Class Is Eternal

"Hey, Ma Gang-cheol! You hit the news and now your body's like this? Did you burn yourself out fighting a truck?"

Park Min-su's taunt cut sharply across the dusty playground. The kids from Class 4 clutched their stomachs and snickered, jeering at Gang-cheol, while his own classmates watched his face with worried eyes. Still on one knee in the dirt, Gang-cheol rose slowly. He brushed the rough soil from his knees, his expression astonishingly calm. To a thirty-five-year-old soul, an elementary schooler's childish provocation was nothing more than the light drone of cicadas brushing past his ear on a summer day.

But inside his head, tangled wires of complicated sensation were sparking.

Definitely... the reaction's slow. This isn't just a lack of strength.

Gang-cheol sucked in a ragged breath and muttered to himself.

"Status window."

A translucent blue window bloomed across his vision. The numbers for each ability shone far more clearly than before.

Gang-cheol's brow furrowed. At the Korean elementary school level (U-12), a Physical and Physical Execution rating of A was the kind of talent that would be called a genius anywhere in the country. No matter how hard kids like Park Min-su tried to bully him with size, the system had already certified that Gang-cheol's body far surpassed the limits of his peers.

It's not that the body's bad. At elementary level this body's already god-tier. So why the hell did I mess up?

He replayed the phantom dribble that had just failed. The design in his head had been perfect—collapse the opponent's center of gravity half a second early, then explode into the gap with a burst of acceleration. In his prime, Gang-cheol could have done it with his eyes closed.

The problem was the one issuing the orders. The precision and speed of a thirty-five-year-old pro-level sense (S+) simply could not be physically digested ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by an eleven-year-old body (A), no matter how outstanding it was among youth players.

It's not bad hardware. My senses are just too far ahead. Stick a supercar engine in a compact and floor it—of course the car flips.

Gang-cheol looked down at his toes. Through the worn indoor shoes he felt the texture of the ground. One by one he summoned the sensations he had learned to survive on the rough turf of the K3 League, or on the hard cement of construction sites in his previous life.

Match the speed of the commands my brain issues to the rhythm of this child's body. Don't force myself to run like an adult. Find the optimal tempo this eleven-year-old body can produce.

He narrowed his eyes and swept the entire playground.

His field of view expanded exponentially once more. It was a dimension apart from the kids who simply chased the ball. The clumsy positioning of Class 3's back line, the over-aggressive high press of Class 4's midfield, and far out on the wing the restless path of Cheol-su—who was only stamping his feet—were all drawn in transparent lines of light. The playground was wide, yet to Gang-cheol it lay as open as the palm of his hand.

"Cheol-su! Don't push up so far! Drop five meters and open the space! From there I can't find a passing angle!"

At Gang-cheol's sharp shout Cheol-su flinched and shifted. The other kids looked puzzled; they had no idea what that positioning meant. But in Gang-cheol's eyes those five meters were the decisive zone that raised the chance of a goal by more than thirty percent.

"Min-su, ball's coming. Wake up."

He tossed the short warning at Park Min-su, who was marking him, then strode purposefully into the center. Not with the heavy stride of an adult man, but with short, light steps perfectly matched to an eleven-year-old's physical rhythm.

Class 4's goalkeeper launched a long ball that sliced high through the autumn sky. The drop zone was right between Gang-cheol and Min-su. Min-su lowered his massive frame and charged like a wild boar, ready for a physical battle.

If I go strength-for-strength right now I'll get bounced. The only answer is to claim the drop zone first and reverse his center of gravity.

Gang-cheol moved a beat earlier than Min-su. Reading the ball's trajectory was already pure veteran instinct. Just before Min-su drove his shoulder in, Gang-cheol used the rebound the instant the ball kissed the ground and flicked it lightly onto his instep. Calling it a "trap" felt almost disrespectful—it was that elegant. The ball stuck to his foot as if magnetized. Min-su's shoulder charge met only empty air; he staggered and lost his balance.

"First one."

The moment he secured the ball Gang-cheol released it without hesitation out to the wing.

The ball arrived exactly in the space he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had pointed out earlier. While the opposing defense scrambled toward Cheol-su, Gang-cheol ghosted into the empty pocket like a phantom.

If the legs are slow, start running early. If there's no space, create it. Soccer isn't played with the legs alone. It's played with the head.

He received the return pass from Cheol-su. In an instant three Class 4 defenders had surrounded him—pressure that would have been crushing at elementary school level. Yet Gang-cheol's mind was colder than freezing point.

Right-side defender—left ankle angle is open. Center back—eyes glued only to the ball. Now.

He swung his leg in a big fake shot.

"Block it! It's a shot!"

The defenders crouched to smother the ball with their bodies. But Gang-cheol's foot never struck. Instead he scraped the ball gently backward with the sole—a drag-back. Their timing collapsed completely; they tangled into one another.

In that split second he locked onto Cheol-su, already streaking toward goal from the opposite wing.

I'll show you. This is what a real killer pass looks like.

The ball left Gang-cheol's toes and threaded between the three defenders' legs like a needle. A ruler-straight line. A devastating pass that shattered Class 4's defensive line in a single stroke.

"Cheol-su, just touch it in!"

