The 13-Year-Old Salary King and an Unexpected Talent
Amsterdam, Netherlands. The owner's office inside the Johan Cruyff Arena.
Afternoon sunlight at two o'clock slanted through the floor-to-ceiling glass, but the air inside the room hung heavy, nothing like the weather outside. The scent of top-grade leather sofas, freshly pulled espresso, and the paper of contracts worth tens of billions of won mixed together into a peculiar tension.
"Mister Ma. Or should I call you Nike's new icon now?"
The middle-aged man seated across from him spoke.
Alessandro Bianchi, Marketing Director for Nike's European branch.
Sharp nose, silver-rimmed glasses, an Italian bespoke suit without a single crease out of place. He studied Gang-cheol with the eyes of a pure businessman.
"The terms are... extraordinary. To be frank, there was opposition even in the executive meeting at Nike headquarters. Too big a gamble on a thirteen-year-old boy who hasn't even debuted with the first team, they said."
Bianchi drew a thick contract from his briefcase and slid it across the polished mahogany table.
"But after watching the Feyenoord match footage yesterday, every objection vanished. You are not merely a prospect. You are a game changer who will shake the Asian market—no, the entire global football landscape."
Beside him, Jang Ho-seok picked up the contract with trembling hands.
The moment he turned the first page, his pupils shook as if an earthquake had hit.
"H-huh..."
A single gasp escaped his lips.
Gang-cheol glanced sideways at the numbers in his hyung's hands.
Total Contract Value: €10,000,000 (10 Years)
Ten million euros.
Roughly thirteen billion won.
A ten-year deal. An average of 1.3 billion won per year.
Compared to adult superstars it might look modest. But he was only thirteen. A global corporation had just bet a decade of its future on a boy in his first year of middle school. This was an unprecedented mega deal in the history of youth football.
As expected... Director Lee Ye-rin must have pulled some strings behind the scenes.
The quiet influence of the LK Group and yesterday's hard-carry performance in the mini-clásico had created perfect synergy.
"Allow me to walk you through the details."
Bianchi produced a heavy black fountain pen with gold trim and continued.
"Beyond the base fee: a five-hundred-thousand-euro bonus upon Ajax first-team debut. One million euros upon senior national-team call-up. Additional incentives for every Champions League appearance. And..."
He flipped to the final page.
"Priority negotiation rights for a signature boot line bearing Ma Gang-cheol's initials and number. That is the core. We intend to build you into an icon—the second emperor of football, the second god of the court."
Ho-seok could barely breathe.
In his previous life Gang-cheol had scraped by in the third division, working convenience-store shifts because he couldn't make rent. After a career-ending injury he had been scammed out of five million won by a crooked agent and drunk soju alone on a Han River bridge.
Now, with the single scratch of a pen, the value of his life was rocketing upward.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Money.
Something he had grown sick of, yet something that made life miserable when it was gone.
But in this life he would not be ruled by money. Money would work for him.
"The terms are satisfactory. However..."
When he spoke, every gaze in the room locked onto him.
Bianchi's eyebrow twitched; the words did not sound like they should come from a thirteen-year-old.
"I would like one clause revised."
"Revised? Which part?"
Gang-cheol recalled the memo Han Se-hui had texted him earlier.
"Article 3, Clause 2. 'Athlete shall attend a minimum of ten official events designated by Nike per year.' Change that to 'to be mutually agreed upon provided it does not interfere with the athlete's condition or training schedule.'"
"......!"
Bianchi's expression shifted—surprise and intrigue colliding.
Most young players saw only the numbers and stamped the contract in a frenzy. This kid was putting football above money and pointing out the poison pill in the fine print.
"Haha... well now. The player is scarier than the agent."
The club owner laughed heartily. Bianchi considered for a moment, then nodded cleanly.
"Very well. A star needs that kind of pride. We'll revise it."
Scratch, scratch.
The amendment was made on the spot.
And at last Gang-cheol wrote his name at the bottom of the still-wet contract.
"Welcome, Mister Ma. To the Nike family."
