Skipping a Grade, and the Battlefield
"Slurp... Ahhh! Like I always say, a Korean needs garlic if he's gonna put in real work."
On the quiet residential outskirts of Amsterdam, Netherlands, stood a modest townhouse. From early morning the place reeked of rich, savory steam. At the center of the dining table sat a bubbling pot of samgyetang, white broth crowned with finely sliced green onion.
It was a special restorative stew Jang Ho-seok had cooked with ingredients scoured from every Korean market in the city.
"Hyung, your cooking's insane. You should quit the agent game and open a restaurant—you'd clean up."
"Shut it, punk. This is all my blood-money investment. When your transfer fee skyrockets later, you're gonna pad my commission nice and fat, right?"
Jang Ho-seok grumbled while plating well-fermented kkakdugi, still wearing an apron. He looked every bit the neighborhood freeloader big brother, yet his eyes tracked Gang-cheol's portions with a hawk's precision.
"Just a little broth—focus on the meat. Watch the sodium. And this."
Ho-seok slid a tablet across the table. The screen displayed yesterday's training footage of Gang-cheol alongside dense graphs and columns of numbers.
"I analyzed your movement. Different angle from the Ajax coaches."
"Different angle?"
"Yeah. You... how do I put this. You don't move like a thirteen-year-old. You move like a thirty-something veteran who's been through every war."
Gang-cheol paused mid-bite of a chicken leg.
As expected of the man destined to become Europe's ultimate networker—his eye for detail was no joke.
"Your stamina's still teenage, but your play style is pure thirties. Zero wasted motion. That's why you dominate here. The kids your age run on instinct; you calculate every step. But..."
Ho-seok's expression turned serious. He speared a piece of kkakdugi and drove the point home.
"That could become poison."
"Poison?"
"At U-15 level it works—those kids are still clueless. But once you hit the higher tiers where physique and tactics are fully baked? Scouts will read it as you trying to cover physical limits with clever tricks. European scouts smell that stuff a mile away."
Bullseye.
Gang-cheol had felt it every session. His past-life memories were racing far ahead of his current body. His brain would scream Cut through there—it's open, only for his still-growing legs to fail to deliver the explosion.
"So we need to crank up the core and balance work. Dutch kids get more monstrous the higher you climb. One-ninety is the baseline. When you collide, you're the one flying."
"Got it. I've already been adding weight sessions. Don't worry."
Gang-cheol stuffed the remaining chicken breast into his mouth and chewed.
It felt solid. Not just a contract manager—having a partner who delivered advice with real bone in it.
"Thanks for the meal, hyung. Time to go earn my keep."
Ajax training ground, De Toekomst.
Exactly one month had passed since Gang-cheol first set foot on the academy that bore the name "The Future."
In that short span the entire ecosystem of the U-15 team had been annihilated.
All because of the predator named Ma Gang-cheol.
"Pass! Ma!"
"Here! Thread it!"
Morning tactical session. The mini-game was in full swing.
The instant Gang-cheol received the ball in midfield, three opposing defenders collapsed on him at once. They had learned the hard way from every previous thrashing.
Gang-cheol didn't flinch.
Instead the corner of his mouth curled.
Three of them locked on me means...
He dragged the ball under his sole and spun. Marseille turn.
Defenders' feet sliced empty air. In that split second a yawning pocket of space opened in his vision.
Thump—!
A kill pass driven with pure ankle power carved the turf and punched straight through the defensive line.
At the end of it waited Ryan.
"Nice finish, Ryan!"
"Your pass did all the work, Ma!"
Ryan flashed a thumbs-up and sprinted over for a high-five.
The same Ryan who had tried to haze him on day one was now Gang-cheol's most loyal enforcer. A glance from Gang-cheol and he ran; a through-ball and he finished.
Watching from the sideline, scout Jansen and the U-15 coach clicked their tongues.
"Balance is completely broken. Any side wearing the bib with Ma Gang-cheol wins on autopilot."
"Exactly. Everyone else has turned into furniture. He spoon-feeds them so hard the kids stop thinking for themselves."
"Leave it like this and development stalls. Time to make the call."
Jansen strode onto the pitch and blew the whistle, freezing the session.
"Ma Gang-cheol! Over here a second."
Gang-cheol jogged over, wiping sweat, breathing easy.
"Yes, Coach."
"Pack your things."
"...Excuse me? Go home?"
"No. As of today you're graduated from U-15. You're moving up."
Gang-cheol's eyes lit. Finally.
"Report to the U-17 squad. Right now. Coach van Basten wants to see you."
U-17.
Normally the domain of high-school first- and second-years. For a middle-school first-year like Gang-cheol it was a four-year skip.
During growth years a four-year gap was the difference between man and boy—bone density, muscle mass, lung capacity, everything on another plane.
"Understood."
Gang-cheol answered without a flicker of hesitation. The eagerness made Jansen snort a quiet laugh.
"Cocky, aren't you. Remember this—U-17 isn't here. That place isn't a playground. It's a real battlefield. Don't come back crying."
Training Zone C.
The moment he stepped into the U-17 area the air itself changed.
Average height cleared 180 cm; giants brushing 190 cm were everywhere.
Thud! Whump!
The sound of bodies colliding was brutal. Tackles were vicious, curses flew freely.
The tempo was another world. The ball never stayed on a foot longer than a second.
"Uh... new recruit's here."
Jansen led Gang-cheol forward. The man standing with arms folded, watching the session, turned his head.
Sharp eyes, a physique still rock-solid from his playing days.
