Group of Death: Future World Class

Concepción Stadium, Chile.

Moments before kickoff in the second match of Group C at the U-17 World Cup: Republic of Korea versus France.

The atmosphere in the stands was nothing like the first game against Nigeria.

If the Nigerians had been rough, wild beasts, the French were polished, arrogant aristocrats.

Wearing the deep blue of Les Bleus, the French players moved through their warm-ups with an easy, almost lazy grace. And why not? They were the outright favorites to win the tournament—unbeaten through European qualifying, averaging 3.5 goals a game.

And at the heart of it all stood that kid.

"So that's him," Ma Gang-cheol murmured, eyes locked on the Black player stretching beyond the halfway line.

Number 10. Julien.

Close-cropped hair, lean and sharp-edged frame. Nothing special at first glance—but Gang-cheol knew better.

This was the boy who would one day succeed Kylian Mbappé and rule world football as the next emperor of the game.

In my last life I only ever saw him on TV. The madman who scored a hat-trick in the World Cup final at nineteen.

Julien's deadliest weapon was simple: pure speed.

Not just pace—an explosive, space-ripping acceleration that bordered on superhuman. The kind of player you could see coming and still never stop.

"Gang-cheol. Is he really that good?" Captain Lee Jin-yong asked, voice tight with nerves.

Gang-cheol nodded calmly.

"Yeah. Probably the fastest I've ever seen. Imagine Usain Bolt in football boots."

"Ha... so how do we stop him?"

"We don't."

"What?"

Jin-yong's eyes went round. He had never expected those words from Gang-cheol's mouth.

"If it's a straight footrace, we lose every time. It's a top-tier sports car versus a tractor. But..."

Gang-cheol yanked his bootlaces tight and rose to his feet.

"No matter how fast the car is, it still has to stop ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at a red light. I'll be that light."

Peeeeep—!

The referee's whistle cut the air and the match began.

France kicked off.

From the first second they made their intentions clear. A midfielder collected the ball and launched a long, searching pass straight into the channels.

Julien was already there.

"He's coming! Stop him!"

Korea's right-back, Kim Cheol-su, sprinted to close him down. On the domestic high-school circuit Cheol-su was known as a speedster himself. He had a head start; the distance looked manageable.

Then—

Vwooom—!

It almost sounded like a racing car ripping past. The moment Julien shifted into a higher gear, Cheol-su was left frozen in the frame, watching the gap explode to five meters, then ten.

"Wha...?"

Julien took one soft touch and simply ran, shredding the Korean back line as if it were paper.

"Keeper, come out!"

The goalkeeper rushed forward to narrow the angle. Julien only smirked, toe-poking the ball delicately over the diving body.

A perfect chip.

The ball floated in a gentle arc, cleared the keeper's outstretched hands, and nestled into the net.

Three minutes in, and they were already behind.

The stadium fell deathly quiet, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over the crowd. The sheer, overwhelming speed left the Korean players staring blankly at one another. Tactics, shape, everything—none of it mattered against that.

"Whoa... is that even legal?"

"I couldn't even see him."

Despair settled over them like fog. The momentum from the Nigeria win had been shattered in three short minutes.

Julien jogged to the corner flag, folded his arms, and stood there with the arrogant poise of a king surveying his playground.

"Damn it..."

Cheol-su slammed a fist into the turf, blaming himself.

A hand closed on his shoulder and hauled him up. Gang-cheol.

"Hyung. Chin up. That wasn't your fault."

"Gang-cheol... he's too fast. I can't stop him."

"I know. So we change the plan right now."

Gang-cheol held up two fingers.

"Don't chase his shadow. Just stand in the lane and block the path."

"Then he'll just blow past me."

"No. I'll cut it out before he does."

Gang-cheol's eyes sharpened to steel.

"From this moment on, I'm playing center-back."

A tactical shift. The defensive midfielder dropped all the way into the sweeper role—an almost extinct position in modern football, but the only answer Gang-cheol had left.

He's fast. But he's still young.

