Recreating the Tokyo Great Victory: Round of 16 Korea-Japan Match (2)

The Japan national team locker room looked like a gathering of defeated soldiers.

The sound of fists slamming walls, raised voices, and sharp accusations flew back and forth as they blamed one another.

"Nakamura! Because you lost number 7—Ma Gang-cheol—the entire defensive line collapsed!"

"Don't make me laugh! You guys never came in to cover, so I got isolated!"

The coach hurled the tactics board to the floor and roared.

"Shut up! There's still forty-five minutes left! It's only a one-goal deficit! We can still turn this around!"

But the players' eyes were already wavering. More vivid in their minds than any instruction from the coach was the terror they had faced in the first half—the ghostlike presence named Ma Gang-cheol, impossible to catch.

By contrast, the Korea national team locker room was quiet.

Neither elated nor sunk—perfect composure.

Gang-cheol sipped an electrolyte drink and looked around at his teammates.

"The second they kick off the second half, those guys are going to charge like rabid dogs. Technique, tactics—they'll throw it all away and just try to bully us with their bodies."

He spoke as if prophesying.

"That's our chance. There's no easier opponent than a bunch of guys who are already worked up."

Peeeeep—!

The moment the second-half whistle blew, Gang-cheol's prophecy became reality.

Japan was no longer playing "possession football."

They skipped the midfield entirely, launching long balls or slamming into Korean ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠players with rough tackles the instant they received the ball.

The Japan of technique? Right now they were nothing more than brawlers blinded by desperation.

"Agh!"

Tenth minute of the second half.

Winger Park Min-su went down screaming under a brutal tackle from a Japanese fullback. A clear foul. Yet the referee kept the card in his pocket and settled for a verbal warning.

"Hey! Ref! That's not a yellow?!"

"You got eyes or what?!"

The Korean players charged in, furious. The atmosphere turned ugly.

The Japanese players smirked and provoked them—psychological warfare, trying to drag Korea into the mud with them.

But Gang-cheol didn't run over.

He simply helped the fallen Min-su to his feet and spoke ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠low.

"Don't get heated. That's exactly what they want—us jumping into the same dirty scrap."

His eyes cooled to ice.

"We just play football. Let them fight like dogs among themselves."

Japan's pressure intensified.

Korea dropped their defensive line and dug in. Japan held the possession, but it was empty possession—no real threat.

Then the moment arrived.

A Japanese corner kick.

Goalkeeper Park Seong-jin punched the ball clear. It bounced far outside the penalty box.

And there stood Gang-cheol.

He cushioned it softly with his chest. No need to look around.

His Spatial Awareness was painting the entire pitch like a bird's-eye map.

Now.

Gang-cheol exploded into a sprint.

Before him stretched a vast open prairie. Every Japanese defender had pushed forward for the corner. The only man left guarding the rear was one: Japan's captain, Nakamura Kento.

One-on-one.

Football fans around the world held their breath.

Korea's ace and Japan's ace met on a single-log bridge.

Gang-cheol never slowed as he charged straight at Nakamura.

Nakamura bit his lip. Cold sweat stung his eyes.

If he gets past me here, it's over. I have to stop him no matter what.

He refused to backpedal. Instead he launched himself in a desperate dive—not a tackle for the ball, but a deep, murderous lunge aimed squarely at Gang-cheol's ankle. A suicide attack that would take a red card if it meant cutting him down.

KWAANG—!

Turf and dirt exploded upward.

But in Gang-cheol's vision the world had slowed to a crawl.

Too impatient. Way too impatient, Captain.

Without breaking stride, Gang-cheol pinned the ball with his left heel and scooped it up with his right foot.

Sombrero.

Whoosh—

The ball arced over Nakamura's diving head in a rainbow curve so beautiful it seemed to mock gravity itself.

Nakamura sliced through empty air and face-planted into the turf. What filled his eyes was not the ball, but the number 7 on Gang-cheol's back soaring above him.

"Nani...?!"

A perfect breakthrough.

Nakamura lay with his face buried in the dirt, drowning in despair. This was no mere dribble. It was a symbolic trampling of Japanese football's pride.

Gang-cheol collected the ball with elegant ease.

Only the goalkeeper remained.

The crowd rose as one. A wonder goal for the history books was about to explode.

But Gang-cheol began his shooting motion—then hesitated.

A ragged breath reached his ear.

From the opposite side, winger Park Min-su had sprinted for his life.

Gang-cheol confirmed the goalkeeper's eyes and center of gravity were locked entirely on him.

Then, as lightly as setting a table, he rolled the ball sideways.

"Dig in."

In front of Park Min-su yawned an empty net.

With a face full of pure emotion, he tapped it home.

Ripple.

"Uwaaaaaah!!!! Gang-cheol!!!!"

The instant the ball hit the net, Park Min-su charged and hoisted Gang-cheol clean off the ground.

Gang-cheol laughed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠brightly and pounded Min-su's back.

He could have scored it himself. He could have hogged the spotlight and become the hero.

But he chose the team.

With that single moment, Gang-cheol was branded across the world not merely as a "goal machine," but as a true maestro—the conductor.

In the commentary booth, the analyst's voice cracked with emotion.

"My god... is that the decision-making of a fourteen-year-old? In a Korea-Japan match? Passing up a perfect chance like that?! That's not skill—that's the difference in class!"

