How to Hunt Giants
"Judo?"
Ryan echoed blankly.
In the halftime locker room—reeking of sweat, liniment, and the sour tang of defeat—martial arts talk had come out of nowhere.
"Yeah. What's the principle of judo?"
Gang-cheol drew a huge circle on the tactics board. The eyes of the seventeen-year-old seniors locked onto the thirteen-year-old youngest's fingertips.
"You use the other guy's power against him. Pull the one who pushes. Push the one who pulls."
His blue eyes flashed.
"Those PSV bastards are hyped right now. They crushed us with pure force in the first half, so they'll try the exact same thing after the break. The second they see the ball, they'll charge like bulls at full sprint."
He tapped the board with the tip of his pen.
"What happens if you meet a charging bull head-on? You die. They won't even find your bones. You saw me go flying earlier, right?"
"W-well, yeah. You're light."
"So what do we do?"
Silence hung for a moment before Tomas spoke carefully.
"D-dodge?"
"Bingo."
Gang-cheol grinned.
"But we don't just run away. We use their speed and their heavy weight against them. They're massive—over eighty kilos of pure bulk. Once they get going, it takes forever to stop. Their turns are sluggish too."
Instead of complicated passing lanes, he sketched a few simple arrows on the board. The pattern looked exactly like the paths of a bullfight.
"Second-half tactics are one thing only. Operation name: Matador."
"Matador?"
"When you get the ball, wait for them to come. Don't flinch—draw them in as close as you can. Then, right before impact..."
He flipped his palm over.
"Disappear."
Peeeeep—!
The referee's whistle sliced through the heavy air of De Kuip, signaling the start of the second half.
Score: 0–1.
The stadium atmosphere still belonged completely to PSV. The fans filling half the stands were already singing victory songs.
At midfield, PSV captain van Bommel Jr. chewed his gum and glared at Gang-cheol.
"Still here, brat? Second half I'll make you cry all the way into the ambulance."
Gang-cheol didn't answer. He simply steadied his breathing.
Heart of Composure (S)
Excess adrenaline suppressed. Heart rate held at 60 bpm.
His heart went cold. Fear vanished, replaced by the razor clarity of a calculator.
Come on, you giants.
Fifth minute of the second half.
Gang-cheol received a pass near the center circle.
As if he had been waiting for exactly this, PSV's hulking defensive midfielder—Dumfries, seventeen, 185 cm, 82 kg—charged like a tank.
"Got you, you little rat!"
Thud, thud, thud.
The ground shook under the massive charge. In the first half Gang-cheol would have passed early or flinched in fear.
Instead he stopped dead.
He planted his sole on the ball—La Pausa—and jerked his chin toward the onrushing Dumfries.
Closer. Closer still.
Dumfries's eyes rolled. A thirteen-year-old was baiting him?
He never slowed. He launched his body at Gang-cheol's shoulder, fully intending to drive the kid into the advertising boards.
Two meters.
One meter.
Half a meter.
The instant he felt the hot breath on his face—
Flexibility (S) + Phantom Turn
Snap—!
Gang-cheol's upper body cracked like a whip.
He feinted a touch to the right, then instantly snapped his ankle and folded left.
A modified Marseille turn—scraping the ball with the sole while spinning 180 degrees.
"Wha—?"
Dumfries's pupils shook. The prey that had been right in front of him vanished like a mirage.
Inertia.
Eighty-two kilos of giant could not brake. Like a truck with blown brakes, Dumfries hurtled through empty air and crashed into the space Gang-cheol had just occupied.
Crash—!
"Gaaah!"
The giant tumbled gracelessly across the grass. Dust rose.
Gang-cheol glided past him as if he were a matador lifting the red cape and letting the enraged bull thunder by—elegant, effortless.
"Waaaaaah!!"
The Ajax stands erupted.
It was the signal for the counterattack.
"Push up!"
Gang-cheol waved them forward.
The Ajax players' eyes changed. It works. Watching the giant fall shattered the fear that had been crushing their chests.
Fifteenth minute of the second half.
The tide reversed. Or rather, the entire pattern of the match twisted into something strange.
Whenever PSV players charged to crush them with force, the Ajax side—following Gang-cheol's instructions—simply flicked the ball around and slipped away.
The more frustrated the PSV players became, the rougher they got, and the faster their stamina drained.
Spaces opened wider and wider.
"Stay calm! Hold your positions! Don't charge!"
Van Bommel Jr. screamed, but the bulls with blood in their eyes could no longer hear him.
Twenty-fifth minute.
The gap finally appeared.
Gang-cheol collected the ball at the edge of the penalty arc—the danger zone.
This time the captain himself stepped up. A 188-centimeter wall blocked Gang-cheol's path.
Unlike the others, he didn't charge. He kept his distance, hands behind his back.
"Hmph. Not falling for it this time. Your little tricks won't work."
Cut off the lane and hold. Smart. Exactly what you'd expect from a top-club captain and Netherlands U-17 center-back.
Gang-cheol just smirked.
"Not coming? Then I'll come to you."
He dropped his right shoulder with a soft thump.