Fifteenth minute of the first half.

France attacked again. Julien collected the ball and once more carved into the flank. When Cheol-su refused to dive in and instead dropped off, Julien sneered and cut inside toward the center.

"Out of my way!"

He tried to split two defenders—and suddenly a figure materialized right in front of him.

Ma Gang-cheol.

You again, little brat?

Julien didn't slow. Speed would do the rest. He knocked the ball long to his right and exploded into the sprint.

But—

Tak.

His foot sliced empty air. The ball was gone.

Gang-cheol had already stepped into the exact lane, shoulder first, and simply plucked the ball away clean.

"What...?!"

Julien slammed on the brakes and nearly toppled over. Gang-cheol rolled the ball under his sole with lazy ease and looked the Frenchman dead in the eye.

Then, in flawless French, he whispered:

"Tu es trop lent." (You're too slow.)

"......!!"

Julien's face flushed crimson. Slow? Him? The number-one prospect on the planet?

His pride took a deep scratch—exactly as Gang-cheol had intended.

Gang-cheol could never outrun Julien.

But he could know exactly where Julien was going.

Thousands of hours of match footage from his previous life, plus the system's real-time data stream. Gang-cheol was already standing in the spot before Julien's muscles even finished contracting.

When you arrive early and wait, raw speed becomes meaningless.

Thirtieth minute.

This time Julien tried skill—a flashy step-over that drew a roar from the crowd. Gang-cheol never looked at the ball. He watched only the eyes and the shoulders.

Feint left, then burst right. Textbook.

The instant Julien drove right, Gang-cheol's leg stretched out in a long, precise sweep.

Puhk!

Clean contact. Ball only. Julien nearly tumbled over the outstretched limb.

"Referee! Foul!"

Julien screamed in outrage, but the official waved play on with a crisp call of "Clean tackle!"

Gang-cheol offered a hand as if to help him up—then, the moment Julien reached for it, casually brushed his own hair back and strolled past.

"C'est tout?" (That all?)

"You... you little bastard!"

Julien's last thread of composure snapped. From that moment he abandoned team play entirely. Every time he touched the ball he charged straight at Gang-cheol—pure spite, pure childish pride: I will beat this one kid if it kills me.

It was a fatal mistake.

An angry striker ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is the easiest prey of all. Tunnel vision. Predictable patterns.

Gang-cheol handled him the way a matador handles a bull—stepping into the path first, shouldering him off balance, stealing the timing again and again.

"Aaargh! Get out of my way!"

Julien shoved him in frustration. Gang-cheol went down with Hollywood-level exaggeration.

Peeep—!

The referee sprinted over and produced a yellow card.

"No! He dived!"

Julien raged, but it changed nothing. Lying on the grass, Gang-cheol cracked one eye open and grinned.

Took the bait, kid.

Halftime. 0–1.

They trailed on the scoreboard, yet the mood in the Korean camp was far from broken. Against the world's strongest side they had conceded only once and held their own. More importantly, the so-called monster Julien had been completely neutralized by Gang-cheol—and that fact alone poured steel into every teammate's spine.

Locker room.

Coach Kim Tae-hoon hammered the tactics board, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Did you see Gang-cheol's defending? Insane. Julien's completely lost his head out there."

"We keep the same shape second half," Gang-cheol said between gulps of water. "They're getting desperate. Even though they're winning, our deep block is making them nervous. Late on they'll push the line high. And when they do..."

His eyes glittered.

"One shot. That's all we need."

Second half.

The contest grew even fiercer. France pushed higher in search of a second goal; Korea threw bodies in front of everything. Spectacular saves from the keeper, desperate last-ditch tackles—and always, at the heart of it, Gang-cheol.

Thirty-fifth minute of the second half.

A French wave crashed into the box. Julien beat two men and found himself with a clear shooting chance.

"This one's going in!"

He unleashed a thunderous right-foot strike—

and a body came flying out of nowhere.

Sliding—!

