The Gate to the World, The Gate to Hell

After PE class ended, on the way back to the classroom, Ma Gang-cheol's legs felt as heavy as if he had sunk into a deep swamp. The system's granted effect of "30% reduced muscle fatigue" was cooling the burning heat in his muscle fibers in real time, yet the tender body of an eleven-year-old boy was paying the full price for the "overclocked output" demanded by the soul of a thirty-five-year-old veteran.

"Hey, Ma Gang-cheol! That chip shot earlier was seriously foul play! Did you see Park Min-su's face? He was this close to crying!"

Kim Cheol-su threw an arm around Gang-cheol's shoulder and kept pouring out exclamations of awe. Classmates passing by stole glances at Gang-cheol and whispered among themselves. The match just now had not been some ordinary elementary school kickabout. It had been a kind of awe delivered by overwhelming technique—a slaughter that confirmed an untouchable wall.

"I got lucky. Min-su charged in way too hard, so I just stole the timing."

Gang-cheol answered flatly and headed for the water fountain. Washing his face with cold water eased a little of the heat scorching his lungs. In the mirror stood a young boy, yet the look in his eyes belonged to a veteran who had fought through thousands of real matches.

I can't be this exhausted. European kids are already starting to build pro physiques at this age.

Gang-cheol pushed his wet hair back and whipped himself onward. Before the accident, he had already been on the verge of signing with Real Madrid's prestigious youth academy in Spain. Then the crash had made everything vanish like a mirage. This second chance was not about simply "going" there. This time the goal was to go and dominate them.

At dismissal, a black luxury sedan with heavy tinting sat in front of the school gate as if blocking Gang-cheol's path. In 2013 it was a rare foreign car of overwhelming presence. Passing parents and children kept glancing over, curious about the owner.

Whirr—.

The window slid down smoothly, and a middle-aged man ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in sunglasses leaned out. Crisp suit, perfectly set pomade hair. It was the same man who had been watching Gang-cheol from the field bench earlier.

"Kid. Get in the car."

The order was short and thick. Gang-cheol stopped walking and took two steps back from the door. Then he stared straight at the man and spoke.

"Who are you? I don't just hop into strangers' cars. My mom would kill me."

The man's eyebrows twitched. An ordinary elementary schooler would have been scared or dazzled by the flashy car and hesitated, yet this boy stood firm like a military police officer at a checkpoint. The man snorted a laugh and removed his sunglasses, revealing sharp yet rational eyes.

"The chairman sent me. Chairman Lee Dae-su. I'm Choi Hyeon-seok from the LK Group sports science team."

He pulled a business card from his jacket and held it out. Gang-cheol took it and examined it carefully.

Choi Hyeon-seok.

Gang-cheol's eyes narrowed. Memories from his previous life rose crystal clear. The head of medical staff for the 2002 World Cup national team, a man who would later be called the godfather of sports rehabilitation medicine in Korea. When previous-life Gang-cheol's knee had been destroyed, he had been too broke even to dare book an appointment with this legendary figure.

The chairman really went all out. He attached an S-rank supporter.

Gang-cheol slipped the card into his pocket and casually opened the rear door.

"I'm starving, so this works out. You'll at least buy me some Korean beef short ribs, right?"

"...You've got some nerve, kid."

Choi Hyeon-seok let out a dry laugh and started the car.

They arrived at a quiet high-end Korean restaurant in Gangnam. Guided into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a private room, the two found braised short ribs marbled like blooming flowers and neat side dishes laid out before them. Gang-cheol did not refuse; he picked up his chopsticks. Eleven-year-old appetite fused with thirty-five-year-old purpose, and the meat vanished in moments.

Choi Hyeon-seok did not even touch his chopsticks. He pulled out a notebook.

"Here's the analysis from the match earlier. Thirty effective touches, only two misses. Your sense is solid. But ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠your hardware is literally at the level of a cute little toy. Take that body to Europe and one tackle in the first match will end your season. Real Madrid? Those kids already have completely different muscle fiber quality by thirteen. You confident you can beat them?"

Gang-cheol took a big bite of short rib, chewed, and answered.

"If I wasn't confident, I never would have put the boots back on. Team Leader, I'm not going to Spain just to learn soccer. I'm going to debut with the first team and become the star of the Santiago Bernabéu. For that... yeah, my body right now is definitely lacking."

He wiped his mouth with a napkin and locked eyes with Choi Hyeon-seok.

"So work me to the bone. Not the old Korean-style training—throw every bit of the latest sports science at me. Physical remodeling the world has never seen. I'll be your first success story. That's the minimum I need if I'm going to go toe-to-toe with those Real bastards overseas."

Choi Hyeon-seok felt a shiver. This was not talk that should come from an eleven-year-old's mouth. Yet Gang-cheol's eyes had never been more serious.