The Japanese players sank to the pitch.

Nakamura couldn't get up. The shattering of his mind hurt far worse than any physical pain.

Score: 2–0.

The match was effectively decided.

Japan's vaunted organization had scattered like grains of sand. Players stopped passing to one another and resorted to selfish individual plays that the Korean defense snuffed out one after another.

Then, in the 40th minute of the second half.

Directly in front of the arc, twenty-five meters out, Korea won a free kick.

The taker: Ma Gang-cheol.

The moment he set the ball down, silence blanketed the stadium.

Japanese defenders formed a wall, but fear was written across their faces.

Gang-cheol took five steps back.

One deep breath.

He didn't look at the goal. He stared straight into the goalkeeper's eyes.

This ends it.

Tadak—KWAANG!

The instep of Gang-cheol's foot smashed the exact center of the ball.

No spin.

A knuckleball.

It seemed to curl right at first, then suddenly swerved left and dropped sharply in front of the goal—a trajectory that seemed to spit on the laws of physics, dancing through the air like a living butterfly.

"Ugh?!"

Japanese goalkeeper Kawashima flung himself desperately, but the ball bounced irregularly right in front of his fingertips—an uncatchable, unpunchable magic ball.

It struck the keeper's chest and rebounded only a short distance.

Straight onto the foot of Kim Cheol-su, who had been storming the six-yard box.

The easiest goal in the world.

A tap-in.

KWAANG!

The dagger.

And with it, Ma Gang-cheol completed an assist hat-trick.

He had not scored a single goal today.

Yet every one of the three goals had begun at his feet and been finished exactly as he designed.

He was a more terrifying dominator than any top scorer.

Peeeeeeep—!

The referee's final whistle sliced long through the night sky of Viña del Mar.

The scoreboard blazed: KOREA 3 : 0 JAPAN.

An overwhelming victory. Perfect revenge.

The "Tokyo Great Victory" recreated in Chile.

"Waaaaaah!!!! Republic of Korea!!!!"

Players poured onto the pitch and tossed Gang-cheol into the air in celebration.

The Japanese players collapsed face-down on the grass, sobbing. The world of competition was cruelly clear-cut.

In that moment, system messages exploded before Gang-cheol's eyes like fireworks.

Japan Killer, huh... Not bad.

Gang-cheol smiled up at the night sky from the shoulders of his teammates.

With this victory, the support of the entire nation became absolute.

No one would ever again dare point a finger and call him "too young" or "arrogant."

He had proven it with pure ability.

The stadium still pulsed with festival energy.

Gang-cheol stood in the mixed zone holding the Man of the Match trophy in one hand.

Countless camera flashes exploded toward him.

A Japanese reporter asked in a trembling voice. He clearly couldn't accept the defeat and was fishing for any scrap of criticism.

"Ma Gang-cheol... you recorded three assists today. But even on decisive scoring chances you chose to pass. Could it be that you lacked confidence in your finishing?"

Korean reporters murmured in disbelief at the absurd question.

Gang-cheol snorted a laugh. Before the interpreter could even open his mouth, he took the microphone himself.

"Confidence?"

He paused a beat, then stared straight into the camera lens—as if locking eyes with every Japanese citizen watching on television.

"Football isn't a one-man game."

He jerked a thumb toward his teammates who were walking past with arms around one another's shoulders.

"When three defenders mark me, my friends become free. I just used that. And..."

The corner of Gang-cheol's mouth curved upward—charming, yet utterly arrogant.

"I like watching my friends score. Today I just set the table. With very fresh, delicious sushi."

"......!!"

A beat of silence—then an explosion of laughter.

"Puhahahaha!"

The Korean reporters doubled over holding their stomachs while the Japanese reporter's face flushed red as a beet.

The subtle nuance of the word "sushi."

A metaphor that said: we just ate you alive.

The perfect composure of a victor—and the most elegant, cruel mockery of the defeated.

The interview clip spread in real time and detonated every Korean internet community.

"Ma Gang-cheol sushi remark," "God Gang-cheol," and "cider interview" seized the top three search rankings.

That night.

While everyone else was drunk on celebration, Gang-cheol lay quietly on the hotel bed.

Outside the window the overseas Korean fans' chants of "Dae—han Minguk" never stopped.

But Gang-cheol's eyes were fixed on the bracket displayed on his smartphone screen.

The Samba Legion.

Eternal favorites. The nation beloved by the god of football.

The absolute masters of individual skill were waiting.

Monsters who had just demolished Italy 4–0 in the Round of 16.

If Japan is a cheap imitation of technical football, those guys are the real deal.

Gang-cheol closed his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eyes and ran the simulation.

The flexible ankles of Brazilian players, their unpredictable rhythm, their explosive speed.

Simple organization alone would never stop them.

Fire with fire. Technique with even greater technique.

He opened the system window.

There was a hidden card he had saved against Japan—or rather, one he hadn't even needed to use.

A secret technique that would shatter South American flair with flair even more dazzling and overwhelming.

Using Ronaldinho's technique right in front of the Brazilians... I wonder what their faces will look like.

Just imagining it sent a thrill down his spine.

Gang-cheol curled his lips and switched off the light.

"Wait for me, Samba hyungs."

In the darkness the boy's eyes flashed like a predator's.

Tomorrow was the day he would smash the samba rhythm off-beat.