Round of 16 Korea-Japan Derby: Recreating the Tokyo Miracle (1)

Viña del Mar, Chile.

Estadio Sausalito, a coastal city where the rough waves of the South Pacific crashed against the shore.

Two hours before kickoff, the area around the stadium was already a battlefield.

The Red Devils' roaring chants of "Dae—han Minguk!" that had flown in from the opposite side of the globe collided with the pounding drums of Ultra Nippon in their Samurai Blue kits, shaking the very air. Local Korean residents in Chile had joined the fray, turning the atmosphere into something that felt uncannily like the Seoul World Cup Stadium in 2002.

This was no ordinary U-17 World Cup Round of 16 match.

Lose, and the joke about throwing yourself into the Korea Strait instead of boarding the flight home started to sound like a genuine threat. A guillotine match.

It was the Korea-Japan Derby.

"Hoo... hoo..."

A heavy silence hung over ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠everything.

Only the players' ragged breathing and the acrid mix of muscle relaxant and pain-relief patches filled the air.

No one could bring themselves to speak.

Captain Lee Jin-yong paused while tying his bootlaces and lifted his head. His fingertips trembled faintly. As captain of the under-17 national team he felt the duty to steady his teammates, yet the words stuck in his throat as if his windpipe had sealed shut.

"Hey... you guys see the articles?"

Defender Kim Cheol-su switched off his phone screen, voice shaking.

"The Japanese interviews... they were brutal. That Nakamura bastard said our defensive organization looks like Swiss cheese full of holes..."

"Ignore it. Psychological warfare."

Goalkeeper Park Seong-jin answered while pulling on his gloves, but his face was just as pale.

This Japanese side was being called the "Golden Generation."

Three products of La Liga youth academies, two from the Bundesliga.

In particular, the combination of Kubo Takefusa—dubbed "Japan's Messi"—and midfield general Nakamura Kento was rated as having already surpassed Asian standards.

Lose and it's over.

That pressure was eating away at the young players' minds. Win and it was merely expected; lose and you became a traitor. The cruel weight of that contest pressed down on the locker-room ceiling.

Clack.

Then the sound of a locker door opening in the corner rang out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unusually loud.

"Ah, hyungs. What's with the atmosphere? Did we walk into a funeral?"

A voice so light it bordered on shameless.

Ma Gang-cheol.

Headset slung around his neck, balloon gum working steadily between his teeth, he strolled into the center of the room.

Tension? Fear?

Those words seemed to have no place in his dictionary. Fourteen years old, the team's youngest player and its ace.

His eyes sparkled like an elementary-school kid on the morning of a field trip.

"Gang-cheol... you're not nervous?"

Lee Jin-yong asked, sounding almost hollow.

"It's Japan. Historically, and this squad is supposedly their strongest ever. There's even a rumor they're assigning three dedicated markers just for you."

"Three of them?"

Gang-cheol's eyes went round, then he let out a short laugh.

"Wow, the Japanese kids are seriously scared. They're using three guys just to stop little old me? So the other ten are fighting you hyungs ten-on-seven?"

"Uh...?"

"Isn't that a massive win for us? You know what three empty bodies mean in soccer. We're getting half the pitch for free."

Gang-cheol's logic was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠simple, yet razor-clear.

Into the minds of players who had only seen the threat of "three markers," a new perspective—spatial superiority—suddenly locked into place.

He patted his own chest lightly.

"I'll be the bait. A really expensive, delicious bait."

A blue system window bloomed before his eyes.

"You hyungs just keep your spoons ready. I'll herd them into one spot and set the table. Today's buffet menu is..."

Gang-cheol popped his gum with a sharp crack and grinned.

"Fresh sushi."

In that instant the air in the locker room shifted.

Jin-yong's rigid shoulders loosened. A fierce glint entered Cheol-su's eyes.

Right. We have Ma Gang-cheol.

The monster who had chewed up even France and England was on their side.

"Let's go! Crush them!"

"Waaaaaah!!!"

Breeeeep—!

With the referee's whistle, the fateful Korea-Japan match began.

As expected—no, worse than expected.

Japan's tactics were crystal clear.

<Anti-Ma Gang-cheol>.

The moment Gang-cheol tried to receive the ball near the halfway line, two Japanese midfielders closed in as if they had rehearsed it a thousand times.

This was no ordinary press. One cut off the passing lanes while the other slammed into Gang-cheol's body, disrupting his turn.

Thud!

"Ugh..."

A crafty elbow in the blind spot the referee couldn't see.

Gang-cheol's brow furrowed.

They're playing dirty.

On the Japanese bench the coach stood with arms folded, a satisfied smile on his face.

"No need to rush! Just kill number 7! Isolate number 7 and Korea can do nothing!"

Tenth minute of the first half.

Korea could not find a single thread of attack.

Possession 7–3.

Japan used their trademark short passes to nibble steadily into the Korean half.

"Ah, just win the ball already!"

"The press isn't working! Press!"

Sighs erupted from the Korean fans in the stands.

With Gang-cheol isolated, the ball never reached the front. The wingers were stranded, and the back line was gasping under Japan's waves of pressure.

On the pitch Gang-cheol stood still, catching his breath.

His eyes were not on the ball, but on the feet of the Japanese defenders surrounding him.

Just as the data predicted.

A thin smile curled at the corner of Gang-cheol's mouth.

The Japanese players' eyes were locked on him more than on the ball. To them he was an object of terror—a stain that had to be erased.

