Days Stack Up to Become Legend

Ding!

With a bright chime, a translucent blue status window snapped into sharp focus across Gang-cheol's vision. Stepping out through the hospital's main doors, he paused for a moment and carefully scanned the quest details. His thirty-five-year-old soul already knew the truth: in this kind of system-granted opportunity, the real treasure wasn't some flashy ultimate technique or a single dramatic comeback. It was the quiet, daily "stacks" you built up like dust settling into stone.

"...Giving me stats 0.1 at a time, huh. Even on a second life, nothing comes free."

Gang-cheol's smile was bitter, but his eyes stayed sharp and bright.

In his previous life, when his knee cartilage had worn down to nothing and his ankle ligaments hung in shreds, he would have sold his soul to the devil for even a 0.1% recovery. That tiny number, stacked over and over, became the bricks that built an unbreakable wall. Right now, with these chopstick-thin legs, even 0.1 was a gift from heaven.

"Fine. A thousand times 0.1 makes 100. Three years ought to do it."

He tightened the laces of his sneakers under the warm sunlight streaming through the window. The air of 2013 felt cleaner and sweeter than anything twenty years later. Even the faint exhaust smelled nostalgic—probably thanks to the vitality of this young body.

"Gang-cheol! That bag's heavy. Let Mom carry it. You still need to be careful. Your bones only finished knitting yesterday."

"Come on, Mom. I'm fine. I'm a soccer player now. This weight is perfect for training my forearms and core. I'll go first!"

Leaving his mother's worried voice behind, Gang-cheol broke into a run. It wasn't just running. He kept one eye on the real-time heart-rate display in the corner of his vision, holding a precise 130 bpm—a carefully controlled cardio session.

This body really is different. This lightness. This spring.

In his ruined previous body, his knees would have been grinding cartilage within a minute and his lungs would have been screaming. Now it was completely different. Every time the sensation of his soles driving off the ground shot up into his brain, a pure, electric catharsis flooded him. This eleven-year-old body the system had rebuilt was a blank white canvas overflowing with possibility.

And it said Grade A, right? At elementary-school level, that basically means I'm Usain Bolt.

He pushed the pace a little higher, charging up the uphill stretch of the school route without hesitation. Even the burn in his lungs felt like proof he was alive, and he loved it.

In front of the gates of Haeseong Elementary School, the old concrete wall and the joystick arcade machines outside the stationery shop welcomed him. The moment Gang-cheol appeared among the students heading to class, a ripple of whispers spread instantly.

"Hey, look! It's Ma Gang-cheol!"

"No way. I heard he almost died getting hit by a truck. He was even on the news!"

"Then why does he look completely fine? No cast, no scars or anything?"

"I heard the chairman of LK Group flew him in by helicopter for treatment."

The kids' stares mixed awe and curiosity. The return of the "little hero who threw himself under a truck to save a child" was the biggest news in the entire school. Gang-cheol strolled down the hallway, calmly ignoring the flood of eyes.

Standing in front of the classroom door, an unexpected tension rose in his chest. Even with a thirty-five-year-old mind, his eleven-year-old body was reacting.

Hah... Don't get stage fright, Ma Gang-cheol. You've played—no, you've dreamed of playing—at the Santiago Bernabéu.

Rattle—

The moment he opened the door, the noisy fifth-grade Class 3 fell silent as if someone had dumped cold water over them. Above the blackboard hung the class motto Be Proper and Brave, and every kid sat frozen, staring straight at him.

"......"

The awkward silence was shattered by a solid voice from the back of the room.

"Hey! Ma Gang-cheol! You're actually alive!"

With a clatter of desks, a buzz-cut boy came charging over—Kim Cheol-su.

Even in the previous life, when Gang-cheol had hit rock bottom and spent nights drinking alone in a basement room, this was the only guy who had shown up with a bottle of soju and stayed by his side. That same Cheol-su was right here, alive and moving.

"Cheol-su."

"You crazy bastard! I thought you were dead! You were on the news for getting crushed by a truck! Are you actually a robot? Iron arms, iron legs, something like that?"

As Cheol-su fussed over him, poking and prodding, Gang-cheol snorted and flicked the boy's head.

"Solid bones, idiot. And it's not robot—say cyborg."

"Same difference! Man, I'm so glad. Without you we got wrecked by Class 4 at lunch. You know how much that Park Min-su punk was showing off? Acts like he's Ronaldo."

Just then, someone walked up behind Cheol-su with neat, clicking steps. Neatly braided hair, sharp eyes—Class 3's class president and Gang-cheol's first love, Han Se-hui.

"Hey, Kim Cheol-su. Stop hanging all over the patient. Move."

She shoved Cheol-su aside and stood in front of Gang-cheol, arms crossed, looking him up and down. Her expression was haughty, but relief trembled faintly in her eyes.

"I heard you got discharged... so you really came. You became a total news star."

"Yeah. I recovered fast because I missed the class president. You kept saying 'Gang-cheol, wake up' in my dreams, so I jumped right out of bed."

"W-what are you even saying... Did you hit your head too? You're insane."

At his sly answer, Se-hui's face flushed bright red. The timid eleven-year-old Gang-cheol of his past life would have waved his hands and denied everything, but the man standing here now carried the seasoned ease of his mid-thirties.

Even while scolding him, Se-hui quietly set her notebook on his desk and turned away.

"This is... the class notes from while you were in the hospital. I'm just showing them to you. Lose them and you're dead. And the teacher said to come to the staff room when you arrive."

She's adorable, seriously.

Gang-cheol set his bag down and took his seat. The rough grain of the wooden desk, the smell of chalk dust—everything felt warm and familiar. It finally felt like the real life of eleven-year-old Ma Gang-cheol was beginning.

