Physical Bulk-Up

"Hello?"

The voice that came through the receiver was low and rough, like steel scraping against steel.

Gang-cheol swallowed dryly.

It was a number he had secured only with great difficulty through Ho-seok hyung. The man known throughout Korean football as the Grim Reaper.

Former national-team physical coach, now working in Europe as a freelance reconditioning specialist: Chae Geun-beom.

"This is Ma Gang-cheol."

"......I know. The little brat flying around in the Netherlands."

Chae Geun-beom's response was lukewarm at best.

"Get to the point. I'm an expensive man."

"Remake me."

"Remake you?"

"Yes. Not this fourteen-year-old body. Turn me into a lump of iron that won't break even when I collide with adults."

Silence stretched for a moment.

A snort of laughter came through the line.

"Kid. I heard you got completely wrecked in your second-division debut. So now you're scared?"

"......"

"Don't get the wrong idea. Muscle isn't something you buy at the supermarket. And you're still growing. If you force the weights and your height stops, are you going to take responsibility for that?"

Chae Geun-beom was ice-cold. Full-scale bulk-up at fourteen was a gamble. Growth plates could close. Flexibility could vanish and balance could collapse.

"I'll take the responsibility."

Gang-cheol's voice was firm.

"And Coach, you already know. I'm not an ordinary fourteen-year-old."

"......"

"My recovery rate. The density of my bones. Come see for yourself. If the estimate doesn't work out, you're free to leave. I'll pay ten times the plane ticket as a penalty fee."

At Gang-cheol's provocation, Chae Geun-beom fell silent.

A moment later a deep, booming laugh exploded through the phone.

"Hahaha! Look at this kid. The arrogance lives up to the rumors."

"......"

"Fine. I happen to have business near Amsterdam anyway. Tomorrow morning, six o'clock. In front of your dorm. If you're even one minute late, don't expect a scrap of mercy."

Click.

The call ended.

Gang-cheol set the phone down and looked into the mirror.

A lean, solidly built boy stood there—not an ounce of spare flesh on him.

Among his peers he was called "the little rock" for how packed his muscle was. A body that had never been pushed around even by the U-17 and U-19 seniors, a body that carried real pride.

But that was as far as it went.

In front of the monsters of the adult stage, he was nothing more than a light pebble.

When eighty-five-kilogram, ninety-kilogram dump trucks decided to drive through him, he would inevitably bounce. Absolute mass had its limits.

Goodbye.

Gang-cheol said farewell to the "lightweight genius" in the mirror.

Starting tomorrow, you're dead.

The next morning at six.

A massive SUV sat in front of Gang-cheol's dorm.

The man who climbed out of the driver's seat looked like a bear.

One hundred eighty-five centimeters of height, muscles that seemed ready to burst through his clothes, a rough face, and a sports cut.

Coach Chae Geun-beom.

"You made it on time."

He looked Gang-cheol up and down, then suddenly clamped a hand around the boy's forearm.

"Ack!"

Gang-cheol yelped. The grip strength was no joke.

"Hmm... the bone structure isn't bad. Big frame for an Asian. But there's almost no muscle. Watery. Completely watery."

Chae Geun-beom clicked his tongue.

"No wonder those second-division black brothers sent you flying like a paper doll. Technique? Doesn't matter. Football is ultimately physical combat. Even Messi holds his ground at that tiny height because his core strength is monstrous."

"That's why I called you. Make me."

"Good. Three conditions."

Chae Geun-beom held up three thick fingers.

"First, diet. You eat only what I tell you. You ask permission even for a sip of water."

"Understood."

"Second, training. I will work you until you vomit. No—I'll keep working you after you vomit. If you run, the penalty fee is ten times."

"Doesn't matter."

"Third. This is the most important one."

He locked eyes with Gang-cheol.

"Never say 'I can't' to me. The moment those words leave your mouth, the contract is over."

Gang-cheol's eyes flashed.

"There's no such word as 'quit' in my dictionary."

"All talk. Get in. We're going to hell."

The place Chae Geun-beom took him was not Ajax's state-of-the-art training complex.

It was a shabby warehouse gym on the outskirts of Amsterdam.

The air reeked of rusted dumbbells and old sweat—a true dungeon.