You want to watch only me that badly? Then I'll give you a show.

Fifteenth minute of the first half.

Gang-cheol moved.

But ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he was not dropping deep to receive the ball.

Out of nowhere he jogged slowly toward the right touchline—all the way toward the corner flag—while the ball was still with the left fullback.

"Huh? Where's he going?"

"Follow him! Don't lose him!"

Japan's defensive midfielder and left fullback attached themselves to Gang-cheol by pure reflex.

Like iron filings drawn to a magnet.

As Gang-cheol drifted into the corner of the pitch, the entire Japanese defensive block warped grotesquely to the right.

Gravity.

Gang-cheol felt himself become a black hole distorting the mass of the field.

Wherever he moved became the battlefield.

Even without the ball.

"Cheol-su! Switch it the other way!"

Gang-cheol shouted.

Kim Cheol-su, on the ball on the left, lifted his head.

An astonishing sight unfolded. The central midfield zone was completely empty—like the parting of the Red Sea.

Without hesitation Cheol-su launched a long pass into the vacant space on the opposite side.

Winger Park Min-su was waiting there.

Normally Japan's cooperative defending would have swallowed him, but right now only empty air stood in his way.

"Huh...? There's nobody?"

Park Min-su chested the ball down and dribbled forward with all the time in the world.

Japanese defenders screamed "Stop him! Cover!" and scrambled late, but Korea had already reached the edge of the Japanese penalty box.

Whoosh—!

Park Min-su's shot skimmed just wide of the post.

No goal, yet the Japanese bench reeled in shock.

"What the hell! Why is the center wide open?! What are you doing?!"

The Japanese coach hurled a water bottle and roared.

The players felt wronged. They had only followed the coach's orders and tracked Gang-cheol—yet the result was a highway punched straight through the middle of the pitch.

This is... a dilemma.

Chase Gang-cheol and space opens; guard the space and Gang-cheol breaks through.

He was forcing the Japanese defense into a hell of binary choices.

Thirtieth minute of the first half.

The Japanese defenders' eyes began to waver.

Even a slight twitch from Gang-cheol made the entire back line ripple.

The cooking is finished. Time to taste.

Gang-cheol raised a hand in the center circle.

From deep, Lee Jin-yong's pass rolled toward him.

In that instant Japan's key midfielder Nakamura and center-back Tanaka charged together.

"We're not falling for it this time! We've got him!"

The two defenders sandwiched Gang-cheol from front and back.

A physical collision was inevitable.

In the brief instant the crowd gasped "Ah!", Gang-cheol's [Dynamic Vision] stretched time.

A world where 0.1 seconds felt like a full second.

Nakamura's outstretched foot. Tanaka's rough shoulder challenge.

And...

Behind him, in the blind spot of the Japanese defense, the shadow of striker Oh Dong-sik making his run.

Gang-cheol did not trap the ball.

Feinting as if to receive it, he lifted his right heel ever so slightly.

Tak.

A crisp contact sound.

The moment the ball touched Gang-cheol's foot it changed trajectory like magic, nutmegging cleanly between the legs of both Japanese defenders.

"Nani?!"

Nakamura's eyes nearly split open.

Where the ball should have been, only Gang-cheol's afterimage remained.

Both defenders' centers of gravity collapsed.

The ball arrived, as if measured with a ruler, perfectly at Oh Dong-sik's feet.

Japan's last defensive line had already collapsed toward Gang-cheol.

Only the goalkeeper stood between Oh Dong-sik and the net.

"Put it away, Dong-sik hyung!"

Gang-cheol's shout stabbed like a dagger.

Oh Dong-sik was ice-cold. He had zero intention of overturning the perfect table Gang-cheol had set.

The keeper rushed out to narrow the angle, but Dong-sik simply curled the ball with the inside of his foot.

It kissed the keeper's fingertips and nestled into the far corner.

Swish—!

The net bulged.

For a heartbeat, time at Estadio Sausalito seemed to freeze in silence.

Then—

"Waaaaaaaaaah!!!!!"

The Red Devils' roar erupted like a volcano.

"Uwaaah! Gang-cheol! Did you see that?! I scored!"

Oh Dong-sik sprinted over like a madman and wrapped Gang-cheol in a hug.

Players piled on top of one another in celebration.

Yet the cameras closed in not on the scorer, but on the assist provider—Gang-cheol.

He swept sweat-soaked hair from his forehead and walked toward the dazed Nakamura.

Nakamura's face was the color of dirt. Pride shattered into pieces.

Through the system window Gang-cheol confirmed Nakamura's mental value plummeting.

"Hey, Captain."

Gang-cheol murmured in low Japanese.

"If you take the bait, you have to pay the price."

"You... you little..."

Nakamura trembled, fists clenched, but Gang-cheol had already turned his back and was walking toward the halfway line.

His number 7 looked especially enormous today.

This is only the beginning.

Gang-cheol spread both arms toward the stands, inviting the roar.

Still the first half.

But Japan was already crumbling. Their once-solid "system" had met the "bug" named Gang-cheol and was throwing errors.

On the Japanese bench voices rose in anger.

"How the hell do you mark him?!"

"Then you try stopping him!"

Internal strife among the players.

Exactly the picture Gang-cheol had wanted most.

He chewed his gum again and prepared for the restart.

One goal isn't enough. I'm going to trample them completely.

A cold killing intent poured from his eyes.

The Tokyo Miracle.

Today that history would be rewritten on Chilean soil.