelona kicked off. They never surrendered the ball. Whenever a Haeseong player charged in to win it, a light tap sent it sideways, backward, or diagonally out of reach.

"Hey! Press them! Win it!"

Coach Choi Mu-yeong bellowed, but it was useless. The Haeseong players chasing the ball looked like bulls being toyed with in the ring.

Possession: 85 to 15.

This wasn't a football match. It was a one-sided game of tag.

Fifteenth minute of the first half.

Barcelona's Mateo started a dribble from the halfway line.

Haeseong defender Jang Dae-ho planted his massive frame in the way.

Mateo never slowed. The instant Jang stretched a foot, Mateo ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dragged the ball back with one sole and spun his body a full 360 degrees.

The Marseille Turn.

The elegant, lethal move Zinedine Zidane had made famous.

"Wha—?"

Jang kicked empty air and lost his balance. Mateo glided past him and found himself one-on-one with the keeper. A casual little poke.

Ripple.

After conceding the opener, the atmosphere collapsed.

Thirtieth minute. A dazzling one-two from Barcelona shredded the defensive line completely, and a second goal followed.

Halftime.

The locker room felt like a funeral. The boys couldn't lift their heads—not from anger, but from pure despair.

"We can't even win the ball. I can't see it."

"We're done... the technical gap is just too big."

Gang-cheol wiped sweat with a towel and sank into thought. At this rate they would lose 5–0. They needed a variable. Something to flip the script—no, a single shocking blow that would shatter the other side's momentum.

Then the system window flashed crimson.

Talent Plunderer?

Gang-cheol's eyes flashed.

In his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠previous life he had known the Marseille Turn. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠But in real matches—especially against world-class defenders—the motion had been too big, too slow.

Yet the system was telling him now: steal that genius's technique and make it yours.

I can do this. My body's already ready. The only problem is the rhythm.

Gang-cheol shot to his feet.

"Heads up! It's not over yet!"

The boys looked at him weakly.

"We're changing the second-half plan. Stop chasing the ball. Just drop deep into our own half and park it."

"What? Park it?"

"Yeah. Park the bus—two buses. Pack the goalmouth tight. Erase every scrap of space. Possession? Give it all to them. We only need one moment. The second we win the ball, it comes straight to me."

Gang-cheol's eyes burned.

"I'll show you. I'll show you their precious technique getting shattered."

Second half kicked off.

Haeseong dropped into an extreme ten-back defense. The Barcelona players looked bewildered. The side they expected to come out attacking had simply locked the door in front of their own goal and refused to leave, leaving no lanes for passes.

Barcelona circulated the ball, hunting for gaps, but the Haeseong players followed Gang-cheol's orders and built a dense wall inside the penalty box, holding firm.

"Boring way to play."

Barcelona ace Mateo, face twisted with irritation, decided to break through himself.

He collected the ball near the halfway line. Gang-cheol closed in to mark him.

Mateo's eyes lit up. The same move that had toyed with the defender earlier—the Marseille Turn—was written all over his body language.

Gang-cheol focused.

Time slowed. Mateo's toes, the tilt of his shoulders, the rhythm of his breath.

One, two... now!

The instant Mateo began to spin, Gang-cheol did not spin with him. Instead he thrust his foot a half-beat early into the exact path Mateo would exit.

Thock!

"Huh?!"

Mateo spun straight into Gang-cheol's planted foot and lost the ball.

It dropped neatly at Gang-cheol's feet.

Counterattack.

But Barcelona's defensive transition was lightning-fast. In a blink a defensive midfielder and a center-back had him surrounded. Front and back sealed.

In Gang-cheol's mind the rhythm Mateo had just shown burned crystal clear.

Drag the ball with the sole. Use the rotational force to throw the body.

My physique is stronger than his. My spin can be faster.

"Go!"

Gang-cheol never stopped in front of the charging defenders. He planted on the ball and twisted his body a full 360 degrees.

Whoosh—!

