The King's Coronation, and a Time of Choice

"Waaaaaaaaah!!"

"Ma Gang-cheol! Ma Gang-cheol! Ma Gang-cheol!"

The sixty thousand seats of Seoul World Cup Stadium were boiling like a giant furnace. Golden and silver confetti poured down from the sky like a blizzard, and through that glittering paper snowstorm, dozens of floodlights fixed their beams on the podium set at the center of the pitch.

There they stood. Warriors in black kits. Their bodies were caked in dirt, their legs trembling so hard they could barely stay upright — yet their faces shone as if they owned the world.

Gang-cheol dragged in a ragged breath and looked down at his own hands. His fingers were shaking. Whether from the thrill of victory or from muscles on the brink of collapse, he couldn't tell. The smell of grass, the smell of blood, the sharp bite of gunpowder at the tip of his nose — every sense was vivid. This was the place the man from his previous life had hungered for and never reached: the seat of the protagonist.

"Gang-cheol… hic… did we really win?"

"This isn't a dream, right? Pinch me…"

Beside him, Kim Cheol-su and Park Min-ho clung to the captain's armband on Gang-cheol's shoulder and sobbed. Still unable to accept the reality of it, they laughed and cried by turns with vacant, stunned faces. The fact that they had beaten the world's strongest side — Real Madrid — and done it with a miracle comeback, had short-circuited the boys' brains completely.

Gang-cheol snorted a laugh and smacked Kim Cheol-su hard across the back.

"It's not a dream, so quit blubbering and lift your head. Champions aren't supposed to look this pathetic. We've got photos to take."

"Waaah! Gang-cheol! Thank you, man! This is all because of you!"

The boys gathered in a circle around him. Without anyone needing to say a word, they threw their arms over one another's shoulders and pressed their sweat-soaked heads together.

In that moment, the tournament chairman took the microphone.

A grand fanfare rolled through the stadium. Gang-cheol staggered toward the golden trophy waiting before the podium. The cold, heavy weight of solid gold plating filled his palms. He gripped both handles, drew one deep breath, and with the last of his strength hoisted it high into the sky.

"Wooooooaaaah!!"

Fireworks burst open and painted the night. The instant Gang-cheol raised the trophy, the broadcast feed going out to the entire world cut to a close-up of his face — a survivor's smile that no one would believe belonged to a thirteen-year-old boy. It was the coronation of a new King.

The emcee's voice was shaking. A clean sweep of the individual awards. The final itself may have been a mud-soaked brawl, but across the tournament as a whole, Gang-cheol's performance had been undisputed world-class. He handed the trophy off to his teammates, gathered the three personal plaques into his arms, and climbed the podium once more. From the stands, the chant of "MVP! MVP!" never stopped.

Then, waiting below the podium, someone stood ready for him. A boy in pure white. The captain of Real Madrid — Carlos. His eyes were bloodshot with the sting of defeat, his lip split open. But he hadn't run. He had come to face the loss with the pride of royalty.

Gang-cheol stepped down from the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠podium and stood face to face with him.

"Ma."

Carlos spoke first. His voice trembled, just slightly.

"You got lucky today. Very lucky."

Gang-cheol didn't deny it. He looked at the hand Carlos held out — shaking, but clenched tight to hold it still — and gripped it hard.

"Yeah, I know. Football's seventy percent luck."

Carlos's eyes went wide at the fluent Spanish reply.

"But next time will be different. In Europe, there won't be any miracles."

Carlos locked eyes with him, a competitive fire sharp enough to feel like killing intent.

"I'll be waiting. But you'd better come prepared. By then, I'll be so much stronger that luck won't even matter."

The two boys held the handshake a long time. Camera flashes cracked like lightning. It was a historic moment that would later be remembered as the first meeting of the two rivals who would split world football in half through the late 2020s.

After the ceremony came the mixed zone — and it was pure chaos. Korean reporters, Spain's Marca, Britain's BBC, every major outlet on the planet was shoving against the fence and shouting for an interview with Gang-cheol.

"Ma Gang-cheol! Over here, please!"

"Mr. Ma! One question!"

Hundreds of microphones thrust toward his mouth. Gang-cheol closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. The barrage of flashes stung.

"Ma Gang-cheol, did you honestly expect to beat Real Madrid? Looking at the match itself, you were completely dominated."

A sharp question. An ordinary kid would have flared up or frozen. Gang-cheol simply nodded, calm as still water.

