Shattering the Samba Rhythm

Chile. Coquimbo.

Estadio Francisco Sánchez Rumoroso.

The entire area around the stadium was a sea of yellow. The Canarinho legion — Brazil's iconic colors. The distinctive percussion of South America and the pulse of samba rhythm thundered through the air long before kickoff.

The U-17 World Cup quarterfinals.

South Korea's opponent was Brazil — the eternal favorites.

"Whoa… that's seriously disgusting how many of them there are."

The Korean players who had come out to warm up were overwhelmed by the yellow jerseys packing every seat. It wasn't simply a matter of numbers. It was the weight of the name Brazil itself — the greatest nation in football history. A gathering place of monsters who, as the saying went, came out of the womb already kicking a ball.

The Brazilian players they passed in the locker-room corridor radiated ease. Some danced with earbuds in; others juggled the ball in the hallway, goofing around. The looks they cast at the Korean players mixed pity with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠contempt.

"An Asian team making it this far is a miracle enough."

"Let's go easy and send them home."

That was the vibe.

Especially Brazil's ace, number 10, Gabriel. The so-called next Neymar glanced at Gang-cheol, smirked, and traced a V with his fingers. It wasn't a greeting. It was a provocation: I'll put two past you and call it a day.

But Gang-cheol chewed his gum with a blank face and walked right past him.

Laugh. Laugh all you want right now.

"Today's tactics are simple," Gang-cheol said, gathering the players in the locker room. "You know the Brazilians have great individual skill, right? If we go one-on-one, we lose. We lose for sure."

The players swallowed hard. Brutal honesty.

"So we're going to build a box." He drew a square on the board. "When one of them comes at us, four of us surround him. Fish-farm penning. And when we win the ball?"

His eyes flashed.

"Don't think. Just smash it forward. I'll be there."

"Gang-cheol, you're not dropping back to defend?" Captain Lee Jin-yong asked. In the France match, Gang-cheol had been the core of the defense.

"No. Today is all-out attack. The Brazilians are weak at the back. They get so obsessed with attacking they never look behind them. I'm going to hit them in the back of the head."

Gang-cheol would line up as an attacking midfielder today. Trust the teammates to defend — and focus solely on destruction.

Preeeeep—!

First half, kickoff.

Brazil started with the ball — and from the first second, the samba rhythm owned the pitch.

Boom. Boom. Boom!

To the drums in the stands, the Brazilian players' feet danced. Dazzling individual skill. Dummy stepovers, phantom dribbles, toe-pokes.

"Uh— wait—?"

Korean defenders fell away like leaves in the wind. The moment they stretched a leg to tackle, the ball was already gone. Unpredictable tempo. Off-beat dribbling. This was the terror of Brazilian football.

Tenth minute of the first half.

Disaster struck.

Ace Gabriel tore open the left flank. Defender Kim Cheol-su stepped up to stop him, but with a single body feint — a sway of the upper body — Gabriel destroyed Cheol-su's balance.

"No!"

Gabriel hopped over the fallen Kim Cheol-su as if mocking him, then casually poked the ball home in a one-on-one with the keeper.

Ripple.

Opening goal.

Gabriel sprinted to the corner flag and danced the samba with his teammates, hips shaking as he stared down the Korean bench. Humiliating.

"Man… they're on a different level."

"I can't even get the ball off them."

The Korean players' mental game was cracking. This was nothing like Nigeria's power or France's speed. This felt like being toyed with.

Then Gang-cheol clapped his hands and roared.

"Don't freeze up! Let them dance! We just do our thing!"

He was calm. Brazil was strong — that much was true. But they had a fatal weakness too.

Arrogance.

That pride, drunk on their own technique, looking down on the opponent — that was the point of attack.

Twenty-fifth minute of the first half.

Brazil pushed their line high, hunting for a second goal. A Korean counterattack chance. A defender's clearance found Gang-cheol at the halfway line.

"Stop him!"

Brazil's defensive midfielder charged in. Gang-cheol didn't slow down. Head-on collision course.

Gang-cheol used the full momentum of his run, tapped the ball ahead, and exploded past — a pure knock-and-go. The Brazilian stretched a leg, but Gang-cheol had already brushed past his side.

Simplicity. If Brazil danced in dazzling circles, Gang-cheol drew the fastest straight line.

"Get that kid!"

Two defenders closed in for a double team. Gang-cheol didn't stop. He drove into the box. Ahead of him stood Brazil's last center-back — Silva, a 190-centimeter giant. Silva kept his hands behind ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his back and calmly cut off the path, the seasoned patience of a man who refused to dive in early.

Gang-cheol eased off the gas and locked eyes with him. Silva grinned. Individual skill? Go on, try it. I'll shut it all down.

The corner of Gang-cheol's mouth lifted.

Yeah? You won't stop this one.

Ronaldinho's signature move. Feint as if knocking the ball with the outside of the foot — then snap the ankle and drag it back with the inside in a single heartbeat. As if the ball were on a rubber band.

Whip— tap!

"……!!"

Silva's eyes couldn't track the ball. It had clearly been going right — and in the blink of an eye it was on the left. Silva's knees twisted. That massive frame lost its center and crashed down in a heap.

The so-called ankle breaker.

"Oh my god!"

Screams erupted from the stands. A Brazilian defender — beaten by Brazil's own trademark technique, the flip-flap — had landed on his backside. Perfect humiliation.

Gang-cheol didn't even glance down at the fallen Silva. He stole half a beat on the onrushing keeper and unleashed a shot a half-step early. A toe-poke.

Thump!

The ball punched through the keeper's armpit and rattled the net.