An explosive spin like a top unleashed. His solid 168-centimeter frame became one with the ball and slipped between the two defenders like the wind.

A perfect Marseille Turn. No—an evolved version, power and speed fused into it.

"Waaaaaaaaah!"

"What was that?! Ma Gang-cheol just spun!"

The stands erupted. The very technique Mateo had used—Gang-cheol had executed it even more perfectly. The Barcelona players stood frozen in shock.

Gang-cheol sprinted.

Only the goalkeeper remained ahead.

This flips the momentum.

He drilled a hard low shot into the far corner the keeper could never reach.

Boom!

The equalizer? No—the reply goal.

Gang-cheol scooped up the ball, sprinted back to the center circle, and tossed a wink at Mateo.

"Gracias. Learned a lot."

Mateo's face flushed scarlet. The technique that was his pride had just been stolen right in front of him.

From that moment the match's current began to thrash.

Gang-cheol's single Marseille Turn poured confidence into every Haeseong player: We can do this too. Barcelona's technique no longer terrified them.

Thirtieth minute of the second half. Barcelona, rattled, misplaced a pass.

Kim Cheol-su pounced and launched a long ball forward.

"Gang-cheol!"

Gang-cheol ran. Barcelona defenders scrambled desperately after him, but nothing could stop a Gang-cheol whose blood was up.

He dragged a defender with him, then slammed on the brakes and beat him again with a phantom dribble.

With S-rank flexibility now layered on, his body moved like flowing water.

A chance to equalize.

But Gang-cheol was not greedy. He saw Park Min-ho surging in from the opposite side.

He feinted a shot and simply laid the ball across.

Park Min-ho rolled it into the empty net.

Ripple.

The miracle equalizer. Sangam Stadium boiled like a furnace.

In the stands Lee Ye-rin leapt to her feet and screamed; Han Se-hui was so stunned her mouth hung open.

The scouts were already on their phones, frantic.

"Are you seeing this?! That Korean kid is insane! He's pulling individual skill moves against Barcelona!"

"Get the transfer fee ready right now!"

Stoppage time of the second half.

Both sides were spent. The air smelled of penalties—until Gang-cheol wrung out the last of his strength.

A solo dribble from the halfway line.

Barcelona players swarmed him in packs, yet Gang-cheol advanced as if dancing, sometimes like a bull, shoving them aside and beating them one after another.

Perfect harmony of physique and technique.

This is the complete form I've always dreamed of.

Right at the edge of the box.

Gang-cheol curled a fierce shot with his left foot.

The ball traced a beautiful arc and buried itself in the far corner of the net.

Peeeeeeep—!

The great reverse.

The moment the world's strongest Barcelona U-14 side fell.

Gang-cheol collapsed spread-eagled on the pitch. Every muscle in his body screamed, yet he felt like he could fly.

"The sky is so blue."

Then someone blocked his view. Mateo. Eyes glistening, the Spanish boy peeled off his own jersey and held it out.

"Let's swap. You won."

Gang-cheol grinned, rose, and exchanged shirts.

The sweat-soaked Barcelona jersey. The wall of the world he had never dared approach in his previous life—today he had climbed it with his own hands.

"You're really good. What's your name?"

Mateo asked.

Gang-cheol pointed to the number 10 on his own back.

"Ma Gang-cheol. Remember it. We'll meet again soon—in Europe."

On the stadium scoreboard the words KOREAN MESSI flashed bright.

VIP box.

Chairman Lee Dae-su smiled with quiet satisfaction and raised his wine glass.

Beside him Lee Ye-rin pulled out her phone and texted her secretary.

Her eyes already seemed to have marked him as LK's future son-in-law.

Of course, in the section right beside her, Han Se-hui was tossing a water bottle and towel toward Gang-cheol with a gaze sharper than ever.

The final.

One last opponent remained: Real Madrid, the so-called Earth Defense Force.

Gang-cheol clenched his fist tight.

The true final boss was still waiting.