The Future, and the First Language
South Korea was turned upside down.
Internet communities and social media exploded. Fans who had already pictured Ma Gang-cheol in Real Madrid’s pure white or Barcelona’s famous stripes found the name “Ajax” jarringly unfamiliar—and deeply shocking.
While the arguments raged online, departure day arrived.
Incheon International Airport, Terminal 2.
From early morning, hundreds of people packed the departure hall—reporters, fan clubs, and even Gang-cheol’s Haeseong Middle School teammates who had come to see him off. The terminal was pure chaos.
A black van pulled up. The door opened, and a storm of camera flashes erupted.
Gang-cheol stepped out in a clean training kit, sunglasses on, backpack slung over one shoulder. For a thirteen-year-old, he looked far too composed.
“Ma Gang-cheol! Over here, please!”
“What’s the real reason you chose Ajax?!”
Microphones thrust toward his face. Gang-cheol stopped walking and slid his sunglasses down just enough to meet their eyes.
“The reason is simple.”
His voice cut cleanly through the noise.
“Real Madrid is where finished stars gather. I’m not going there to sit on the bench and watch them. I want to play now. I want to collide with people. That’s why I chose Ajax.”
“So you’re saying you’ll use Ajax as a stepping stone back to a big club?”
“Yes. Ajax isn’t my destination—it’s a station. A base camp for climbing the mountain that is Europe.”
The answer was unflinching.
Most prospects would have offered the usual polished loyalty—“Ajax is my dream club”—but Gang-cheol was coldly, brutally honest. And that very confidence set the fans’ hearts on fire.
“Go crush it, Ma Gang-cheol!”
“Eat them all alive! Don’t you dare back down!”
Cheers exploded. Gang-cheol raised a hand in reply, then turned toward the departure gate.
Waiting there were his parents, eyes already red, and Han Se-hui, biting her lip hard as if nothing was wrong.
“Gang-cheol… make sure you eat properly. Call us the second you feel sick.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll settle in fast.”
He gave his mother a light hug, then his gaze settled on Se-hui.
Her usual sharp energy was gone. She stared at the floor, looking ready to burst into tears at any second.
“Hey, Manager Han.”
“……”
“I’m leaving and you won’t even look at me?”
Only then did Se-hui lift her head. A small shopping bag dangled from her hand.
“Here…”
She shoved the bag at him.
“What’s this?”
“Soccer boots. Your favorite brand, wide fit. Dutch people have those skinny knife-feet, so their shoes would probably kill you…”
Gang-cheol was silent for a moment.
Wide-fit boots. Only Se-hui—who knew every tiny habit and every detail of his build—could have chosen a gift like that.
“Damn, Manager Han. You’ve got taste. I’ll wear them well. First goal over there is going in with these.”
“Just don’t get hurt, idiot. I heard the kids there are built like mountains.”
“Big frames, empty insides. Don’t worry.”
He reached out and ruffled her hair.
Se-hui swatted his hand away with an “Ah, stop it!”—but a tear finally slipped free.
“Call often. Don’t skip meals. And… watch out for pretty foreign girls!”
“You worry too much. I’ll be too busy training to even notice.”
Gang-cheol flashed a cool smile and turned away.
Any longer and his resolve might crack.
His small but solid back disappeared into the departure corridor, carrying the weight of an entire nation’s hopes and cheers with it.
Flight KE925, bound for Amsterdam.
Once the plane climbed above the clouds, Gang-cheol sank deep into his first-class seat—courtesy of Lee Ye-rin.
Now it really begins.
The Dutch Eredivisie.
It didn’t rank among Europe’s top five leagues—England, Spain, Germany, Italy, France—but its youth development system was the best on the planet.
And Ajax’s youth academy, De Toekomst—“The Future”—was both a holy site for soccer-mad kids worldwide and the most merciless jungle of them all.
Pure meritocracy. Age, nationality, race? Irrelevant. Only ability guaranteed a starting spot.
Exactly the environment Gang-cheol had wanted.
To adapt, language first. If I can’t talk, I can’t understand tactics or build chemistry with teammates.
As if on cue, a system chime rang inside his head.
✈ MAIN QUEST COMPLETE: <Into a Wider World>
- Description: Contract with a European club signed. En route to destination.
- Distributing rewards…
- [Reward 1]: Local Adaptation Package (Automatic Language Acquisition)
- [Reward 2]: New Skill Slot Unlocked (1)
Perfect. Language patch first.
