Jong Ajax
Amsterdam Schiphol Airport.
Barely a month earlier, when he had left for the U-17 World Cup, Ma Gang-cheol had been nothing more than a promising prospect.
Now, returning home, he was a hero.
"Ma Gang-cheol! Ma Gang-cheol!"
A throng of Ajax fans packed the arrivals gate, chanting his name at the top of their lungs.
In his hand he carried the fourth-place finish from the U-17 World Cup—and the gleaming golden trophy awarded to the tournament's best player: the Golden Ball.
At thirteen years old he had beaten out the world's seventeen-year-olds for the prize. It was a certificate proving he no longer belonged at the youth level.
"Welcome back, champion."
Club staff ushered him into a waiting limousine.
But the car did not head for the youth training ground, De Toekomst.
It drove straight to the heart of Ajax—the club headquarters beside the Johan Cruyff Arena.
Inside the office, Technical Director Marc Overmars and CEO Edwin van der Sar were waiting for him.
The two legends wore serious expressions.
"Ma. Congratulations on the Golden Ball. We're proud of you."
Van der Sar offered his hand.
Gang-cheol bowed in greeting, yet he sensed the atmosphere was off. This was no simple praise session.
"Let's get straight to the point."
Overmars laid a single sheet of paper on the table.
Gang-cheol's eyes widened.
Affiliation Change: Ajax U-17 → Jong Ajax
"Jong Ajax...?"
Gang-cheol murmured under his breath.
Jong Ajax.
Ajax's reserve side—and a full professional club competing in the Dutch second division, the Eerste Divisie.
This was no youth stage.
It was a genuine adult arena where early-twenties prospects hungry for first-team minutes mixed with recovering senior players and grizzled veterans who had spent years grinding it out in the second tier.
"You're skipping the U-19 level entirely?"
"That's right. A double promotion."
Overmars folded his arms.
"Honestly, U-19 means nothing to you now. Technically you're already complete. No point wasting time there."
It was the highest praise imaginable. But the words that followed were a warning.
"Jong Ajax is different. It's a battlefield. Opposing teams won't treat you like a kid. Those rough old men play football to put food on the table."
Van der Sar added with a worried look,
"A thirteen-year-old debuting in the professional second division... it's unprecedented. The physical burden will be enormous. Still want to take the challenge?"
Gang-cheol fell silent for a moment.
He called up the system window.
Adult Stage Debut
📍 Objective: Make your debut in a Dutch second-division match.
🎁 Reward: Massive EXP gain, Reputation +500
⚠ On Failure (injury, etc.): Growth stagnation
Gang-cheol grinned.
Fear? He had burned every last scrap of it in the World Cup semifinals.
"Of course. Youth football's gotten a little bland for me."
"Hahaha! I knew you'd say that."
Overmars laughed heartily and pushed the contract forward.
Gang-cheol gripped the pen tight.
With this single signature he would step onto the pitch as a professional player.
The next day.
Jong Ajax locker room.
The atmosphere was colder than ice.
When the newly arrived Gang-cheol pushed open the door, roughly twenty players turned as one to stare at him.
Welcoming looks?
Not a chance.
It was pure hostility and jealousy.
"What the hell? That little brat is the Golden Ball kid?"
"Thirteen, right? Did he even ditch the diapers yet?"
"Tch. Club's wrapping him in gold leaf. Some of us grind three years in the reserves and never get a look."
The players muttered among themselves.
This was a survival arena. To climb into the first team you had to step on the man beside you.
And now some rolling stone—a baby-faced Asian kid—had waltzed in soaking up every spotlight. No one was going to smile about it.
"Hey there, baby."
The team captain, a twenty-one-year-old defender, smacked Gang-cheol's shoulder while loudly chewing gum.
"This ain't kindergarten. Looks like you're still high on that World Cup buzz. Watch yourself here. One second and your bones are gone."
Hazing.
Gang-cheol took it calmly.
"Thanks for the concern, hyung. I'll manage."
His flat reply made the captain's eyebrow twitch.
But Gang-cheol simply walked to the corner, found the stall with his name, and unpacked his bag.
He had already steeled himself. Prove it with skill—that was all that mattered.
Three days later.
Gang-cheol's debut match was set.
The opponent: FC Den Bosch.
A mid-to-lower table side, but infamous for their brutality—the "Butcher Corps."
Match day.
Three times the usual crowd packed the main stadium at De Toekomst.
Most had come to watch Gang-cheol's debut—fans and reporters alike.
"Ma Gang-cheol! Ma Gang-cheol!"
"Show us! Show us the Golden Ball!"
Expectation soared sky-high.
Gang-cheol's name was on the starting sheet. Position: attacking midfielder.
Alright... let's do this.
He stepped onto the pitch.
The Den Bosch players came into view.
They felt nothing like the Nigerians or Germans he had faced at the U-17 World Cup.
These were not boys or young men.
Thick beards, arms covered in tattoos, soft bellies beginning to show—men in their thirties.
Adult men who had seen every kind of battle and treated football as a job.
Peeeeep—!
Kickoff.
The ball found Gang-cheol.
A roar erupted from the stands.
He took a clean first touch and lifted his head.
A Den Bosch defensive midfielder stood in front of him—188 cm, 90 kg of pure bulk.
Gang-cheol feinted lightly, selling a move left before cutting right.
The technique was perfect. The man's balance collapsed.
I'm through.
The instant he accelerated—
Thud!
"...?!"
A dull impact smashed into his shoulder.
Even though the opponent had been beaten by the feint, he simply drove his entire body forward.
Technique meant nothing. Pure mass crushed him flat.
Crash!