"Yeah. You need at least this much guts to earn the right to wear a Real Madrid jersey. Fine. Starting today you're my test subject and my disciple. In return, I won't leave you enough strength even to scream—so prepare yourself!"

Ten o'clock at night. The only lights on in the center were those illuminating the central zone where Gang-cheol stood. Massive treadmills and various analysis machines gleamed silver, looming over him like threats.

"Alright, put on the oxygen mask. We'll start with VO2 Max—maximum oxygen uptake. I need to know the displacement of the 'engine' you've got before I can set training intensity."

At Choi Hyeon-seok's instruction, Gang-cheol attached the equipment with practiced ease. Electrode sensors on his chest began drawing a real-time electrocardiogram.

"Speed starts at 8 km/h and increases by 1 km/h every minute. Incline goes up 1% every minute too. Raise your hand when you truly can't take it. But remember this: European prospects keep running this test even while throwing up."

Whirr—.

The belt began to turn. Gang-cheol steadied his breathing and found his stride. Ten minutes, fifteen... As time passed the incline steepened and the speed began testing human limits. Pain like his lungs were burning flooded in.

Hah... hah... I can run more. Compared to the misery of my past life, this is nothing.

Gang-cheol's eyes were bloodshot as if they might roll back, yet his legs maintained a mechanical, even rhythm. The faces of the researchers watching the monitors, and of Choi Hyeon-seok himself, filled with shock.

"Team Leader... these numbers are weird. Heart rate is approaching 200, but the lactate rise curve is way too gentle. This is adult national-team level cardiopulmonary efficiency."

Choi Hyeon-seok clenched his fist. Historic data was being written right in front of his eyes.

"Stop! Halt!"

Choi Hyeon-seok slammed the emergency stop. Gang-cheol staggered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠off the treadmill and collapsed onto the floor. Hot steam rose from his entire body. Choi Hyeon-seok approached with the results sheet. His hands were trembling.

"Ma Gang-cheol... do you have any idea what state your heart is in?"

"...No idea. Feels like it's about to explode, though."

"It's an athlete's heart. You were born with it, and the recovery process after this accident made the elasticity of the heart wall ridiculously good. This is... like having an F1 engine installed. Yeah. You need at least this much engine if you're going to flatten those Spanish kids' noses."

Gang-cheol gasped for breath and grinned wide.

"Do you believe me now? With an engine like this, I won't look out of place even at Real, right?"

"Yeah. Belief has gone past belief into fear. But a good engine alone doesn't make a car fast. For the hardware remodel, report to the center at five a.m. starting tomorrow. I'll send a team car to your house."

"Five in the morning?"

Gang-cheol's eyes went round. The thirty-five-year-old soul knew full well how important morning training was, but right now his body was unmistakably that of a fifth-grader in Class 3.

"Team Leader, I'm an elementary schooler? Five is a bit over the line, don't you think? This is the age when you grow if you sleep properly."

"You said you were crazy about soccer, and you're folding over sleep? European kids—"

"No, European kids aren't the problem. I have to get my mom's permission first, okay? Which parent is going to say yes when their eleven-year-old son hops into a black sedan at five a.m.? We'll be lucky if they don't report a kidnapping."

Only then did Choi Hyeon-seok look down at Gang-cheol with a blank expression.

Until a moment ago the kid had been talking about Real Madrid and the Santiago Bernabéu with world-class ambition, and now he was suddenly bringing up "mom's permission" and "kidnapping reports."

"...Ah."

Choi Hyeon-seok scratched the back of his head.

"Sorry. You talk so much like a real player that... I completely forgot you're an elementary schooler. Your body's small, but the way you speak is like a veteran on the verge of retirement."

At those words Gang-cheol flinched. Too much of his thirty-five-year-old "veteran seasoning" had leaked out.

"Anyway! Five is way too early. Let's negotiate for six. And you have to call my parents yourself and explain it properly as 'special management for a national-level prodigy.' Got it?"

"Ha... Fine. The center director doing parent counseling. Alright, six it is."

Choi Hyeon-seok gave a dry laugh and ruffled Gang-cheol's hair. The eleven-year-old reality hidden behind monstrous talent. That strange dissonance was, to Choi Hyeon-seok, a fresh kind of stimulation.

Gang-cheol clenched his fist tight. A huge mountain called "mom's permission" still remained, but the engine was already running.

Wait for me, Real Madrid. This time I'm not the one coming to find you—I'm going to make you desperately search for me.

In the deep night of 2013, the true war of the monster kid who would overturn the entire history of Korean soccer was only just beginning.

"Now it's really starting. First I have to go home and convince Mom, though..."

Gang-cheol rose from the cold floor of the center and gathered his bag. The road to legend was long and harsh. Especially when you had to live it as an eleven-year-old in South Korea.