Without hesitation, Gang-cheol mentally tapped [Reward 1].
A sharp jolt—like high-voltage current racing through his brain vessels. His skull throbbed as if it might split, and the world flashed white.
“Ugh…”
He pressed hard on his temples.
Tens of thousands of words and entire grammatical systems slammed into every brain cell. His language center was being forcibly rewritten.
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. After roughly five minutes of pure agony, the pain vanished as if it had never existed. His mind felt crystal clear.
Brainwave Synchronization Complete.
Language:Dutch — Mastered (Native-level proficiency)
Accent, dialect, and full soccer terminology fully supported.
Gang-cheol opened his eyes.
A flight attendant walked past, chatting with a Dutch passenger.
“Would you like something to drink, sir?”
“Yes, a cup of coffee, please.”
Sounds that would have been pure alien noise minutes ago now landed in his ears as clearly as Korean. No translation required. He simply understood.
His tongue felt strangely agile. He murmured under his breath.
“Ik ben er klaar voor.” (I’m ready.)
Pronunciation, accent, stress—everything flawless.
This was the system’s broken power. While countless prospects crumbled under language barriers and homesickness, Gang-cheol already possessed the communication skills of a local boy from day one.
I’ll save the skill slot.
He hadn’t faced European-level players yet. Better to experience the battlefield first and fill the slot with whatever he needed most.
Gang-cheol smiled at the clouds beyond the window.
Weapons ready. Time to enter the warzone.
Twelve hours later.
Amsterdam Schiphol Airport, Netherlands.
The arrival gate opened and damp, cold air washed over him. Overcast sky, drifting raindrops—classic northern European weather.
As Gang-cheol pushed his cart out, he spotted people holding a placard stamped with the Ajax crest.
Mr. Kang Chul Ma
The man waiting was Jansen, head youth scout for Ajax.
Nearly 190 cm of solid frame, blond hair, blue eyes. His expression was sharp and irritable. He kept glancing at his watch and tapping his foot—clearly tired of waiting.
Beside him stood a slight East Asian exchange student who looked like the interpreter, face tight with nerves.
“There… that’s him. I think that’s the kid.”
At the interpreter’s words, Jansen turned and looked Gang-cheol over. Curiosity was absent; open dissatisfaction filled his eyes instead.
They gave a record-breaking signing fee to some thirteen-year-old Asian kid? The board’s lost its mind.
The thought was written all over his face.
“Hello. Are you Ma?”
Jansen’s English was stiff and purely transactional.
“We waited a long time. Let’s go.”
He didn’t even offer a handshake—just turned to leave. Classic top-dog attitude. A little Asian kid from the Far East could be handled with a little intimidation, or so he seemed to think.
The interpreter scrambled toward Gang-cheol, ready to translate.
“Um, you’re Ma Gang-cheol, right? This is Scout Jansen. He’s been waiting a while, so he’s a bit…”
Gang-cheol stopped him with a raised hand.
Then, facing Jansen’s broad back, he spoke in a calm, low voice—perfect Dutch.
“Meneer Jansen, is dit de Nederlandse gastvrijheid?”
(Mr. Jansen, is this Dutch hospitality?)
“……?!”
Jansen’s massive frame froze.
He turned around slowly—very slowly.
His blue eyes trembled as if an earthquake had hit them.
“Wat… Wat zei je?” (What… what did you just say?)
“Ik zei, of het beleefd is om je rug naar een gast te keren zonder zelfs maar een hand te schudden.”
(I asked whether turning your back on a guest without even offering a handshake is considered polite.)
Flawless.
This wasn’t tourist-level Dutch. It was Amsterdam-native accent, complete with the exact sarcastic edge that cut deepest.
“You… you speak Dutch?”
“If you come to play soccer, learning the language is basic, isn’t it? Without communication you can’t even understand tactics.”
Gang-cheol locked eyes with him and spoke clearly, deliberately. Those were not the eyes of a thirteen-year-old boy.
Jansen stood with his mouth half-open, then cleared his throat and reset his expression.
“Ahem. Well… my expectations were completely off. Sorry about that. I assumed you only spoke English.”
He extended his hand, attitude fully reversed.
“Welcome to Ajax. Looks like we won’t be needing the interpreter.”
Gang-cheol took the hand and grinned.
First psychological victory secured.