Gang-cheol's full weight blocked the shot. The ball smacked into his back and ricocheted clear. Pure sacrificial defending.

"Ghh..."

He bit down on the pain and scrambled upright. Without Diamond Body his ribs would have been shattered.

The loose ball dropped perfectly at the feet of Korean midfielder Oh Dong-sik.

"Counter!"

Gang-cheol roared.

The entire French back line had pushed past the halfway line. The space behind them yawned wide open. Dong-sik started to drive forward, but French defenders were already sprinting back.

"Dong-sik! Here!"

Gang-cheol raised a hand. The pass came instantly.

He received it just inside his own half. Everyone expected a dribble or a short lay-off.

Gang-cheol chose something else entirely.

He never even looked up. On the system map inside his mind every player's position was already lit. Deep on the right flank, substitute winger Park Min-su was making a blistering run into the channel.

Now.

Without a single step of run-up, Gang-cheol whipped his right foot through the ball like a lash.

Not a cross. An intercontinental ballistic missile.

Kwaaaang—!

The ball soared in a perfect, screaming arc across fifty meters, clearing every French head and dropping like a magnet onto Min-su's toe.

The entire stadium gasped as one.

Min-su didn't even need to control it. He simply let the bounce carry him forward into a one-on-one with the keeper.

"Put it away... please!"

The entire bench leapt to its feet.

Min-su stayed ice-cold and slid the ball between the keeper's legs.

"YEEEEAAAHHHHH!!!!"

Fortieth minute of the second half. A dramatic equalizer.

Min-su didn't run to the corner flag. He sprinted straight to the halfway ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠line and threw himself into Gang-cheol's arms, half-sobbing.

"Gang-cheol! That pass was insane! It just stuck to my foot!"

"Nice finish. Well done."

Gang-cheol ruffled the older boy's hair.

The French players stood frozen in disbelief. Julien kicked the turf in pure fury. He had run himself into the ground for ninety minutes and scored nothing—while this Asian kid had created a goal with a single pass.

Efficiency. Class. The gulf was brutal.

Five minutes remained. France attacked like madmen, but Korea's goal refused to open. Gang-cheol organized the back line into a wall of pure willpower—the Wall of Tears.

Peeeeep—!

Full time.

1–1.

On paper a draw. In reality, a Korean victory. They had taken a point off the tournament favorites—in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Group of Death, no less. The road to the round of sixteen had just swung wide open.

After the match Julien stormed toward the tunnel, then stopped. He turned and walked straight up to Gang-cheol. Anger still burned in his eyes, but something else lived there too—reluctant respect.

He peeled off his jersey and held it out.

A shirt swap request. The world's top prospect asking an unknown Asian kid first.

"You... name?"

Julien asked in clumsy English.

Gang-cheol smirked, stripped off his own shirt, and handed it over.

"Kang-Cheol Ma."

"Kang-Cheol... Remember."

Julien clutched the jersey like treasure and walked away. Camera flashes exploded behind him.

Tomorrow's global sports headlines were already written.

Mixed-zone interview.

A forest of microphones and cameras surrounded Gang-cheol. A French journalist fired the first question.

"Ma Gang-cheol, today you played defensive midfield, then center-back... what is your actual position?"

Gang-cheol wiped sweat from his brow and stared straight into the lens. Then he gave the most Gang-cheol answer possible.

"Position? Does it matter?"

He shrugged.

"Wherever the team needs me to win. That's my position."

On the bus back to the hotel the mood was pure carnival.

"Dude, are we actually going to the round of sixteen?"

"Gang-cheol, what the hell was that long pass? You got eyes in the back of your head?"

Amid the praise Gang-cheol quietly opened the system window.

The corner of Gang-cheol's mouth curled upward.

The eternal rivals. Korea versus Japan.

The most entertaining stage of all was waiting.

Just wait. I'll give you a Tokyo Massacre—no, a Chile Massacre.

Outside the bus window the Chilean night sky flowed past. The storm that had begun with Gang-cheol's kids was already becoming a typhoon.