"Cutting-edge machines? That's for guys who care about looking cool. Real bodies are built with iron."

Chae Geun-beom dumped his bag on the floor.

And from that day, hell began.

7:00 a.m. Wake-up and fasted cardio.

8:00 a.m. Breakfast.

The menu was nightmarish: two hundred grams of boiled chicken breast (no salt), five florets of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠broccoli, half a bowl of brown rice.

"Coach... a little sauce..."

"Shut it. Sauce is a luxury. It makes the muscles hold water."

Gang-cheol forced the chicken down. It tasted like chewing rubber. The dryness made his throat seize, but even water was measured.

10:00 a.m. Weight training, part one.

Mostly lower body and core.

Squat: one hundred kilograms.

An absurd load for a fourteen-year-old boy, but Chae Geun-beom showed no mercy.

"Lower! More! Your ass is dropping!"

"Uuuuugh...!"

Gang-cheol's legs trembled. His thigh muscles felt like they were tearing.

Yet from behind, Chae Geun-beom corrected his form and drove him without pity.

"Stand up! One more! You planning to go back to the second division and keep getting wrecked? Gonna get flattened by those giants and cry about it?"

At those words Gang-cheol's eyes rolled back.

Humiliation.

The miserable memory of being substituted after doing nothing in his debut.

That memory became the fuel that moved him.

"Uwaaaaah!!"

Gang-cheol drove the barbell upward.

Veins bulged as if they would burst.

2:00 p.m. Weight training, part two.

Upper body and back.

To hold ground in physical battles, the lats and shoulders were essential.

Pull-ups, deadlifts, bench press.

"Just one more! Last one!"

Chae Geun-beom's "last one" was a lie. He shouted "real last one," "actual last one," "final bang" and wrung Gang-cheol dry to the absolute limit.

6:00 p.m. Dinner.

Chicken breast again. And a protein shake.

Gang-cheol gagged halfway through the shake. His stomach rebelled.

But he could not vomit. Vomiting meant losing nutrients. He clamped a hand over his mouth and forced it back down.

10:00 p.m.

Back at the dorm, Gang-cheol collapsed like a corpse.

Every single muscle cell in his body was screaming.

He did not even have the strength to pull the blanket over himself.

While Gang-cheol slept, the system worked.

It was training that would have left an ordinary person bedridden for a week, yet his body remodeled itself through the night.

Protein filled the torn muscle fibers. His bones grew denser.

One week later.

Chae Geun-beom tilted his head.

"Is this kid... a monster?"

Normally, training of this intensity should have broken someone within three days—either collapse or injury.

Yet every morning Gang-cheol appeared with a perfectly fine face.

He complained of muscle pain, but he still had strength left to lift the bar.

And the changes in his body were visible to the naked eye, happening at an absurd speed.

"You on something?"

"Chicken breast."

"Ha. Recovery like a damn zombie."

Chae Geun-beom's eyes changed.

Greed took root.

With this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠boy, he might finally create the "perfect physique" that had existed only in his theories. A physical monster that shattered the limits of Asian athletes.

"Good. Starting today we double the intensity."

"What?!"

"Your body can take it. So we put more in. If you don't like it, blame the genes you were born with."

Hell's second stage began.

It was no longer simple weight training. Functional training was added.

A footballer is not a bodybuilder. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Pure bulk only makes the body sluggish.

Muscle that produces power without sacrificing speed or flexibility—that was the goal.

Gang-cheol wore a heavy vest and did box jumps. He sprinted at full power with resistance bands around his waist.

He performed squats on a balance ball, training until no shove could topple him.

One month, two months...

The seasons were changing.

Gang-cheol skipped Ajax team sessions and locked himself inside this hellish dungeon.

The club trusted Chae Geun-beom's reputation and left him alone. In his current state he could not play matches anyway.

And four months later.

Final measurement day.

Gang-cheol stripped off his top and stood before the mirror.

Chae Geun-beom approached with a measuring tape.

"......Whoa."

A gasp slipped from the coach's mouth.

The boy in the mirror was no longer a "stick."

His shoulders had broadened massively. His back muscles rippled like an angry cobra.

His thighs had grown as thick as an average adult man's waist.