The moment the fourth-period bell rang, the cafeteria turned into a battlefield. For kids in 2013, school lunch was the most important event of the day.

"Gang-cheol, let's go! Today's menu is pork cutlet! Jackpot! There's sausage too!"

Cheol-su drooled as he dragged Gang-cheol by the arm. But in the corner of Gang-cheol's vision, the quest window still floated.

Pork cutlet... You want me to eat that flour bomb where the batter is thicker than the meat?

Standing at the serving line, Gang-cheol frowned. The menu was white rice, seaweed soup, mini pork cutlet, sausage-and-vegetable stir-fry, and napa cabbage kimchi—a classic high-carb, high-sodium, high-fat spread. Delicious for growing kids, maybe, but pure poison for someone who needed to forge the ultimate physique.

He stared hard at the nutrition teacher standing by the soup pot.

"What's wrong? Want more soup?"

"Teacher."

Gang-cheol spoke in a low, serious voice.

"For muscle synthesis and bone density in growing children, I believe the protein ratio needs to be at least thirty percent higher than this. I'd recommend boiled pork or cold chicken-breast salad over deep-fried items. This menu is far too heavy on refined carbohydrates. I'm worried about blood-sugar spikes."

"......Excuse me?"

The nutrition teacher's ladle froze in midair. Kids nearby started whispering. Cheol-su, standing behind him, panicked and clamped a hand over Gang-cheol's mouth.

"S-sorry! The medicine hasn't worn off yet! Teacher, lots of soup please! Extra pork cutlet too!"

He dragged Gang-cheol off to a corner table.

"Hey! Are you crazy? Talking protein ratios to the nutrition teacher? You trying to get labeled a traitor and die? And pork cutlet is amazing! If you're not eating it, give it to me!"

"Cheol-su, you're a winger. Speed is your life. You really want to pack on fat like that? Diet is skill. You'll regret it when you're playing in the Premier League."

"I don't care about the Premier League or whatever! Right now I care about pork cutlet! Just eat!"

Gang-cheol sighed, carefully peeled the thick batter off the cutlet with his chopsticks, and finished the meal focusing only on the lean meat. The artificial sauce still hit his tongue, but he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stayed locked on the single goal of protein intake.

A faint heat spread through his body from the inside. It wasn't a placebo. The system was sculpting his flesh in real time.

Fifth period: PE.

Finally, the moment arrived. Fifth-graders gathered on the dusty field.

"Alright, free soccer today! Boys, gather by the goal!"

At the PE teacher's whistle, the boys swarmed toward the center of the field. Their opponents were the rival Class 4. Park Min-su, Class 4's neighborhood boss and the school's soccer prospect, called out provocatively.

"Hey, Ma Gang-cheol! Can you even run? Why don't you pretend you're still hurt and watch from the bench like a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dodgeball reject? Or better yet, don't go playing hero again and get yourself wrecked."

"Sure. If you make me the spare, I'll think about it."

"Heh, big talk. Just play goalie for your team. When the ball comes, duck."

Gang-cheol smirked and retied his laces.

Time to check the gap between the S-rank experience in my head and this body the system rated Grade A.

The match kicked off. From the start the ball flew back and forth fiercely. Park Min-su lived up to his prospect status, using a frame a full head taller than his peers to bully his way forward. At elementary-school level, pure physique was basically a gangster.

"Hey! Ma Gang-cheol! Over here!"

Cheol-su raised a hand on the wing. Gang-cheol's eyes flashed.

The entire field unfolded in his mind like a top-down map. Who was moving where, which spaces were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠open—exactly like watching a game from above. This was a veteran's vision.

Class 3's defense is loose. When Min-su pushes forward, the back is empty.

Gang-cheol drifted slowly into the center, waiting for the chance.

The ball rolled to his feet. Park Min-su charged in full of confidence.

"Out of the way if you don't want to get hurt!"

The instant Min-su's shoulder drove toward him, Gang-cheol's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠brain had already calculated half a second into the future. Perfect timing forged from thirty-five years of experience.

Phantom dribble—La Croqueta. Shift the weight slightly left, snatch the ball with the right foot and slip past. Then immediately shoot with the left.

His brain sent a full 100-output command.

But—

"Ah...!"

His feet tangled.

His head was already on the other side, but his legs couldn't keep up. His ankle didn't bend to the angle he wanted, and the muscle contraction lagged by a fraction.

Damn...!

Gang-cheol dropped to one knee in the dirt. Park Min-su snorted, stole the ball, and was gone.

"What the hell, Ma Gang-cheol! All that form and you turn out to be a total klutz! Falling over by yourself?"

"Puhahaha! His legs gave out!"

The Class 4 kids clutched their stomachs laughing. Gang-cheol brushed off the dirt and stood, biting his lip. The embarrassment was nothing compared to the realization.

So that's what the status window's [Mismatch] warning meant.

The hardware wasn't bad. Grade A was excellent. The problem was that his software was S+.

It was exactly like an F1 driver flooring the accelerator in an ordinary sedan—either the engine blows or the tires just spin.

This body still isn't tuned enough to execute a hundred percent of the commands my brain sends. Overload. Lag.

Gang-cheol calmly steadied his breathing. Time for thirty-five years of experience to shine. If the body couldn't keep up, he would simply "downgrade" the brain's commands to match it.

"Cheol-su! Drop deeper! I'll feed you from the back! You just run!"

Instead of forcing flashy breakthroughs, Gang-cheol began controlling the game with passes. Abandoning the fancy techniques and finding the most efficient timing possible within an eleven-year-old's physical limits—that was the real goal of this match.