Body feint.
Van Bommel's center of gravity twitched in response—tiny, almost invisible. But the Regressors' Eyes never missed it.
His stance is too wide.
The classic weakness of big players: they plant their feet apart to stay balanced.
Gang-cheol's toes flashed like lightning.
Tap.
The ball slid cleanly between van Bommel's legs.
A humiliating nutmeg.
"You little—!"
Van Bommel reflexively grabbed for the jersey, but Gang-cheol had already slipped past like a squirrel.
Through.
One-on-one with the keeper.
Gang-cheol shaped to shoot. The PSV goalkeeper flinched and prepared to dive.
But the choice wasn't a shot.
Tap.
A soft square pass.
Ryan, storming in from the opposite side, rolled the ball into the empty net.
Ripple—!
1 – 1
"Yeeeeeah!! Equalizer! We're level!!"
Ryan roared and wrapped Gang-cheol in a bear hug.
Half of De Kuip exploded in red. Van Bommel's face turned purple as he kicked the turf. The shame of being nutmegged by a thirteen-year-old and then conceding the equalizer had short-circuited his brain.
The momentum had completely flipped.
Physically, PSV were now the ones in trouble. All that wasted power with heavy bodies left their legs feeling like they were stuck in mud once the thirtieth minute passed.
Gang-cheol and the Ajax players, who had moved efficiently, were still fresh.
Fortieth minute.
The PSV bench looked like a funeral.
If it went to extra time they were finished. The giants' stamina was gone.
End it now.
Gang-cheol felt it in his bones.
This was the moment to cut the prey's throat.
He took the ball in midfield.
The PSV back line was exhausted, gaps yawning between them.
Gang-cheol recalled the dribbling rhythm of his previous life's idol—Lionel Messi.
Tap-tap, tap-tap.
He adjusted speed with tiny touches, dragging two defenders with him.
The seventeen-year-olds lunged, gasping, but the ball stayed glued to his instep like a magnet.
Ball Control (S) + Balance (A+)
Into the box.
Van Bommel Jr. dug for one last desperate tackle.
It wasn't defending. It was a scything challenge from behind—aimed at the ankle, not the ball. A final, murderous thrash.
"Look out!"
The crowd screamed.
But Gang-cheol's Regressors' Eyes (S) had already seen the tackle three seconds earlier.
Too late, giant.
The instant the challenge came in, he trapped the ball between both ankles.
Then he hopped.
A frog jump.
The same trick Ronaldinho of Brazil and Blanco of Mexico had once made famous.
Gang-cheol's body floated lightly over van Bommel's lethal lunge.
"No way..."
Face-down in the dirt, van Bommel lifted his head.
In slow motion he watched Gang-cheol land.
The number 14 on the back of the jersey that now stood perfectly between him and the goalkeeper.
Gang-cheol didn't hesitate.
He curled the ball with the inside of his right foot.
The keeper stretched desperately, but the ball painted a beautiful arc and nestled into the far corner.
Swish!
The net rippled with the clear ring of a bell.
2 – 1
The go-ahead goal.
And, for all intents and purposes, the winner.
"Wooooooaaaaah!!!!"
The Ajax stands detonated. Flares bloomed. Beer sprayed into the night sky.
Gang-cheol didn't sprint to the corner flag.
He simply stopped where he was, popped his collar, spread both arms wide, and lifted his chin in pure arrogance.
The King's Celebration—Eric Cantona of Old Trafford.
See it? Who the real giant is.
The fallen PSV giants on the pitch looked up at the thirteen-year-old and shuddered.
This wasn't just a talented footballer.
This was an overwhelming predator who had toyed with them.
Peeeeeeep—!
The final whistle cut through the Rotterdam night sky.
Ajax—champions of the KNVB U-17 Cup.
The moment thirteen-year-old Ma Gang-cheol planted the first flag of his European conquest.
"We won! We actually won!"
Ajax players poured off the bench and buried him under a pile of bodies.
Hoisted into the air, Gang-cheol saw the night stars pour down as if they might fall into his eyes.
I did it.
A European title he had never even dreamed of in his previous life.
And an overwhelming performance on a U-17 stage he had skipped into early.
He had proven it. Physique? Age? In the face of real ability, they were nothing but excuses.
The awards ceremony.
The tournament MVP trophy and the top-scorer trophy settled into Gang-cheol's arms.
And finally, the great silver cup.
Captain de Ligt handed it over without hesitation.
"You lift it. We never would have made it here without you."
Gang-cheol didn't refuse.
He raised the trophy high.
"Waaaaaah!!!!"
Camera flashes burst like thousands of stars.
In that blinding light, thirteen-year-old Ma Gang-cheol was crowned the new king of the Netherlands.
But Gang-cheol had no idea.
Behind this glittering triumph, a larger and darker shadow was already closing in on him.
VIP box.
A middle-aged man who had watched every second of Gang-cheol's performance lifted his phone.
"Yes, Chairman. This is the one. No—he's beyond 'the one.' You'd better prepare a blank check."
The war of Europe's football agents.
The black sharks had smelled blood, and they were coming.