Airport Chaos and the Dinosaur Coach

Incheon International Airport, Arrival Gate E.

On any ordinary day this place would have been filled with a comfortable bustle of travelers and waiting families. Today it looked like a war zone.

"Hey, when is he coming out? The plane landed thirty minutes ago!"

"Stop shoving! You're going to break my camera!"

Hundreds of people craned their necks over the barriers. Entertainment reporters with telephoto lenses, soccer fans in full kit, and curious passersby who had simply stopped to stare—every pair of eyes was locked on the automatic doors.

Whoosh—

The heavy doors finally slid open, and a boy stepped into view.

Designer sunglasses, an oversized hoodie, ripped jeans—a fourteen-year-old who looked like he had walked straight out of a fashion spread. One hand held a suitcase, the other a passport.

The airport erupted.

"Kyaaaaaah!! Ma Gang-cheol!!"

"Gang-cheol! Look over here! Over here!"

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop—!

Hundreds of flashes exploded at once, a blinding white flood that nearly erased the world. Gang-cheol paused for half a second, then offered an easy smile and raised a hand.

"Hello."

His voice was quiet, but its impact was enormous. Girl fans stamped their feet and screamed; reporters fired questions while their shutters never stopped.

"Ma Gang-cheol! How does it feel to have conquered the Dutch league?"

"Is the Ajax first-team promotion rumor true? What about the twenty-billion-won transfer fee?"

"Is your goal for this U-17 World Cup the championship?"

Security guards sweated as they held ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the crowd back. Gang-cheol slid his sunglasses down just enough to wink at the press.

"My goal? I came here to win, not to sightsee."

"Ooooooh!!"

Bold, confident, perfect. Tomorrow's front-page headline was already written.

The Monster Returns: "Only the Title Matters."

After accepting a few gifts and letters from fans, Gang-cheol climbed into the waiting black van. The door shut, the tinted windows sealed the world away, and silence finally arrived.

"Huuu..."

He pulled off the sunglasses and sank deep into the seat. In the driver's seat, Ho-seok hyung glanced at him through the rearview mirror and grinned.

"So? How's it feel being a superstar?"

"Shut up, hyung. My ears are ringing."

"Dude, that was idol-level. Did you see those high-school girls calling you 'oppa'? You're way younger than them."

Ho-seok cackled. Gang-cheol couldn't help a small laugh of his own.

Compared to the miserable obscurity of his previous life, this roar of adoration was pure narcotic. But he couldn't get high on it. The real war was only beginning.

"Straight to Paju?"

"Yeah. National team assembly by two o'clock. We'll grab some kimbap on the way for lunch."

The van shot down the airport expressway. Gang-cheol watched the Korean landscape slide past the window—the Han River, forests of apartment towers, Bukhansan rising in the distance. A landscape he had missed.

Yet he already knew that what waited at the end of that landscape was not a flower path, but a road of thorns.

K-NFC — the Korea National Football Center.

They called it the heart of Korean soccer. The first impression Gang-cheol got when he arrived felt less like a heart and more like a military base.

"Fall in! Look at those sluggish movements!"

The moment he reached the pitch, the shouting hit him. Players in fluorescent training vests stood in a single line on the parade ground—no, the field—receiving a full-volume dressing-down. The atmosphere was murderous.

As Gang-cheol dragged his suitcase closer, a middle-aged man with a whistle in his mouth slowly turned his head.

U-17 national team head coach Kim Tae-hoon.

He looked Gang-cheol up and down, then frowned.

"Hey. Europe boy."

The first words were already dripping with sarcasm.

"Did you eat your sense of time for breakfast? What time do you think it is?"

"It's five past two. There was a delay at the airport because of the crowd—"

"No excuses!"

Coach Kim Tae-hoon roared, spit flying.

"This is the national team. I don't care if they treated you like a prince in the Netherlands—here you're just the youngest. Got it?"

Gang-cheol's eyes narrowed.

Classic. So textbook it was almost funny. Hierarchy over ability, mental toughness over reason—the chronic disease of Korean soccer. The living embodiment of dinosaur culture stood right in front of him.