Cheol-su didn't even need to control it. All he had to do was let his momentum carry him and stick out a foot—perfect chance.

Thwack!

The dull sound of the net bulging rolled across the playground. Class ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠3 kids roared and swarmed Cheol-su.

"Wooooah! Kim Cheol-su! Insane! That looked like the World Cup!"

But the scorer himself stood frozen, a shiver running through him. He knew. That goal had not been his. He sprinted to Gang-cheol, leapt onto his back, and yelled,

"Gang-cheol! Did you see that pass?! The ball stopped right on my foot! I just stuck my leg out and it went in!"

"Nice one, Cheol-su. It only worked because you made the run at the right time."

Gang-cheol ruffled Cheol-su's hair and glanced aside. In the corner of the playground, Team Leader Choi Hyeon-seok—sunglasses still on—had frozen with his pen mid-stroke. Mouth half open, he stared in stunned awe, etching every one of Gang-cheol's movements into his mind.

My turn now, is it?

The score was 1–1. Only five minutes remained until the final whistle.

"Hey, Ma Gang-cheol! Don't get cocky just 'cause you lucked into one pass! This time I'm really gonna break your legs!"

Park Min-su ground his teeth and closed in. Pride thoroughly shredded, he was no longer playing soccer—he was trying to take Gang-cheol down. Gang-cheol watched him and smiled coldly.

Fine. If that's how you want it, I'll fully synchronize the senses inside me with this small body. I finally understand the optimal rhythm an eleven-year-old body can produce.

He received the ball in the center. This time he did not pass. He drove it himself straight into Class 4's half. Min-su bared a vicious grin and charged like a bull.

"Die!"

A brutal sliding tackle. Dirt exploded in every direction. Gang-cheol did not close his eyes. He widened them and caught the exact instant Min-su's toes were about to meet the ball.

He no longer tried to force a child's body to move like an adult's. Instead he maximized the very things only a light child's body could do—nimbleness and a tiny turning radius.

Just before Min-su's foot reached the ball, Gang-cheol's right foot tapped it left. Then, in less than a tenth of a second, his left foot shoved it back to the right as if it had been waiting.

The phantom dribble that had failed earlier.

But this time it was different. Not an adult's stride—a short-version phantom dribble perfectly optimized for an eleven-year-old's short legs. For the first time the brain's command and the legs' movement formed perfect harmony.

"Wha...?"

The ball vanished from Min-su's sight. He couldn't even track Gang-cheol's afterimage. Caught in his own empty swing, Min-su face-planted into the dirt with a heavy thud and went sprawling.

Gang-cheol never stopped. Two more defenders scrambled to block his path. He dipped his upper body hard to the left, selling a body feint.

"Left! Cut him off!"

The instant they were magnetically pulled left, he nudged the ball right and slipped through—a textbook half-space penetration. Only the goalkeeper remained.

With this ankle strength a power shot is impossible. I'll reverse the keeper's psychology instead.

In the one-on-one he brought the ball to a dead stop. The keeper, panicking, rushed out to close the angle. The moment the keeper's weight shifted forward, Gang-cheol's toes stabbed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sharply under the ball.

Tok.

The ball floated in a graceful, lazy parabola over the keeper's head—a chip shot.

It drifted slowly past the keeper's despairing hands and nestled into the far corner of the net.

Thwack.

A heavy silence blanketed the playground. This was not a scene that belonged in elementary school PE. Girls who had been playing dodgeball in the stands, teachers walking past in the distance—everyone froze to watch the unreal moment.

"......"

The PE teacher's whistle finally, belatedly, stretched out long and loud.

Breeeeeeep! Full time.

"Wooooooah!! Ma Gang-cheol! Ma Gang-cheol!! Are you actually insane?!"

Class 3 kids went berserk and piled onto him. As they hoisted him in celebration, Gang-cheol checked the notification windows flooding his vision.

The dull ache in his muscles vanished as if he had inhaled cool mint. Gang-cheol sank to the ground and dragged in rough breaths. The reward was only 0.1, yet he could feel it—his soul had bound itself a little more tightly, a little more finely, to this young body.

"Gang-cheol, you... what the hell are you? Where did you secretly learn soccer? That's the kind of stuff Zidane does!"

Cheol-su sputtered with excitement, but Gang-cheol only answered with a satisfied smile.

From a distance Team Leader Choi Hyeon-seok lifted his phone with a trembling hand. On his notepad the words "Body Control Ability: SSS-rank" had been scrawled in a frantic hand.

"Chairman... it's me. Choi Hyeon-seok. Yes... I'm watching him right now. No, this isn't mere talent. This child... is already complete. No—there's something beyond that. Did you see that chip just now? That wasn't technique. That was intelligence. We need the contract ready immediately. If we lose him, Korean soccer will regret it for a hundred years."

Gang-cheol wiped his face with a towel and looked up at the sky—the clear autumn sky of 2013.

See that? This is the real soccer a third-rate player's ghost can show you.

He clenched his fist tight. Now it was time to start overhauling the hardware in earnest.

"Now it begins."

Gang-cheol's eyes flashed like a hunter's. His second soccer life had just begun to roar forward with explosive force.