The Monster's Return: Crushing the Second Division

Netherlands, Amsterdam.

De Toekomst main stadium.

Eerste Divisie (Dutch second division), Matchday 15.

It was the day Jong Ajax faced FC Eindhoven.

One hour before kickoff, the stands were busier than usual. Yet the atmosphere hung strangely subdued. On the faces of the home Ajax fans, expectation had given way to worry—no, something closer to pity.

"Hey, he's starting today, right? That World Cup fourth-place kid."

"Ma Gang-cheol? The one who got subbed off after twenty minutes in his debut?"

"Yeah. Back after four months, I heard… Honestly, I'm not expecting much. Last time he looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. Those second-division uncles don't mess around."

The fans were cynical.

Four months earlier, against Den Bosch, the sight Gang-cheol had presented was pitiful. A fourteen-year-old boy crumpled like paper by adult defenders. That trauma still sat deep in the supporters' minds.

In the away dressing room of FC Eindhoven, by contrast, the mood was so relaxed it bordered on arrogance.

They sat third in the table—a genuine promotion contender. To them, Jong Ajax, packed with prospects, was little more than a rest stop on the road to the top flight.

"You see the starting lineup?"

Eindhoven's captain, thirty-two-year-old veteran centre-back Van der Beek, snickered.

"That little brat's out again. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Ma Gang-cheol or whatever."

"Ah, the stick insect? I watched the last match. Hilarious. One shoulder and he was airborne."

"Heh heh heh. Perfect for a warm-up today. I'll give him a proper education. Show him how scary the pro game—how scary the adult world—really is."

Van der Beek slapped his thick thighs. One hundred eighty-eight centimetres, ninety-two kilos of pure bulk.

The "Wailing Wall" that made even second-division strikers stick out their tongues in dread.

To him, a fourteen-year-old boy was nothing more than a snack.

[Jong Ajax Dressing Room]

"Starting lineup."

Coach Mitchell stepped in front of the whiteboard.

Every pair of eyes locked on him. Especially the ones that slid, with a peculiar weight, toward Gang-cheol, back after four months.

The changed physique. The heavier presence.

Word of him launching the captain across the training pitch had already spread like wildfire, yet doubt lingered: training was one thing, matches another.

"Attacking midfielder. Ma Gang-cheol."

Gang-cheol lifted his head and met the coach's gaze.

Mitchell flinched. Those were not a boy's eyes. They belonged to a starving predator.

The child who had sat in the corner of the bench four months ago, head bowed and on the verge of tears, was gone.

"Gang-cheol."

"Yes, Coach."

"Show them. Show them what you dragged back from hell."

Gang-cheol nodded without a word.

He rose and pulled on his jersey.

Shrrk.

The fabric tightened snugly around him.

Once it had flapped loosely; now it clung perfectly to the lats and chest.

He swung his arms experimentally. No restriction. If anything, the compression felt solid, reassuring.

There's an old saying: if the head is weak, the body suffers.

Gang-cheol tied his laces and smirked.

Wrong. For a footballer it's the opposite. If the body is weak, the head works itself to death.

For the past fourteen years—decades, if you counted the life before regression—he had always played with his head.

Because his physique was frail, he calculated every path to the tenth of a second so he never had to collide, factoring in wind resistance ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and the friction of the grass just to sell a feint.

Desperate, full-throttle brainpower simply to survive.

After every match his head ached worse than his legs.

But… I don't need that anymore.

A system window bloomed before his eyes.

Time to give the brain a vacation.

Gang-cheol clenched and unclenched his fist. The raw grip strength in his palm felt vivid, alive.

Today, De Toekomst would not be a boy's grave. It would be the birthplace of a monster.

Peeeeeeep—!

The referee's whistle sent the match underway.

Eindhoven kicked off and came out aggressive from the first second. Whenever a Jong Ajax youngster received the ball they pressed hard, hunting for mistakes. Classic "adult football."

Fifth minute.

Gang-cheol's first touch arrived.

A long ball from the back.

He took it on his chest near the halfway line.

"Here he is! Kill him!"

As if he had been waiting, Eindhoven's defensive midfielder Jansen charged in.

He carried the same physical profile as the players who had launched Gang-cheol four months earlier against Den Bosch. One hundred eighty-five centimetres, eighty-eight kilos.

Jansen never slowed. He drove his shoulder straight into Gang-cheol's back.

You'll go flying again, kid!

The crowd was already drawing breath for a collective "Ah—!" when Gang-cheol's mind stayed perfectly calm.

Old me would have planted a dummy step here, reversed the centre of gravity, and slipped out at a forty-five-degree angle. Complicated.

But now?

He simply locked his legs. That was all.

Just hold.

KWAANG—!

A dull, heavy collision thundered across the pitch.

And yet—

Gang-cheol did not move a millimetre. He stood like a utility pole driven into the earth.

The one who absorbed the shock was Jansen.

"Urgh?!"

Jansen bounced backward, staggering. The bizarre sight of an eighty-eight-kilo frame rebounding off its own momentum.

Gang-cheol used the rebound to spring forward instead.

The perfect marriage of [Trait: Balance (S)] and [Core Muscles (A)].

"Wh… what?!"

"Jansen got shoved back?"

The Eindhoven bench erupted in murmurs.

Gang-cheol dribbled on, marvelling inwardly.

Wow, this is actually easy. Didn't use my head once and still won. So this is how the physical monsters live? Life on easy mode.

When the body is strong, the mind can rest. What a luxurious way to play football.

"Stop him! Tackle!"