"I'm sorry. I'll correct it."

He bowed his head for now. Arguing here would only make things worse. He would prove himself with skill.

Even that obedient attitude seemed to irritate the coach. Kim Tae-hoon pointed at Gang-cheol's hair.

"And what's with that hair? Brown? Is this a nightclub? Dye it black right now."

"......"

"Take the earring out too. Spend that time kicking a ball instead of looking pretty. All style, no substance..."

The surrounding players held their breath and watched Gang-cheol's reaction. Most of them were aces from domestic high-school teams. To them, Ma Gang-cheol was both an object of envy and a target of jealousy. Watching the coach openly pick on him brought a strange mix of relief and satisfaction to some faces.

Ha... long road ahead.

Gang-cheol swallowed a sigh. What did hair color have to do with soccer ability? Ronaldo and Neymar painted rainbows on their heads and still scored for fun. Still, he quietly removed the earring.

"Understood."

"Good. Join in. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Today's training is physical conditioning. Hope the Netherlands water's been wrung out of you."

Training began.

And the content was a masterpiece of absurdity.

No tactical work with the ball.

"Roll left and right! First two finish!"

"Duck walks, now!"

"No water! It kills your mental strength!"

Old-school "hell training" straight out of the eighties. Modern sports science had already labeled this kind of mindless physical grind the height of inefficiency. The "no water" rule in particular was pure horror. Dehydration was a direct path to cramps and injury. At Ajax they forced hydration every fifteen minutes. This place felt more like a Marine Corps boot camp.

No wonder they collapse in the second half.

Gang-cheol was appalled. Yet he followed without complaint. Thirty-five years of hard knocks plus the system-enhanced Iron Physique (S) made this level of punishment feel like a warm-up.

The problem was everyone else.

After one hour the domestic players were on the verge of collapse, foam at their lips, legs cramping, dry-heaving.

"C-Coach... water, please..."

"You little bastards! Get your heads right! On your feet!"

Kim Tae-hoon kicked a fallen player in the backside.

That was the moment Gang-cheol raised his hand.

"Coach."

"What? If you're tired, go home."

"No. I have a suggestion."

His clear voice cut across the parade ground.

"According to scientific data, restricting water intake during exercise increases blood viscosity and triples the risk of cardiac arrest. It also accelerates lactic acid buildup and slows recovery by forty percent."

"......What?"

"Right now we are soldiers who have to fight a war tomorrow. I am curious why the commander is deliberately reducing his troops' combat effectiveness."

Silence.

A suffocating silence fell. Players who had been sprawled on the ground stared at Gang-cheol with round eyes that clearly said He's insane.

Kim Tae-hoon's face went from red to purple.

"You... you insolent little— Are you lecturing me right now?"

"No. I'm stating facts."

"Facts? Kid! I've been a national-team coach for ten years! What the hell do you know?"

The coach stormed forward, ready to grab him by the collar. Gang-cheol didn't flinch. He met the man's eyes straight on.

"Coach. Soccer isn't played with the mouth."

"What?"

"If you're not convinced, I'll prove it. Whether my way is right or yours."

Gang-cheol flicked a rolling ball up with his toe.

"One mini-game. Your team armed with the 'mental strength' you love so much, against the team I lead."

"Ha. Unbelievable."

"If I lose, I'll shave ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my head and live like a corpse under your orders. But if I win..."

Gang-cheol's eyes flashed.

"We change the training methods to my suggestions."

This wasn't a provocation. It was a coup.

Kim Tae-hoon let out a hollow laugh of pure disbelief.

"Fine. This should be fun. Let's see what Europe boy can do."

He divided the teams on the spot—maliciously.

Coach's Team (A): the U-17 starting eleven. Physically strong, fast aces—ten of them.

Gang-cheol's Team (B): the benchwarmers. Players with weak stamina or just returning from injury, plus Gang-cheol.

"Fair enough, right? Start."

