The White Grim Reapers and a Scar-Riddled Miracle

Seoul World Cup Stadium in Sangam.

The roar of sixty thousand spectators shook the ground like an earthquake, yet the boys of Haeseong Middle School standing on the pitch heard none of it. All that reached them was the rasp of their own ragged breathing and the hammering of hearts that felt ready to burst.

Thirty-fifth minute of the first half.

The scoreboard read 0–1.

Only a single goal separated them, but the gulf they felt was as wide as heaven and earth.

"Hah… hah… Damn it, we can't even get the ball…"

"Those bastards got magnets on their feet or what? Why won't the ball come off?!"

Defender Kim Cheol-su spat onto the turf and cursed. His kit was already a filthy rag of mud and sweat, while the pure white uniforms of the Real Madrid players opposite them looked as though not a single speck of dust had dared to settle.

They were the White Grim Reapers.

They neither sweated nor changed expression, simply circulating the ball with elegant ease. Tap, tap, thump. The ball danced just beyond the outstretched boots of the Haeseong boys, mocking them. Real never forced the attack. They simply kept possession, waiting for the children to exhaust themselves and collapse on their own.

So this is the strongest team in the world.

Gang-cheol bit down hard on his lip until he tasted blood. This was a different dimension from the Barcelona or Dortmund sides they had faced before. Those teams had clear weaknesses. Real Madrid was complete—physique, technique, tactical intelligence, and mentality, all of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it.

0.1%…

Gang-cheol twisted his lips into a bitter smile. There was no winning this the honest way. Fight a hundred times and lose a hundred times. The light had already died in the boys' eyes. Defeatism was spreading like poisonous mushrooms: Just getting this far is a miracle. Holding Real to a one-goal deficit is already good enough.

If the first half ended like this, the second would become a slaughter. The moment their stamina cracked, Real's onslaught would begin.

I need a variable.

Gang-cheol's eyes flashed like a snake locking onto prey. Soccer is a gentleman's sport? Don't make me laugh. Only the victor earns the right to be called a gentleman. The loser is just a loser.

Something filthy, cheap, and decisive.

He chose his target: Real Madrid's center-back and defensive core, number 4, Pepe (pseudonym). A towering 185 cm giant with overwhelming defensive power, but notorious for rough play and a short fuse.

Gang-cheol drifted casually toward Pepe. Then, in a moment completely unrelated to the ball, using the referee's blind spot, he lightly stepped on the big defender's instep as he passed.

"Oops. Sorry."

Pepe scowled and glared. Gang-cheol simply smiled with pure innocence and raised a hand. That was only the beginning.

During a corner-kick scramble he clung to Pepe like a burr—tugging the jersey just enough to release it, whispering nonstop Spanish into the bigger boy's ear.

"Hey, grandote. ¿Es todo lo que tienes?" (Hey, big guy. Is that all you've got?)

"Tu madre llorará si juegas así." (Your mother will cry if you keep playing like that.)

The provocation was relentless. At first Pepe ignored it, but the veins at his temples began to stand out. His breathing roughened; his movements grew larger.

Just a little more… get a little more riled up.

Forty-third minute of the first half.

A long ball from Haeseong sailed into Real's half. Aerial duel. Gang-cheol and Pepe jumped together.

Thud.

Pepe's elbow brushed near Gang-cheol's face. Just a graze—almost no impact at all.

But—

"Aaaargh!!"

Gang-cheol screamed as if he had been sniped by a rifle and crashed to the turf. Then he clutched his face and rolled, thrashing.

"Aaaah! My eye! My nose!!"

Perfect acting. Pure Hollywood.

Sixty thousand voices in Sangam Stadium erupted in boos—aimed squarely at the apparent culprit, Pepe.

"Booo!! Send him off!"

The referee blew his whistle and sprinted over. Pepe was losing his mind with injustice.

"No! No! He is faking! I didn't touch him!"

He stormed toward Gang-cheol, ready to grab him by the collar.

"Get up, you lying little—!"

That was the exact moment. Threatening a downed opponent right in front of the referee. Pepe's loss of control handed the official absolute certainty.

The referee reached into his back pocket and pulled the card out with decisive force.

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

The stadium exploded. Real Madrid players swarmed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the referee in protest, but the official simply pointed Pepe toward the tunnel with iron finality. Pepe, unable to contain his rage, kicked an advertising board on his way off the pitch.

Only then did Gang-cheol slowly sit up. No bloody nose. Not even a mark on his face. He roared at his frozen teammates.

"What are you doing?! Snap out of it!"

His shout dragged the light back into their eyes.

"They're down to ten men! From now on we fight dirty!"

Second half.

Even with the numerical advantage the match remained brutal. The moment Real went to ten they abandoned elegance for pure pragmatism. Every player dropped into a defensive block—parking the bus. As expected of the world's finest youth system, their ten-man defensive organization was still suffocatingly perfect. With a midfielder filling Pepe's hole, the gaps actually shrank. And the occasional counterattacks were lethal.

Boom!

Twentieth minute of the second half. A Real striker's shot smashed against Haeseong's post. The goalkeeper stood frozen; the ball had been that fast. One centimeter inside and it would have been over.

