The Call of the Red Tiger

Three days had passed since the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠"dangerous dinner" with Lee Ye-rin.

As expected, the paparazzi photos slammed both the entertainment and sports pages in the Netherlands and Korea at once.

But both sides moved fast. LK Group drew a firm line, calling it "a business meeting for a promising prospect sponsorship contract," while Ajax itself kept quiet under the banner of "protecting the player's private life."

The noise marketing was a massive success. Gang-cheol's name recognition exploded beyond soccer fans into the general public, and the "soccer genius" label now carried ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the premium of "a star watched by a chaebol family."

The man himself, however, stood a step removed from the chaos. The place he occupied was no glittering banquet hall—it was a training ground thick with the stench of sweat.

"Hah... hah..."

Ragged breathing filled the pitch.

Ajax's training ground: De Toekomst.

A strange tension hung over the place.

"Hey, that little brat... no, Ma Gang-cheol. Is he actually insane?"

A player on the bench crushed his water bottle as he muttered.

An internal scrimmage was in full swing on the field. But the faces involved were anything but ordinary.

Aside from the thirteen-year-old Ma Gang-cheol, the other twenty-one players were not U-17s.

They were the starters of Ajax's U-19 side—already on the verge of senior contracts. Average height: 185 cm. Fully grown nineteen-year-old European youths.

Through that forest of giants, a mid-170s East Asian boy darted like a squirrel.

"Stop him! Don't give him space!"

U-19's starting center-back, the 192 cm giant Van den Bergh, roared as he charged in.

This was no casual practice match. Pride was on the line. If word got out that they had been toyed with by a thirteen-year-old skip-year kid, promotion to the first team would sail right out the window.

Boom. Boom. Boom!

Van den Bergh drove forward like a tank.

Gang-cheol received the ball and turned his back.

Heavy.

It was definitely different from U-17. Nineteen was essentially adult. Even the thickness of the bones was another level. The force shoving from behind felt like a boulder crushing down.

Yet a leisurely smile curved Gang-cheol's lips.

If I brace with pure strength, I'll snap. But if I let it flow?

Gang-cheol pretended to hold his ground, shifting his weight backward—then, the instant his opponent committed, he twisted his body in a sharp whip of motion.

"Wha—?"

All the power Van den Bergh had poured into the shove spilled into empty air.

Inertia.

The giant's frame lurched forward; his balance shattered.

In that split-second gap, Gang-cheol scraped the ball with the sole of his foot and spun a full 180 degrees.

"He's gone!"

Gang-cheol left the fallen defender standing like a scarecrow and exploded into a sprint.

One-on-one with the keeper.

The U-19 starting goalkeeper narrowed the angle and rushed out. His frame was mountain-sized.

Gang-cheol feinted a shot, eyes flicking toward the far right corner.

The keeper's body leaned that way.

Got him.

Gang-cheol's ankle flexed with liquid ease.

Tap.

Eyes right. Ball left.

A perfect no-look finish.

The ball seemed to roll almost lazily—yet it slipped just past the keeper's fingertips and was sucked into the net.

Ripple—!

Silence.

Then gasps and admiration erupted together.

"Whoa... he's a real monster."

"How is that thirteen? Is there a thirty-year-old old man ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠living inside him?"

The U-19 seniors shook their heads in hollow defeat. They had no choice but to admit it. Physically he might lag, but his soccer IQ and technique already belonged to another tier entirely.

On the second-floor terrace of the main stand, two men who had watched every second of it felt their eyes flash.

Ajax technical director Marc Overmars and the youth academy director.

"What do you think?"

Overmars asked, arms folded.

"The report was wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Yes. This isn't 'he has talent.' That kid is... finished. Fully formed. Drop him onto the Eredivisie substitute bench right now and he'd hold his own."

The director's voice shook with excitement.

A thirteen-year-old in the first team? Unprecedented. Yet the performance unfolding before their eyes was turning the impossible into reality.

"Good. Effective today, Ma Gang-cheol is confirmed for official promotion to the U-17 squad and concurrent training with the U-19s. Youngest skip-year in club history."

Overmars signed the document with a satisfied smile.

Ajax's new jewel. Raise this boy right, and Champions League glory a few years down the line was no mere dream. And after that, the astronomical transfer fees...

That was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠when someone came sprinting from the training-ground entrance, out of breath.

It was Gang-cheol's manager, Ho-seok. His face had gone ashen.

"Director! Marc Director!"

Overmars's brow furrowed.

"What is it? Making a racket during training."

"Th-that is... a fax just arrived from Korea!"

The paper Ho-seok thrust forward was sweat-soaked and crumpled. But the red emblem stamped at the top remained crystal clear.

A tiger.

Overmars's eyebrow twitched as he read the contents.

"U-17 World Cup... national team call-up?"

One hour later. Club conference room.

The air hung heavy. The air-conditioning worked fine, yet Ho-seok's back was soaked in cold sweat.

Across the table, a negotiation had been set.

On one side: a grim-faced Overmars and the club lawyer.

On the other: the thirteen-year-old boy Ma Gang-cheol and Ho-seok.