Anyone could see the result was predetermined. The B-team players already hung their heads in defeat.

Gang-cheol walked into their midst.

"Hyungs. Heads up."

"Gang-cheol, sorry. We just don't have the skill..."

"No. You don't lack skill. You've just never worn the right clothes."

He pointed at the pitch with one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠finger.

"Just do exactly what I say. Don't run—walk. I'll deliver the ball to you."

"Huh?"

"Just stand there. I'm going to flatten that dinosaur coach's nose."

Tweet—!

The game began.

As expected, Team A followed the coach's orders and pressed hard from the first second, swarming like a pack of dogs to isolate Gang-cheol.

"Kill him! Get Gang-cheol!"

The coach bellowed from the sideline.

Gang-cheol didn't panic. The system's eyes scanned the entire map.

Too obvious.

Simple, brainless "just attack." No organization—just running a lot.

Gang-cheol casually slipped past two charging defenders. No flashy individual skill. A simple shoulder feint and the defenders tangled themselves and fell.

"Wha—?"

Space opened. Instead of driving forward himself, he lofted a soft lob pass. The ball sailed over the defensive line as if mocking it and dropped perfectly at the feet of a B-team striker who had been standing there dazed.

"Huh? Me?"

The striker was startled, but it was a one-on-one with the keeper. Instinct took over. He stuck out a foot.

Swish—!

Opening goal three minutes in. The coach's mouth fell open. He told himself it was luck.

It was only the beginning.

"Hyung! Three steps to the right!"

"Min-su! Don't turn—just return it!"

Gang-cheol was the commander of the pitch. The moment the B-team players moved on his orders, paths opened like meshing gears. Meanwhile Team A ran themselves into the ground yet barely touched the ball. It ghosted between their feet.

Escape pressure.

Tempo control.

Killer pass.

Gang-cheol did everything alone—beat the drum and played the gong.

Ten minutes later.

Boom—!

His long-range shot buried itself in the far corner.

The B-team players were no longer defeated soldiers. Light returned to their eyes.

"Dude, this is actually working?"

"When Gang-cheol passes, the ball just goes in!"

Trust. Overwhelming ability turns doubt into certainty.

Team A, meanwhile, was dying. The coach's "no water" order had left them dehydrated. A heavy-legged defender lunged into a reckless tackle trying to stop Gang-cheol.

"Dangerous!"

But Gang-cheol already knew. He flicked the ball up over the sliding legs—a perfect sombrero—landed, and volleyed in the same motion.

Thwack!

The match was a massacre. A one-sided slaughter led by a fourteen-year-old boy.

Tweeet—!

Final whistle. B-team players roared and piled onto Gang-cheol.

"Whoa! Gang-cheol, you're insane!"

"Hyung, did you see my pass?"

Gang-cheol wiped sweat and looked toward the bench. Kim Tae-hoon stood there with a vacant expression. His face was still mottled red and purple, but he had nothing to say. The result was too clear.

Gang-cheol walked over at an unhurried pace.

"Keep the promise."

The coach's lips trembled. His pride was shredded. But too many eyes were watching. Backing out now would make him pure trash.

"...Ahem. Fine. From tomorrow the training schedule... will be adjusted."

"And one more thing."

Gang-cheol pointed at the players behind him. A-team and B-team alike were gasping with their tongues hanging out.

"Let them drink water. The kids are dying."

The coach turned away without a word. Silent permission.

"Hey! He said we can drink! Drink!"

At Gang-cheol's shout the players stampeded to the iceboxes. They gulped the water like life itself and stole glances at him.

Awe.

In a single match, the true leader of this team had been decided. The captain's armband still belonged to a third-year hyung, but the real ruler of the pitch was the fourteen-year-old youngest, Ma Gang-cheol.

He tipped a water bottle over his head. Cool streams washed the sweat away.

Good. Stage one clear.

Gang-cheol pushed his wet hair back and smiled. Finally the team was starting to look like something he could work with.

But the road ahead was still long.

Now he had to take this ragtag bunch and fight the strongest monsters in the world.