Gang-cheol's body flew like a paper doll.
He slammed into the turf; the air left his lungs in a rush.
"Ugh..."
He looked at the referee. Foul?
The official casually waved "Play on."
This was the adult game. A shoulder challenge was fair contest.
"Get up, kid. Maybe go drink some more of your mama's milk."
The opposing player looked down at him and sneered.
Gang-cheol clenched his teeth and rose. His shoulder burned.
I got careless. Again.
Tenth minute of the first half.
Gang-cheol received the ball once more. This time he pushed the tempo.
One-touch combinations, trying to escape the press.
But there was no space.
The density of pressure was nothing like youth football. Second-division players might be crude technically, but they were masters at holding position and grinding with their bodies.
Gang-cheol spotted a gap and tried to dribble.
Phantom dribble.
Success. One man beaten.
But the covering defender immediately grabbed his jersey.
Riiip—
A sly tug from the blind side of the referee.
Gang-cheol's speed died.
In that instant another defender launched into a tackle.
Crack!
"Agh!"
Gang-cheol screamed as he went down.
This time it was a clear foul, yet the referee did not even reach for a yellow card.
Second-division hazing.
Referees rarely liked flashy individual skill from young prospects. They tended to turn a blind eye to rough play, calling it an "adult initiation."
"You okay?"
A teammate helped him up, but the look on his face said, See?
Twenty-fifth minute.
Gang-cheol had been erased.
No—he had been utterly trampled.
Every time he touched the ball, massive men sandwich-tackled him.
No room for technique, no room to scan the field.
Absolute physical inferiority.
At the U-17 World Cup he had been able to compete with peers. Here the thickness of bone and density of muscle belonged to grown men.
So heavy... I can't breathe.
Gang-cheol gasped for air.
It was not a stamina problem. The constant physical battles were draining him at a terrifying rate.
And the opponents had decided: the moment he received the ball, they would bury him.
"Just destroy that kid! Shut him down and Ajax II is nothing!"
The Den Bosch manager's roar.
Gang-cheol had become the sole target.
Thirty-fifth minute.
A decisive moment arrived.
Gang-cheol found a chance just outside the penalty box.
Shooting window.
But a defender charging from behind slammed straight into his back.
Boom!
Gang-cheol pitched forward.
The ball sailed into empty air; his face plowed into the grass.
A metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
"Ugh..."
He tried to stand, but his legs trembled.
Fear.
Not injury trauma—the terror of slamming into a wall.
An absolute difference in power that neither technique nor intelligence could overcome.
Then the fourth official on the touchline raised the board.
OUT: No. 14 (Ma Gang-cheol)
IN: No. 8
Substitution.
Before the first half had even ended.
A humiliating "disciplinary" change.
The manager had decided that keeping Gang-cheol on the pitch would only hurt the team.
"Aaaaah..."
A collective sigh poured from the stands.
There had been no Golden Ball magic. Only a thirteen-year-old boy being tossed around among adults and then sent off.
Gang-cheol walked off the touchline with his head down.
The manager did not even meet his eyes—just tapped his shoulder.
"Go shower."
One cold word.
On the bench Gang-cheol covered his face with a towel.
His entire body was a mass of bruises.
But his heart hurt worse than his body.
I was arrogant.
Just because things worked at the World Cup, I thought I was already world-class.
I was a frog in a well.
The professional world, the adult world, stood this high and this rough.
Full time.
0–0 draw.
Ajax fans left the stadium wearing faces of pure disappointment.
The internet and press reaction was merciless.
— Shots on target: 0. Duel success rate: 10%.
— A thirteen-year-old boy who exposed his physical limits. Was a second-division debut premature?
— Watching him fly like a paper doll under opposing defenders was almost pitiful.
— "Good technique, but no strength. It doesn't work in the pros." (Opposing manager interview)
Locker room.
Even after every player had left, Gang-cheol remained alone.
He scrolled through every article on his phone screen one by one.
Hate comments. Mockery.
It felt like someone was carving out his chest.
"Damn it..."
He hurled the smartphone to the floor.
The screen cracked.
But the face reflected in the shattered glass looked even more wretched.
Then someone opened the locker-room door.
It was Ho-seok hyung.
"Gang-cheol. Let's go. Don't take it too hard. It was your first match."
"Hyung."
"Yeah?"
"I'm weak."
Gang-cheol lifted his head.
His eyes were bloodshot—not from tears, but from pure venom.
"Technique? Tactics? None of it matters. Without strength you can't do a thing. I thought I was Messi. Turns out I was just a scrawny anchovy."
He stared down at his thin forearms.
A thirteen-year-old body still in its growth phase.
Muscles not yet fully developed—chopstick-thin compared to adults.
This would never be enough.
"Hyung."
"Yeah, talk."
"Trainer Chae Geun-beom... you have his number, right?"
Ho-seok's eyes went wide.
Chae Geun-beom.
Former national-team physical coach, the muscle-sculpting craftsman known as the "Grim Reaper of Hell."
The very man Gang-cheol had always hated—and now he was asking for him of his own free will.
"You... serious? If you go to that guy you might actually die."
"I don't care if I die."
Gang-cheol clenched his fists.
The system window floated before his eyes.
Current physique insufficient for higher-league entry.
Solution: Bulk-up is urgently required.
"I'm going to build this body. I'm going to become a monster."
Blue fire sparked in Gang-cheol's eyes.
"No one will ever shove me off the ball again... I'll become hard as a block of steel."
Failure tastes bitter.
But that bitterness turns a boy into a man.
Gang-cheol shoved the broken phone into his pocket and walked out of the locker room.
Behind him waited a long, lonely hell of weight training.