Ripple—!

Equalizer.

Gang-cheol didn't celebrate. Instead he walked over to Silva, still on the ground, and wagged a finger. Then he tossed out a line in Portuguese.

"Samba? Não. Isso é o K-Style."

Samba? No. This is K-Style.

Halftime. 1–1.

The Korean locker room was a cauldron of excitement. The Brazilian locker room was the opposite. Players whose pride had been dragged through the mud seethed with rage. Silva, in particular — the one who had been flip-flapped by Gang-cheol — was thrashing around as if he meant to tear the room apart.

"I'll kill him! How dare he use the elastico on me?!"

To Brazilian players, being beaten by individual skill was a deeper insult than defeat itself.

Second half, kickoff.

Brazil's eyes had changed. The ease was gone; murderous intent rolled off them. They weren't playing "beautiful football" anymore. They came at Gang-cheol with rough tackles and physical fouls, determined to bury him.

Tenth minute of the second half.

Gabriel's breakthrough and finish ripped the Korean net.

Brazil was still Brazil. Anger only made them more terrifying.

But the Korean players didn't collapse. Because Gang-cheol was there.

"It's fine! Only one goal down! We can do this!"

He clapped and rallied his teammates.

Thirtieth minute of the second half.

Korea weathered Brazil's wave of attacks and launched a counter. Gang-cheol collected the ball in midfield. Three Brazilians charged him, screaming for blood. He laughed in their faces and heel-passed the ball backward.

Park Min-su, surging up, took it and tore down the flank.

"Cross!"

Park Min-su's ball whipped into the box. Striker Oh Dong-sik threw himself at a header — but the ball glanced off a defender's head and spilled behind.

"Chance!"

Captain Lee Jin-yong, storming in from deep. Completely unmarked. His right-foot volley exploded.

BOOM—!

Level again. 2–2.

The so-called Pelé scoreline — the most entertaining result in football. The stadium boiled like a furnace. The Brazilian supporters fell silent, and only the Red Devils' roar painted the Chilean night sky.

Fifteen minutes left. A battle of stamina.

The Brazilians had burned through their energy early with endless individual flourishes, then sprinted themselves ragged in their fury. Their legs were visibly heavy now. The Koreans, by contrast, had run efficiently thanks to Gang-cheol's Black Hole Strategy.

They're gassed.

Gang-cheol felt it in his bones. Time to hunt.

Forty-second minute of the second half.

While everyone was thinking about extra time, Gang-cheol wrung out the last of his strength. He took the ball at the halfway line. This time, no pass.

Crack!

Gang-cheol shot forward like a bullet. The exhausted Brazilian midfielders couldn't keep up. Two defenders. He didn't slow — he knifed between them.

"Stop him!"

They tried a sandwich mark, meaning to crush him with their bodies. But at the instant of impact, Gang-cheol clamped the ball between his ankles and jumped.

The frog leap. The same technique he'd shown against Nigeria and against PSV. But this time it was different. In midair, with the ball lofted, he flicked it forward with his heel.

Rainbow flick variation.

The ball sailed over the defenders' heads, and Gang-cheol landed clean through the gap. A magical breakthrough.

"No way…"

The Brazilian keeper came out with terror written across his face. Gang-cheol looked him in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eye and shaped to shoot. The keeper dived. But Gang-cheol's foot never struck the ball. He dragged it to a stop with the sole of his boot, waited until the keeper hit the ground — and only then tapped it into the empty net.

The absolute end of composure.

Roll… roll…

Ripple!

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!"

The miracle winner. Forty-third minute of the second half.

Gang-cheol ripped off his jersey and sprinted for the corner flag. Hard abs and lean muscle stood out under the lights. He spread both arms wide in front of the cameras and roared.

"I am the King!!"

The Brazilian players sank to the turf. Gabriel clutched his head and wept. They had been crushed — by their own techniques, in their own style — and by a fourteen-year-old Asian boy.

Three minutes left. Brazil's meaningless long balls kept coming, but the result was already decided. The Korean players threw their bodies in front of everything and held the goal.

Preeeeep—!

The referee's long final whistle. Full time.

Republic of Korea — into the semifinals.

The first time since the legendary 1983 Mexico Youth World Cup (U-20) run to the last four, more than thirty years ago. No — reaching the semis by beating Brazil made it worth even more than that.

"We won! We're in the semis!"

Players clung to each other and sobbed. Gang-cheol's eyes burned too. A stage he had never even dreamed of in his previous life. A stage he used to watch on TV with a glass of soju in hand — and now he was the one writing history as the main character.

Gang-cheol looked up at the sky. The stars of the night seemed ready to pour down.

Two steps left.

The semifinal opponent would be either the Invincible Armada of Spain or the Panzer Division of Germany. Whoever came through, it didn't matter. With this momentum, he felt like he could kill a god.

Mixed-zone interview.

A Brazilian journalist asked Gang-cheol with a grim face, "That technique of yours — the flip-flap… where did you learn it? Did you study in Brazil?"

Gang-cheol pushed his sweat-soaked hair back and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠smiled.

"No. I learned it from YouTube."

"……Excuse me?"

"I'm kidding." He winked. "I've always respected Brazilian football. So I tried copying it — and ended up better than the original. Sorry about that."

Arrogant, but an irrefutable fact.

That day, football headlines around the world unified into one.

Gang-cheol's name value was no longer that of a prospect. It was crossing into the realm of world-class.

But Gang-cheol didn't know.

Behind this dazzling victory, the team confirmed as their semifinal opponent was making preparations more terrifying than anything he could imagine.

A true wall of wailing was waiting for him.