"Yes. We were dominated. The gap in quality was huge. Honestly, if we played ten times, we'd lose nine of them."

The reporters murmured in surprise.

"But football speaks through the scoreboard. We held on, we took our chance, and we survived. That's all there is to it."

"European scouts are all over you. Big clubs are already flooding you with offers — have you decided where you're going?"

The most sensitive question of all. Gang-cheol looked straight into the camera lenses and smiled a strange little smile.

"I'll go wherever I can learn football best — not wherever the name is flashiest. You'll hear something soon enough."

He gave a short bow and slipped out of the mixed zone. The reporters watched his back and clicked their tongues. Far too seasoned for a thirteen-year-old. Even his interview craft was already pro-level.

The long corridor toward the locker room. Once he left the noisy interview area behind, silence settled in. Gang-cheol walked slowly, feeling the weight of the trophy, forcing himself not to collapse as the strength drained from his legs.

Then, at the far end of the corridor, a familiar silhouette leaned against the wall. A dazzling designer dress. Arms folded in an imperious pose. Lee Ye-rin, granddaughter of the LK Group.

"Hey. Ma Gang-cheol."

Ye-rin called his name and walked toward him. Click, click — her heels rang down the hallway. Her expression looked as cold as ever, but the rims of her eyes were faintly red.

"Congratulations. You were… pretty good. Honestly, I thought you were going to lose."

"Thank you. The kids held on like zombies thanks to the Korean beef you sent. We earned our keep, right?"

"Hmph. Of course. I invested in this. Failure wasn't an option."

Ye-rin snorted and stopped in front of him. She scanned the dirt-caked trophy and the MVP plaques in his arms, then let out a short laugh.

"You're going to be really expensive now. Too expensive for me to buy, don't you think?"

"I don't know. With your money, you could still afford one of me, couldn't you? And the more expensive I get, the better I perform."

At his sly joke, Ye-rin's face colored slightly. She cleared her throat and opened her handbag.

"Don't get the wrong idea. This is business. Here. Take this."

What she pulled out was a single business card — luxurious, embossed in gold foil.

She jammed the card into the gap between the handles of the championship trophy he was holding.

"Keep your phone on. I said I'd manage you, didn't I? I'll be in touch soon."

"Manage me? The tournament's over."

"Over? This is where the real war starts. You don't have an agent right now, do you? Europe's hyenas are lining up to tear you apart — you think you can handle those con artists alone?"

Ye-rin's eyes sharpened.

"I'll handle things for now, so don't get sweet-talked into stamping some slave contract. Sign anything without my permission and I'll cut that wrist off."

It was a vicious warning, but the intent to protect him was unmistakable. Or maybe it was just possessiveness — the refusal to let anyone else take her toy.

"Understood. I'll do as you say."

"Good. At least you listen."

Ye-rin smiled, satisfied. Then she hesitated a moment and added, in a voice so small it almost vanished:

"And… that was cool. That goal earlier."

She spun on her heel without waiting for an answer and disappeared with her bodyguards. Gang-cheol looked at the card stuck in the trophy and gave a wry smile. The attention of a chaebol granddaughter. Annoying, sure — but he had definitely just gained a solid shield.

"Gang-cheol!"

From the opposite direction, someone came thundering down the hall. Han Se-hui. She looked a wreck. Her eyes were swollen like a goldfish's from crying, and her makeup had run so badly she looked like a panda.

"Pfft. Hey, Manager Han. What happened to your face?"

"Waaah! Don't tease me! I was just so happy!"

Se-hui ignored the mockery completely and threw her arms around his neck. Her dress was getting ruined against his sweat-and-dirt-and-grass-smeared kit, but she didn't care in the slightest.

"Really… you really worked so hard. Do you know how scared I was when I thought you were going to collapse?"

"I know. You're choking me — give me some space."

Gang-cheol ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠grumbled, but he didn't push her away. Instead, with the hand that wasn't holding the trophy, he patted her back.

Thank you, Se-hui.

In his previous life, when injury had wrecked him and he lived like a broken man, she had been the only friend who never left his side. Because of you, I made it this far. Half of this trophy is yours.

That night, eleven o'clock. The presidential suite on the top floor of the LK Grand Hotel. While the Haeseong Middle boys celebrated with a buffet in the banquet hall, Gang-cheol was quietly summoned to a private room.