The training complex right beside the Amsterdam Arena—Johan Cruijff ArenA.
De Toekomst.
True to its name, it was the factory that built Ajax’s future—and the finest youth development facility on earth.
When Gang-cheol stepped out of the car, dozens of natural-grass pitches filled his vision.
State-of-the-art analysis cameras everywhere. Age-group teams training with military precision. And on the outer wall of the main building, a massive portrait of Johan Cruyff with a single line of text:
“Soccer is played with the head. The feet are merely tools.”
Gang-cheol’s heart pounded. He was standing in the place where the philosophy he had idolized in his previous life still lived and breathed.
“Come on. The U-15s are training. You’re joining them right now.”
He followed Jansen onto the pitch.
U-15—under-15s.
Kids of every ethnicity mixed together: Dutch whites, Surinamese blacks, Moroccan heritage… The one common trait was that every single one of them looked physically complete.
Middle-school age, yet the field was packed with players over 180 cm.
“Listen up!”
Jansen clapped once. The training players gathered.
Their eyes were predatory. Not one of them looked happy to see a new rival.
“This is your new teammate starting today. Ma Gang-cheol, from Korea.”
A brief introduction.
Every gaze locked onto Gang-cheol, scanning him from head to toe without shame.
“Korea? From Asia?”
“He’s pretty tall, but… thirteen? Looks skinny as hell.”
“What’s his name again? Ma… Kang… Ching? Chang? Damn, can’t even pronounce it.”
Snickers rose from the back. Greeting a Korean with Chinese or Japanese—classic casual racism toward East Asians.
Then the clear leader of the pack stepped forward: a massive black player with a shaved head, arms crossed.
He looked at Gang-cheol and pulled the corners of his own eyes into slits with his fingers.
“Hey, newbie. Ever think about opening those eyes? Can you even see in front of you?”
His name was Ryan.
Captain of Ajax U-15. A physical monster they already called “the Midfield Tank.”
He closed the distance until he stood right in Gang-cheol’s face. The pressure of nearly 185 cm of pure bulk was real.
“This isn’t a tourist spot. You might’ve strutted around Asia thinking you were hot shit, but this place is a whole different level.”
Ryan jabbed a finger into Gang-cheol’s chest.
“Asians have brittle bones—snap easy. Don’t start crying for mommy. Go home before you get hurt.”
Classic hazing. Quiet racism underneath.
The surrounding kids snickered, waiting for Gang-cheol to either look away in fear or explode in anger.
And Scout Jansen?
Arms folded, watching with open interest from behind. No intention of intervening.
If you can’t handle this much, you won’t survive at Ajax. A cold, deliberate test.
Gang-cheol smirked.
Every place had guys like this—simple creatures who tried to set the hierarchy with pure strength.
He took one more step forward until their noses almost touched.
Then he whispered into Ryan’s ear in ice-cold Dutch.
“Je praat te veel. En je adem stinkt.”
(You talk too much. And your breath stinks.)
“……What?”
Ryan’s eyebrows twitched.
“Show me. Whether that big body of yours is actually useful for soccer—or if it’s just a meat shield.”
Gang-cheol crouched and tightened the laces of his training shoes.
Then he raised his voice so Jansen and every kid on the pitch could hear.
“Bring a ball. One-on-one.”
The training ground erupted in murmurs.
First day. Before even finishing the welcome ceremony, the crazy newcomer had just challenged the team captain.
“Loser does gear duty for a week and cleans the winner’s boots after every session. Deal?”
At the provocation, Ryan’s face twisted into something ugly.
“Ha! This little shit’s lost his mind. You dare challenge me?”
Ryan crushed a ball under his foot and strode onto the grass.
“Fine. I’ll make you regret it. Let’s see if your ankles are still attached by the end.”
“You’ll be the one regretting it.”
Gang-cheol’s eyes scanned the system window.
Target Analysis: Ryan
Physical: S | Agility: C- | Intelligence: D
Weaknesses: High center of gravity. Hot-tempered. Large, telegraphed movements.
Slow and stupid.
After a year of hellish training with Korean kids and chewing up even Real Madrid, Gang-cheol saw it clearly.
That oversized lion was nothing but oversized prey.
He crooked a finger.
“Come on. Time for a lesson.”
The European conquest.
Its first page was ready to be written in blood-red ink.
Under the gray Dutch sky, only the eyes of a thirteen-year-old boy burned bright.