"I'll cut to the chase. Denied."

Overmars tossed the official letter onto the desk like discarded trash. His voice left no room for compromise.

"Ma. You're this club's future. You saw training just now, right? We're planning to bring you into U-19 sessions—no, soon enough into first-team training with Jong Ajax. Do you understand how critical this window is for your entire career?"

Gang-cheol nodded silently.

He knew.

From a European club's perspective, a call-up to an Asian youth tournament was nothing short of disaster. Fifteen-plus hours of flight time one way. Jet-lag issues. And above all, the risk of injury on poor pitches and from reckless tackles.

No owner willingly throws the goose that lays golden eggs into a mud pit.

"Besides, under FIFA regulations, age-group World Cups are not mandatory release tournaments. If we refuse, that's the end of it. We'll send the Korea Football Association a polite rejection letter."

Overmars's reasoning was sound. Ho-seok tugged at Gang-cheol's sleeve from the side.

"Gang-cheol, the director's right. Let's just let this one go. You're still young."

But Gang-cheol's gaze was locked on the translucent system window floating in midair.

All stats +2...

Insane rewards. And he was supposed to walk away from this?

On top of that, the title [National Hero] would later exert enormous influence on advertising revenue and sponsorship deals.

Gang-cheol slowly opened his mouth.

"Director, your logic is flawless. There's injury risk, and training here might help my technical growth more."

"Exactly. Smart kid. So rest this time."

"But, Director."

Gang-cheol lifted his head. The light in his eyes had changed. These were no longer the eyes of a thirteen-year-old boy.

"Why did I come to Ajax?"

"...To become the best player in the world."

"Correct. And to become the best in the world, you can't grow like a flower in a greenhouse."

Gang-cheol rose from his seat.

"The Dutch league is excellent. But here, only 'well-ordered European football' exists. I want to experience South America's unpredictable individual skill, Africa's explosive physique, Asia's tenacious organization—all of it."

"You think that's an excuse?"

"It's not an excuse. It's experience. So I don't become a frog in a well."

"A frog in a well?"

Overmars let out a short, incredulous laugh. Calling Ajax—proud of the world's finest youth system—a "well."

"And..."

Gang-cheol clenched his fist tight.

"My country called me."

"Patriotism? In the professional world that's sentimental nonsense. Your market value no longer belongs to you. You're Ajax's asset."

"No. It's not sentiment. It's proof."

Sparks flew in Gang-cheol's eyes.

"Just as I conquered the European youth stage wearing Ajax's colors, I'll go devour the world stage in the red jersey. I'll show the entire planet how great Ajax's youth system truly is—and then I'll come back."

"......"

Overmars lost his words.

This was no mere stubbornness. Ambition blazed in the boy's eyes—a ruthless hunger to prove his worth and climb higher still.

It was like looking at himself in his prime, or like staring at the bad-boy product of Ajax, Zlatan Ibrahimovic.

"If the club forces me to stay..."

Gang-cheol threw down the gauntlet.

"I won't be happy here. I won't be able to focus on training. I might even start coasting."

"You... you insolent little—!"

Overmars shot to his feet. The office air froze solid.

Yet Gang-cheol did not so much as blink as he stared straight up at him.

A taut battle of wills.

In the end, the first to look away was Overmars.

He exhaled a long, deep sigh and sank back into his chair.

"Haa... I lose. Fine. Go. Just go!"

"Thank you."

"But! There are conditions."

Overmars held up two fingers.

"First: if you fail to reach the semis or better, you come back to hell training. Second: if you return with so much as a single hair out of place, first-team training is cancelled that day. Clear?"

Gang-cheol flashed a grin.

"Don't worry. First-team training is as good as reserved. And..."

He turned at the door.

"I'll add one more championship trophy for you, so clear some space in the display case."

That night. Amsterdam Schiphol Airport.

The departure gate was pure pandemonium.

Korean correspondents, local reporters, and fans who had heard of Gang-cheol's return home had flooded in, paralyzing the terminal.

"Gang-cheol, you're really going? No regrets?"

Ho-seok handed over the passport and ticket and asked one last time.

"Hyung. I'm going to eat kimchi stew. What's there to regret?"

Gang-cheol adjusted the black sunglasses Lee Ye-rin had gifted him.

His airport fashion was flawless: designer hoodie, ripped jeans, carry-on in one hand. Pure superstar aura.

"Ma Gang-cheol! Look this way, please!"

"What's your goal for this World Cup?!"

"Is the Ajax first-team promotion rumor true?!"

A barrage of flashes exploded. It was almost blinding.

Gang-cheol stopped walking and faced the reporters.

Then, slowly, he raised his right index finger and pressed it to his lips.

Shh.

When the crowd quieted, he extended the finger and pointed straight at the sky.

One finger.

A bold, arrogant declaration from a thirteen-year-old boy: he was going to win it all.

"Waaaaaah!!"

The fans' cheers erupted.

Gang-cheol never looked back as he vanished through the gate.

The red tiger who had conquered Europe was now baring its fangs toward the jungle called the world.