Behind a massive mahogany desk sat Chairman Lee Dae-su. Outside ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the windows, the nightscape of Seoul unfurled like a panorama, and on the table, stacks of documents rose like a mountain.

"Come in, our hero."

Chairman Lee set down his cigar and laughed heartily.

"You're too kind, Chairman. We got lucky."

"Luck is a skill. Thanks to you, our group's image has shot through the roof. The shareholders are grinning ear to ear. In pure PR value, you're worth hundreds of billions of won."

The chairman rose and walked over to Gang-cheol, then jerked his chin toward the papers on the table.

"Know what these are?"

"…Scout offers?"

"Sharp as ever. After the match today, my secretary's fax machine nearly caught fire from overheating. Take a look."

Gang-cheol picked up the documents one by one. Even the top of the pile was surreal.

Every mega-club in Europe whose name alone made the chest swell wanted Ma Gang-cheol. The terms were outrageous: luxury housing, jobs arranged for his parents, a dedicated interpreter, and a salary at the absolute top of his age group.

"Take your pick. If you want, I'll call the club presidents myself and squeeze out even better terms. Real? Barça? Just say the word."

Chairman Lee watched him with open interest. An ordinary thirteen-year-old — hell, even an adult — would have lost their mind in front of offers like these. The Real Madrid badge. Tens of billions of won in value. But Gang-cheol's reaction was calm. He skimmed the proposals quickly, then shoved Real Madrid's and Barcelona's offers aside without a second thought.

Going to Real or Barça right now would be poison.

He knew. Memories from his previous life. How many "geniuses" had chased a big club's shiny nameplate and ended up ruined. Those places were jungles, crawling with monsters gathered from every corner of the earth. At thirteen, if you went in half-cocked, you'd lose the fight for a starting spot, warm the bench, bounce around on loan, and vanish without a sound.

I can collect the glory later. What I need right now is substance.

He was still growing. Bones lengthening, muscle packing on. What he needed wasn't a flashy title — it was guaranteed minutes and a systematic development program. And above all, a league where he could test and perfect his system abilities — his tactical vision, his skills.

Gang-cheol's hand closed on a somewhat thinner envelope buried at the bottom of the pile.

"Chairman."

"Oh? Decided already? Let's see… huh?"

Chairman Lee's eyes went wide when he saw the document Gang-cheol held out.

"My boy. Are you serious? You're passing on Man City and Real for this? The terms aren't even close."

On the cover of the paper the chairman pointed to was an emblem stamped with red vertical stripes and the helmet of an ancient Greek hero.

"Yes. I'm going here."

There wasn't a shred of hesitation in Gang-cheol's voice.

"Why? Money? Glory? Or something else…"

"Growth."

Gang-cheol looked at the chairman with absolute certainty in his eyes.

"Real and Man City are places where finished stars gather. I'm not going there to sit on the bench and watch them play."

He tapped the Ajax emblem with his finger.

"Ajax. They're a selling club. Raising prospects and selling them high is how they survive. That means they'll give a kid like me a chance — not based on age, but on ability alone."

"Well, I'll be…"

"I'll use this place as a base camp and put my name on the European map. And when I turn twenty, Real Madrid will roll out a red carpet and come begging for me — not as a bargain-bin prospect, but as a superstar with an astronomical transfer fee."

Chairman Lee was silent for a moment. This was not a vision that should come out of a thirteen-year-old's mouth. It wasn't a footballer's plan at all — it was closer to a seasoned businessman's investment strategy.

"Heh… hahahahaha!"

The chairman threw his head back and roared with laughter. He slapped his knee.

"You're no ordinary kid! Ye-rin really does have an eye for people. Good! I like it a lot!"

He hit the intercom at once.

"Secretary Kim! Get me the Ajax president right now. And tell them to put Ma Gang-cheol's contract terms at the absolute top. Salary? Doesn't matter. Tell them anything short, our group will cover with a sponsorship!"

"Thank you, Chairman."

"Thank me for what? You just go flatten those European bastards' noses! Show them Korea has a monster like you!"

Gang-cheol bowed and clenched the Ajax offer letter tight in his fist. The dry rustle of paper. This was the ticket to the start of his second football life.

Beyond the window, the night lights of Seoul looked almost like the lights of Europe.

Wait for me, Europe.

And wait for me, Carlos.

That "next time" you talked about is coming sooner than you think.

A deep smile settled on Gang-cheol's lips. The tutorial was over. The real game was about to begin.