Yet he did not look heavy. Fat had been stripped away, leaving only pure, compressed muscle.

It was a combat-ready physique that seemed to blend Bruce Lee's elasticity with Ma Dong-seok's thickness.

"You grew taller too?"

Chae Geun-beom measured his height.

One hundred seventy-eight centimeters.

Five centimeters taller than when training began.

As if laughing at the myth that weights stunt growth, the system's correction and Chae Geun-beom's scientific stimulus training had made the growth plates explode.

"Weight seventy-two kilos. Body fat seven percent."

Perfect.

Specs no one would believe belonged to a fourteen-year-old.

Gang-cheol clenched a fist. Power overflowed. He felt like he could rip a utility pole out of the ground.

"Good work, kid."

Chae Geun-beom slapped Gang-cheol on the back.

In the past Gang-cheol would have staggered. Now he did not budge an inch. Solid as rock.

"All thanks to you, Coach."

"Yeah. Now go show them. Show those Dutch bastards what 'kimchi physique' really means."

Chae Geun-beom grinned and packed his bags. His mission was finished.

The next day.

Jong Ajax training ground.

After three months, Gang-cheol returned.

The players murmured.

"Hey, isn't that Ma Gang-cheol?"

"Wait... why is he so big?"

"Did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he come back on the juice?"

Eyes went wide.

The once-loose jersey now clung tight. The forearm muscles visible under the short sleeves looked dangerous. More than anything, the aura had changed.

No longer the sharp, sensitive edge of before—now a heavy, solid, rock-like pressure.

"It's been a while, Captain hyung."

Gang-cheol greeted the captain (age twenty-one).

The captain looked startled, then quickly wore a crooked smile.

"Yeah. Hit the gym a bit, huh? Too bad football isn't a muscle-flexing contest."

He still dismissed Gang-cheol. A little change on the outside, he thought—the inside was still just a fourteen-year-old brat.

Afternoon intra-squad scrimmage.

Gang-cheol was assigned to Team B (the reserves). The captain played center-back for Team A (the starters).

It was deliberate. The coach wanted to test how much the boy had changed.

"Start!"

The whistle blew. Gang-cheol received the ball.

The captain charged as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.

"Think bigger muscles will help? Try holding this!"

He drove his shoulder in with full force. He planned to send Gang-cheol flying the same way as last time and crush his spirit. One hundred eighty-eight centimeters, eighty-five kilograms of pure charge.

Boom!

A dull collision sound echoed across the training ground.

But—

The one who flew was not Gang-cheol.

"Urgh!"

The captain let out a short scream and bounced backward as if he had slammed into a wall.

He landed hard on his backside in the grass and stared up at Gang-cheol in a daze.

Gang-cheol, meanwhile, had not even swayed.

He had not moved an inch.

"Wh...?"

"The captain just got launched?"

Teammates stared in shock.

Gang-cheol did not offer a hand to the fallen captain. Instead he rolled the ball under his sole and looked down at him.

"Hyung. Looks like you need more gym time."

"Y-you little monster..."

The captain's face flushed crimson.

But Gang-cheol had already stepped past him and was sprinting toward goal.

A defensive midfielder rushed in to cover, trying to stop him with his body.

Gang-cheol did not dodge.

"Move."

A light shoulder.

The defender spun like a top and crumpled.

Power versus power. Head-on.

No technique required. He simply drove forward and the path opened.

This is it.

Gang-cheol felt pure exhilaration.

His body felt light. No—power overflowed.

Where once he had been forced to weave and dodge with skill, now he felt like a dump truck blasting straight down the highway.

One-on-one with the goalkeeper.

Gang-cheol unleashed a cannonball shot.

Kwaaaang—!

The net billowed as if it would tear.

Silence swallowed the training ground. Even the coach could not close his mouth.

The boy who four months ago had been sent flying like a paper doll was gone.

"Coach."

Gang-cheol turned toward the bench.

"I can play in the second division now, right?"

The coach nodded as if entranced.

Yes. Of course he could.

With that physique and that technique... the second division was too small.

He felt it in his bones.

A true monster had appeared at Ajax—no, in the entire Dutch league.

Gang-cheol clenched his fist tight.

New body. New power.

The days of running away were over.

I'm going to smash everything.