Halt, and a New Vision

Thud. Thud. Thud.

In the farthest corner of De Toekomst, Ajax’s legendary youth academy training ground in Amsterdam, the sound of a ball striking a gray concrete wall rang out with mechanical regularity.

It was a desolate sound, like a prisoner tapping against the walls of his cell.

“Haa… haa…”

I braced my hands on my knees, dragging in ragged breaths. Sweat poured off me like rain, yet the pain in my knees refused to ease.

Growth pains.

The agony of bones that had lengthened too fast, tearing at the muscles around them—painkillers barely touched it. And on top of that, the disciplinary ban from team training.

“Day two.”

I let out a bitter laugh.

From the main pitch in the distance came the lively shouts of my teammates.

“Hey! Push the line up!”

“Press! Press harder!”

Isolation.

And humiliation.

Only a few days ago Ma Gang-cheol had been treated like a hero after the Mini Clásico. Now he was stuck facing a wall, serving out a punishment. The sidelong glances and whispers of the younger academy kids walking past pricked at my back.

“Look. Coach really has it out for him.”

“Should’ve known better than to show off. No fundamentals, just flash.”

Words like daggers.

But I couldn’t argue. Coach Frank had been right. I had forgotten the state of my own body, drunk on past glory. I had convinced myself I was still faster than the ball.

I wiped the sweat away and dropped heavily onto the ground. Grabbing my water bottle, I dumped the contents over my head. The cold water cooled the heat, but it did nothing for the tightness in my chest.

Am I going to be left behind like this?

Even with the System’s help, even with the privileges of regression—was I going to collapse in front of the absolute wall called physique?

I stared blankly at the pitch.

The U-17 team’s internal scrimmage was in full swing. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠My vacant spot had been filled by another Dutch midfielder, and up front Tomas was charging around like a wild boar.

“….”

At first I simply watched without thinking. But as time passed, things I had never noticed before began to surface.

A landscape invisible when you were in the thick of the battle on the field.

An omniscient viewpoint, as if looking down on a chessboard from above.

Huh…?

I narrowed my eyes.

Virtual blue lines began to draw themselves across my vision.

The players’ movements, the ball’s trajectory, even the defenders’ lines of sight—everything converted into data and poured into my head.

Ajax were on the attack.

A midfielder held the ball and scanned forward. Tomas raised his hand and shouted for it.

“Here! To my feet!”

Tomas had his back to the opposing center-back—the massive figure of van Dijk. Standing well over 190 cm, van Dijk was simply waiting for Tomas to come receive the ball, like a predator waiting for prey.

Don’t give it to him.

I screamed it inside my head.

But the midfielder threaded the pass toward Tomas anyway.

In that instant—

Thud!

“Ugh!”

Before the ball even reached Tomas’s foot, van Dijk shoved him hard from behind. Tomas was sent flying without a chance to resist. The ball dropped at van Dijk’s feet and immediately became a counterattack the other way.

An inevitable result.

“Idiot.”

I muttered without thinking.

From a third-person perspective, Tomas’s play looked painfully crude.

Defenders instinctively fix their attention on the man with the ball. The moment the pass arrives, that zone becomes a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠“red zone” where the density of pressure spikes to its highest.

And Tomas had walked straight into the middle of that red zone—backing into a defender whose physicality completely outclassed his own.

Did I… used to do that too?

A chill ran down my spine.

Before the growth pains hit, I had done exactly that. Trusting my speed and technique, I had carved into tight spaces. It had worked then—because my body still responded.

But now?

My body was bigger, slower, clumsier. My center of gravity floated high.

If I collided with a monster like van Dijk in this state?

I would have been launched even more pitifully than Tomas. My knees might have been wrecked for good.

I can’t win.

I had to admit it.

With this body, the direct approach would never beat them. Strength against strength, speed against speed—I would lose every single time.

So then…

Was there no way?

Was I doomed to rot on the bench?

I looked at the pitch again.

This time not at Tomas, but at van Dijk.

When Tomas dropped deep to receive, van Dijk abandoned his position and stepped out with him—pressing hard.

In that moment—

Huh?

Behind van Dijk.

The center-back spot he was supposed to occupy.

An empty space had opened. Roughly three seconds of it—a no-man’s-land until van Dijk recovered.

What if…

Instead of stubbornly trying to hold the ball, Tomas had simply dragged van Dijk even deeper?

And what if Ryan, the winger, had burst into that vacated space?

I don’t actually need to hold the ball and fight, do I?

I heard the click of a light switch flipping on inside my head.

Click.

A striker’s job is to score goals.