Marco van Basten—legendary Dutch striker and current coach of Ajax U-17. (The real legend, not some namesake.)
"So this little brat is the Asian everyone's talking about?"
Van Basten raked Gang-cheol from head to toe.
Nearly 170 cm, yet among these giants he looked like an elementary-school kid.
"Jansen, this isn't a daycare. What am I supposed to do with a shrimp like that? You gonna take responsibility when his bones snap?"
"Just give him one look, Coach. He's the real deal."
Van Basten clicked his tongue in open displeasure and waved a hand.
"Hey! Somebody toss him a spare bib! New blood's going in!"
Gang-cheol pulled on the yellow bib someone flung his way.
No warm-up, no introductions—straight into an 11-v-11 practice match. Position: attacking midfielder.
Yeah... the air's completely different.
Gang-cheol steadied his breathing.
The eyes of the U-17 players around him carried real killing intent. These were predators on the cusp of first-team contracts, staking their entire lives on every sprint. None of them planned to surrender a single inch of turf to some random kid who rolled in.
"Pass!"
Gang-cheol raised a hand, calling for the ball.
A midfield teammate fed it with a doubtful scowl.
Whoosh—!
The pass was a bullet—deliberately overhit, a classic initiation hazing.
Trying to establish dominance? Cute.
Gang-cheol relaxed his ankle and cushioned the ball perfectly. The instant it kissed his instep it stuck like a magnet.
No time to admire the touch.
CRASH—!
A truck-like impact exploded into his back.
Nigel de Jong, U-17's starting defensive midfielder—the same monster who would later earn infamy for "murder tackles"—had driven his full 188 cm frame into him with murderous intent.
"Ugh..."
Gang-cheol staggered. This wasn't Ryan from U-15. The mass difference made his bones ring.
"Out of the way, shrimp!"
De Jong shoved him aside and stole the ball. The coach-referee kept the whistle silent—fair physical play.
"Hahaha! Go home and drink more milk!"
"This ain't kindergarten! Go suck on mommy some more!"
Mockery and laughter poured down.
Gang-cheol rose covered in dirt. Coppery blood filled his mouth; grit stung his eyes.
This is it...
It hurt. Pride stung.
Yet at the same time his heart hammered like a war drum.
The boredom he had felt in Korea and even in U-15 vanished. At last he had found opponents worth testing his limits against—opponents he had to smash into with everything he had.
⚠️ WARNING: Physical gap with opponent is severe. (Strength differential: D vs A)
💡 Advice: Do not meet force with force. Your weapon is your brain.
I know. Who said I was going to muscle them?
Gang-cheol spat a mouthful of bloody saliva.
His eyes turned ice-cold. Inside his skull the pitch unfurled like a go board—every movement, every trajectory, every pocket of space, even the ragged rhythm of de Jong's breathing.
System, activate Ajax Spatial Perception (B).
Ajax Spatial Perception (B)
Play resumed.
Gang-cheol no longer received and held. Before the ball even arrived he whipped his head left and right, hunting empty grass.
There.
The moment de Jong charged again, the pass arrived.
De Jong grinned and drove his shoulder in.
This time was different.
Gang-cheol never trapped it.
He let the ball roll straight between his legs and spun the opposite way.
"Wha—?"
De Jong, full sprint from behind, couldn't brake and scythed empty air.
Gang-cheol casually turned, scooped the loose ball, and was already accelerating.
Phantom Turn.
"What the hell?!"
De Jong spun in panic, but Gang-cheol had already hit top gear.
"Stop him! Take that bastard down!"
Defenders launched vicious sliding tackles aimed at ankles—murderous stuff.
Yet Gang-cheol's toes were half a beat ahead of every prediction.
Tap, tap, tick.
It wasn't dribbling. It was dance.
When a tackle came he lofted the ball over it (sombrero); when a shoulder crashed in he dipped his upper body and shattered the opponent's balance.
A sleek squirrel weaving through a forest of giants. No—more like a venomous viper.
Finally, the edge of the box.
One-on-one with the keeper.
Gang-cheol windmilled his leg as if to blast it. The keeper flinched and dived.
Got you.
Instead of shooting he simply rolled the ball sideways to the onrushing striker.
A gift-wrapped chance. The forward only had to touch it into the empty net.
Ripple. Goal.
"......"
For a heartbeat the entire training ground fell silent.
Faces that had been laughing moments earlier froze solid. You could almost hear the crack of pride as their plan to bury him with pure physique shattered.
"What are you waiting for? Move!"
Gang-cheol clapped and barked, Dutch accent flawless.
"Stop relying on size and use your heads. Your heads. Don't you know football is chess played with your feet?"
A thirteen-year-old's provocation.
The eyes of the U-17 players changed. He was no longer a "shrimp." He was a dangerous rival threatening their places.
On the bench, arms still folded, Marco van Basten's eyes widened.
He jabbed Jansen in the ribs.
"Hey. Register that kid."
"Sir?"
"Next week—the Mini-Klassieker against Feyenoord. He's starting."
"Coach, he just joined today. He hasn't even done tactical sessions—"
"Tactics? The way he plays is the tactics. Feyenoord's never seen a style like that. They're going to fall over in shock."
Van Basten watched Gang-cheol with open interest and scribbled something in his notebook.
No. 38 (temporary squad number) → No. 14 (the legendary number)
Ajax versus Feyenoord.
The fiercest rivalry in the Netherlands.
Into that seething cauldron, a thirteen-year-old Korean boy was about to be thrown.