The moment he shook Bianchi's hand, camera flashes erupted from every direction.
In the blinding light Gang-cheol posed holding an Ajax jersey. The club crest sat on the chest, and above it the golden wings of victory gleamed bright.
It was not merely a logo.
It was the moment the weight of the crown he would have to carry began.
The next morning.
Ajax training ground, De Toekomst.
Even the air on the way to the pitch felt different.
The security guard who normally greeted him with a cheerful "Hey, Ma! Good morning!" now watched him with a strange mixture of curiosity, awe, and faint rejection.
On the newsstand in the clubhouse lobby sat the Netherlands' largest daily, De Amsterdam.
Front-page headlines the size of barn doors.
Gang-cheol pulled his cap low and headed for the locker room.
Whispers from other youth-team players followed him down every corridor.
"That's the guy? Ten million euros?"
"Damn... insane. He's worth that much?"
"Honestly it's a bubble. They only signed him for the Asian market."
"Life's easy for him. Even if he can't play he can coast forever."
Words like daggers in his back.
Yesterday he had been "the talented new kid." Overnight he had become "the parachute wrapped in money."
Creak.
He opened the U-17 locker-room door.
The noisy room fell silent as if ice water had been dumped over it.
Twenty players stared at him as one. Their eyes held raw, unfiltered emotion.
The ugliest, most primal emotion a human can feel.
While they rode the team bus and patched worn-out boots, a newly arrived Asian kid was arriving in a black luxury sedan wearing custom boots. That gap had stabbed their pride.
"Yo, Nike Boy's here. Make way."
Tomas, lounging in the corner, sneered.
The same kid who had been humiliated in the rondo drill. He crumpled the sports paper in his hand and spat on the floor.
"Should I get an autograph? Might be worth something later."
A few boys snickered.
Even the ones who had been friendly yesterday now avoided Gang-cheol's eyes, watching Tomas for cues.
Only Ryan looked at him with genuine worry, yet even he hesitated to step forward. That was how group atmosphere worked.
Gang-cheol walked to his locker without a word.
He set his bag down and started to change—then saw his nameplate torn off and lying on the floor.
In its place, scrawled in marker:
ATM Machine
Childish.
But the malice inside the childishness was crystal clear.
"Who did this?"
He asked quietly, in Dutch.
No one answered. Silence stretched. Tomas sat with legs crossed, chewing gum, staring at him with open mockery.
"Does it matter who? What matters is that it's true."
Tomas stood. His 185-centimeter frame blocked the path.
"Be honest. How much did you pay the club? Yesterday's match—coach set the tactics just to make you look good, right?"
"......"
"Nike tell you to steal Dutch kids' rice bowls and fill your own belly?"
Tomas shoved his shoulder.
"Earn your money, bubble boy. Football isn't played with cash."
Gang-cheol picked up the torn nameplate.
Angry? No. He felt pity. When skill failed they turned to politics—exactly like the third-rate players of his previous life.
"You're right. Football isn't played with money."
He lifted his head. Tomas flinched under the look in those eyes.
"Then how about you pay to learn?"
"What?"
"Let's bet. Fifty euros."
The locker room buzzed.
Tomas's eyes narrowed.
"What kind of bet?"
"Right now. Training pitch. Five free kicks. You shoot, I save."
"Ha! You crazy? You're going in goal?"
The boys exploded with laughter.
An attacking midfielder volunteering as goalkeeper? Suicide. And Tomas was the best striker in the team for pure striking power.
"Why? Scared? Afraid you'll lose to a 'bubble'?"
The taunt flushed Tomas's face crimson. A prideful kid like him would never back down.
"Fine. Fifty? Make it a hundred. And if you lose, you clean the locker room for a week. I want to watch Nike Boy scrub floors."
"Deal. But if I win, starting tomorrow you polish my boots. Until they shine."
"Deal!"
In front of the training-ground goal.
Word had spread; U-17 players crowded around the posts, murmuring. Even the coaches stood at a distance with arms folded, watching with interest.