But there is no law that says I have to be the one who scores them.

If I become the bait and pull the defender out, a highway opens for my teammates.

My absence itself creates space.

“See something interesting, do you?”

The sudden voice made me jump. I whipped my head around.

It was Coach Frank de Boer.

The tiger of a teacher stood beside me with his arms folded, staring out at the pitch with that trademark blank expression. I had no idea when he had arrived.

“C-Coach.”

I scrambled to stand.

“Stay seated. Legs hurt, don’t they?”

He waved me down and dropped heavily onto the ground next to me. The smell of sweat and grass washed over us.

“The wall-kicking stopped, so I came to check if you were slacking. What were you staring at so hard?”

Instead of scolding me, he simply followed my gaze toward the field.

“…Tomas looks frustrating.”

“Why?”

“He only runs into the places the defenders are waiting for him. Like a moth to a flame.”

I spoke honestly.

“See that center-back, van Dijk? He loves physical battles. He’s just waiting for the striker to come back him. That’s what he does best. And Tomas walks right into it and fights him on his terms.”

Frank’s eyebrow twitched. Interest.

“Accurate. So what about you? If you were out there right now, what would you do? In your current condition you’d hold up even worse than Tomas. Get knocked flying and start whining again?”

He jabbed straight at the sore spot. This time I didn’t flinch.

The simulation in my head was already finished.

“I wouldn’t collide.”

At my answer Frank turned and looked me full in the face.

“Wouldn’t collide? A striker running away from defenders?”

“No. Not running away—drawing them out.”

“Oh?”

“If van Dijk loves physical battles, then I do the thing he hates most.”

“Which is?”

“Make him bored.”

“……!”

Frank’s eyes widened.

I pointed at the pitch with one finger.

“I stand up front, but I drop all the way back to the midfield line—or even the halfway line—to receive. Then van Dijk has to choose. Does he follow me all the way out here, or does he stand there staring at me like an idiot?”

“If he follows?”

“Then the space he leaves behind becomes the Pacific Ocean. Our wingers run into it and it’s a one-on-one chance.”

“If he doesn’t follow?”

“Then I receive the ball with zero pressure. I can turn and play a through ball, or hit a long-range shot—whatever I want. We’ve got the numerical advantage.”

Frank was silent for a moment.

He looked me up and down as if appraising a jewel he had never seen before.

Then a faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. It was the first time I had ever seen him smile on the training ground.

“Finally opened your eyes.”

“Sir?”

Frank roughly ruffled my hair.

“Do you know why I pulled you from team training? It wasn’t just to punish you for getting cocky.”

He pointed at the pitch.

“All this time you’ve only been ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠watching the ball. Looking at the trees. Your talent was so high you could still cut through the forest just by staring at individual trees.

But when the body changes, the play has to change. Your body isn’t what it used to be. Stare only at the trees and you’ll lose the path.”

Strength entered his voice.

“There are things you can only see when you stop and look.

I stood you in front of that wall because ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I wanted you to stop on your own and see the forest. Luckily, I wasn’t wrong.”

He confessed that my punishment had never been simple discipline—it had been a coaching staff “big picture” designed to force my vision wider. Something he had discussed with Coach van Basten himself.

“Go wash up. That’s enough for today.”

Frank rose to his feet.

“Um… can I rejoin team training?”

I asked carefully.

He shook his head.

“No. You’re still far from ready. Understanding it in your head is one thing; mastering it with your body is another. You have to close the gap between theory and practice.”

He turned away and tossed the next words over his shoulder.

“Tomorrow morning, come to the video analysis room. There’s a guy who took that ‘football without colliding,’ that ‘false movement’ you just described, and raised it to the level of art. Study his footage.”

“Who?”

“The alien at Barcelona.”

With that, Frank de Boer strolled away.

Barcelona. The alien.

There was only one answer.

Lionel Messi.

I looked back at the pitch.

Tomas was still pouring sweat, locked in meaningless wrestling matches with the defenders. He almost looked pitiful.

Idiot. Football isn’t played with the feet. It’s played with the head—and with the eyes.

I gathered my things and stood. The pain in my knees was still there. The limp in my walk remained.

But my heart felt light enough to fly.

Because the path I had to take—the way I would survive—was now crystal clear.

The way to win without fighting.

The way to exist by not existing.

I started running toward the dormitory. No—I walked at a quick pace. I had to spare my knees.

I needed to get a tablet PC from Ho-seok hyung as soon as possible.

The tactic that had risen in my mind.

False 9.

This was the only key that would let a thirteen-year-old me survive the forest of giants—and become king.