We're running out of time.

Fortieth minute of the second half. Score still 0–1. The Haeseong boys had long since passed their physical limits. Their legs felt like lead weights; their vision blurred. Even the crowd's cheers had become nothing but distant noise.

Gang-cheol gambled everything on one last throw of the dice.

"Min-ho!! Launch it!! Just launch it!!"

He waved his arms and sprinted into Real's box. Tactics no longer mattered. This was pure probability.

Park Min-su squeezed his eyes shut at the halfway line and blasted a long ball—classic route-one "hoof it and pray." Accuracy be damned; the kick carried only the desperate prayer that someone, anyone, would get on the end of it.

The ball soared through the night sky into Real's half. Their defenders were exhausted too—having to cover for the missing man meant they had been running twice as hard. Concentration slipped for a tenth of a second.

Now.

Gang-cheol poured every last drop of remaining stamina into his legs. His heart felt ready to explode, but he wrung every ounce from the muscles.

Gang-cheol forced his way between the defenders. The aerial ball glanced off a defender's head and dropped awkwardly behind them.

One chance. Only one.

Before the ball could hit the ground, Gang-cheol threw his body backward. A perfect bicycle kick like Ronaldo? That only happens in comics. This was nothing but a desperate, thrashing attempt to force the ball into the net by any means necessary.

Crash! Thud!

The ball struck his shin at a weird angle, took a bizarre spin, and bounced off the turf. More of a pass than a shot—an ugly, broken trajectory. But that irregular bounce stole the Real goalkeeper's timing completely.

"Uh?"

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠keeper lunged desperately. The ball kissed his fingertips and rolled, slow and cruel, into the far corner of the net.

Ripple—

"Waaaaaaaaah!!"

Sangam Stadium detonated. A miraculous equalizer. But Gang-cheol did not smile. He did not celebrate. They had to finish it while the momentum was theirs. Extra time or penalties? Against superior technique and stamina, Haeseong would lose one hundred percent of the time.

"Get up! It's not over! Bring the ball!"

He yanked the ball from the net and sprinted like a madman back to the center circle. Real's players looked shaken. The iron mentality that had held firm with ten men cracked under that one filthy, relentless, zombie-like goal.

Four minutes of stoppage time. The referee checked his watch. One last attack.

Real Madrid's corner came to nothing. The ball rebounded off a Haeseong defender's boot. Counterattack. The ball found Gang-cheol. Open space ahead. Only one defender left.

Go.

He tried to drive forward—

Zzzzt—!

"Ugh…!"

Lightning pain exploded in his right calf. Cramp. The muscle screamed and locked. His leg refused to obey. His speed died.

A Real defender was closing like a freight train.

No… after coming this far… if I stop here…

His vision whitened. He dragged the ball along, but at this pace it would be stolen. Steal it and everything ended.

Then—

In the blurred corner of his vision, someone was sprinting like a man possessed.

"Gang-cheol!!! Here!!! I'm here!!"

Kim Cheol-su. The defender who had spent the entire tournament making mistakes, the slow-footed liability everyone treated like a hole in the back line. Foam flecked his lips as he over-lapped at the absolute maximum speed of his life.

Gang-cheol acted on pure instinct—no, on the last scrap of strength he had left—and shoved the ball sideways.

"I'm counting on you…!"

The pass dropped perfectly at Kim Cheol-su's feet. One-on-one with the keeper. A perfect open chance. But Cheol-su was no striker. He had barely ever taken a shot. Terror shook his eyes.

Please…!

He squeezed his eyes shut and swung his foot.

Thud.

A dull sound. The ball caught the tip of his toe instead of the instep. A clothesline rocket? Not even close. A weak, rolling grounder that trundled forward with almost no power.

"Ah…"

A collective gasp rose—then died.

The Real goalkeeper, still focused on Gang-cheol's earlier movement, had lost his balance. He flung a leg out desperately, but the weakly rolling ball slid, almost mockingly, right between his legs—nutmegged him completely—and crawled, turtle-slow, across the goal line.

Beeeeeep—!

In that exact instant the final whistle blew.

"……"

Silence.

Then explosion.

"Waaaaaaaaah! We won! We actually won!"

The Haeseong boys could not leap or cheer. They no longer had the strength. Every last one of them collapsed where he stood and began to sob.

A beautiful victory? An overwhelming championship?

Not even close.

An opponent's red card, dirty play, mud-soaked defending, and two final lucky mis-hit shots. That was what created this—literally a miracle covered in scars.

Gang-cheol lay spread-eagled on the grass, gasping. The stadium lights spun above him. Far away he saw Real Madrid's captain Carlos drop to his knees, clutching his head in disbelief.

Hah… that was filthy hard, seriously…

Real Madrid was strong. Insanely strong. If they had still had eleven men? One hundred fights, one hundred losses. Today luck had been on their side—a lot of it. But Gang-cheol knew the truth: luck is also a skill. And history books record only the winner's name, never the process.

A blood-tinged smile spread across Gang-cheol's lips. His entire body felt like it was falling apart, yet he had never felt better.

This was enough. They had survived.

Now it was time to claim the spoils of this dirty victory.