Gang-cheol took his place on the goal line bare-handed—no gloves.
The goal looked as wide as the Pacific. At 170 centimeters the space felt impossibly large.
"Ready, little guy? Don't start crying!"
Tomas set the ball near the edge of the penalty arc. Roughly twenty meters.
His thigh muscles bulged. He was going to smash it with everything he had.
Hoo...
Gang-cheol exhaled and dropped into a low stance.
Reckless? No.
He knew the other talent sleeping in his body.
In his previous life he had been a striker, but after the injury he had trained reaction speed like a madman during rehab. That was when he discovered it: he was as gifted at reading the ball as he was at striking it.
Trait Unlocked: Dynamic Vision (S-)
Guardian's Instinct (B)
Reads the opponent's kicking motion and predicts the trajectory.
Time began to slow.
Tomas started his run-up. One, two, three.
Plant foot digging into the turf, right ankle cocking, hip rotation at the moment of impact.
Far left corner. Curling shot.
Boom!
A dull thud of boot on ball and the shot was away.
Fast. Genuine U-17 main-striker power.
But in Gang-cheol's eyes the trajectory painted itself as a vivid red line.
Thud!
He was already diving left before the ball was even struck.
Body fully extended in mid-air.
I can reach it.
Thwack!
His palm smashed the ball.
Brutal force shot up his wrist, but the ball spun wide of the post and out of play.
"......?!"
Tomas's jaw dropped.
The watching boys held their breath.
Luck, they all thought.
"Again!"
Tomas roared and set the second ball.
This time a knuckle ball—unpredictable flight.
Boom!
The ball swerved left and right as it came.
But the regressor's eyes found the true path inside the wobble.
Chest.
He didn't dodge. He stepped into it.
Thump!
He killed the ball with his chest and let it drop to his feet.
"That's two."
His calm voice made Tomas's eyes roll white with rage.
Third shot. Fourth.
One cannoned off the post (he had already cut the angle by reading the direction). One kissed his fingertips and looped over the bar.
Four shots, zero goals.
Now the fifth and final.
Tomas panted, staring at the ball. His mentality was already gone.
When a striker believes the keeper is reading every shot, he can no longer strike cleanly.
Hard... just hit it as hard as possible!
Tomas put everything into a pure power blast.
A simple long-ball smash.
Straight down the middle.
Gang-cheol did not move.
And as the ball arrived he simply...
Tap.
Caught it with one hand.
Like snatching a fly out of the air, killing the spin and closing his fingers lightly around it.
"......"
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Holding the ball in one hand, Gang-cheol walked toward the stunned Tomas.
He tossed the ball lightly against the bigger boy's chest.
"Fifty euros. Or was it a hundred? Have it ready by lunch tomorrow."
Tomas could not speak. His face was tomato-red; his legs trembled.
This was no luck.
This was the overwhelming gap in reaction speed and predictive ability.
"Whoa... insane."
"How do you even react to that?"
"Wasn't he a midfielder? He could play keeper."
The whispers had changed.
Contempt and jealousy had flipped into awe.
Not money-bought skill. The real thing.
Gang-cheol dusted his bare, reddened palms and headed back toward the locker room.
<Bear the Weight of the Crown>
🎁 Reward: Team hierarchy settled. Leadership rank raised to (C).
🎁 Bonus Reward: Hidden trait Multi-Position Adaptability unlocked.
Behind him Ryan sprinted up and slung an arm around his shoulders.
"Hey, Ma! You used to be a keeper? You scared the hell out of me!"
"Nah. Just got decent eyes."
Gang-cheol shrugged.
That took care of the noisy flies.
But he already knew this was only the prologue.
The real battle would come tomorrow against Feyenoord—against the true enemies who would refuse to pass him the ball.
Didn't matter.
If he could stop shots with his hands, what couldn't he do with his feet?
"Looking forward to those shiny boots tomorrow, Tomas."
He waved without looking back.
Under the Dutch sun, his shadow stretched long across the grass.