Eindhoven centre-back Van der Beek roared and charged out.

He was the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠local thug of this zone.

The "Wailing Wall" famous for crushing second-division strikers with pure power.

Cocky little brat. I'll bury you.

Van der Beek ignored the ball. He launched his massive frame straight at Gang-cheol's torso.

Shoulder to shoulder. Head-on collision.

No thought of evasion.

Gang-cheol did not dodge either.

Once he would have slipped away ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with a flip-flap or phantom dribble, elegant and clean. Not today.

He wanted them to see. He was no longer a Runner. He was a Destroyer.

He kept full speed, dropped his upper body, and lowered his centre of gravity.

Knees bent, driving under the opponent's solar plexus.

Careful with the implants, old man.

KWAANG!!

The sound of a car crash.

Two bodies tangled.

Then the stands exploded in screams.

"Uwaaagh!"

The one who flew was Van der Beek.

Gang-cheol's iron shoulder had struck from below and lifted the man's centre of gravity clean off the ground. A seventy-two-kilo steel lump, accelerated, had simply run through a ninety-two-kilo giant.

Van der Beek hung in the air for a heartbeat before crashing down in a heap.

Gang-cheol never even staggered.

He stepped over the fallen captain and found himself one-on-one with the goalkeeper.

"No way…"

The keeper froze solid.

His own captain—that monster Van der Beek—had just been overpowered by a fourteen-year-old kid?

His brain locked up, buffering.

Gang-cheol did not waste the opening.

A thunderous right-footed instep drive.

KWAAANG!

The net bulged as if it might tear.

Silence.

Even the cheers refused to come. The scene had been so shocking that spectators and commentators alike simply forgot how to open their mouths.

A beat later—

"Uwaaaaaaaa!!!!"

"Ma Gang-cheol!! Ma Gang-cheol!!"

The stadium erupted as if it might lift off its foundations.

Gang-cheol sprinted to the corner flag and casually flexed his biceps in celebration.

See that? That's me.

The Eindhoven players looked shell-shocked.

Van der Beek still lay on the turf, coughing uselessly, unable to rise. The blow to the solar plexus had stolen his breath.

From that moment the match turned into a massacre.

Eindhoven's mentality shattered.

The strategy of crushing with power had itself been crushed by greater power. They had nothing left.

Twenty-fifth minute.

Gang-cheol collected the ball in midfield.

Eindhoven players flinched. They could not approach.

Fear of the physical duel.

The primal dread that colliding with this kid might snap bones froze them in place.

If you won't come, I'll go to you.

Gang-cheol began a leisurely dribble.

The gap to the defender closed. The defender back-pedalled.

Gang-cheol hummed to himself.

Used to take three feints here, a body swerve, eye-line manipulation, just to squeeze through…

Now?

He simply knocked the ball past and ran. Pure, brainless acceleration.

Yet the defender, terrified of that shoulder, never even closed properly and simply opened the lane.

Ah, the head is so free. I can play football on IQ 100.

The instant the defender lost balance and staggered, Gang-cheol threaded a killer pass into the path of the striker bursting into the box.

Tok.

"Nice pass!"

The striker side-footed it home.

A standing ovation poured down from the stands.

"It's a monster! A real monster has appeared!"

Halftime.

The Jong Ajax dressing room felt like a festival.

Coach Mitchell, buzzing, pounded Gang-cheol's back.

"Incredible! Absolutely incredible! You launched Van der Beek with pure power… I still don't know what I just watched."

"It's nothing. I've been training a bit."

Gang-cheol wiped sweat and answered flatly.

His teammates' eyes had flipped one hundred eighty degrees.

The jealousy and contempt from his first days were gone, replaced entirely by awe.

"Gang-cheol, take it easy in the second half. They're gonna cry."

"No mercy. I swore it while chewing chicken breast for four months. I'm breaking everything."

Gang-cheol drained an electrolyte drink.

He was still hungry.

This was not enough.

Second half.

Eindhoven had lost the will to fight.

They no longer challenged Gang-cheol physically. More accurately, they could not.

Whenever he received the ball they simply dropped two or three metres off and held their shape.

Sixtieth minute.

Gang-cheol collected possession near the edge of the arc.

Defenders backed away, opening the lane. A cowardly invitation: better to concede a shot than get run through again.

Gang-cheol did not refuse the gift.

"Then I'll just hit it."

His right foot cocked back.

The shooting mechanism Chae Geun-beom had drilled into him—one hundred percent of lower-body and core power transferred into the strike.

The instant the ball met the laces, a heavy, satisfying impact travelled up his leg.

Kwang—!

The ball flew like a missile.

No spin. Just raw force ripping through the air like a laser beam.

The goalkeeper never even moved.

A tearing crack and the net bulged violently.

Thirty metres. A long-range rocket.

The perfect fusion of power and technique.

"Uwaaaaaaaa!!!!"

De Toekomst shook under a roar that threatened to bring the stands down.

Gang-cheol spread both arms and walked toward the crowd.

He looked for all the world like a king surveying his subjects.

Eightieth minute.

Coach Mitchell substituted him.

A gesture of respect so the fans could give him a standing ovation on the way off.

"Ma Gang-cheol! Ma Gang-cheol!"

Every spectator rose and chanted his name.

Gang-cheol clapped back as he entered the technical area.

Mitchell pulled him into a tight embrace.

"Perfect. You're not second-division level."

Gang-cheol sat on the bench and watched the pitch.

The Eindhoven players were simply killing time, heads down.

Four months earlier this adult stage had mocked him and ground him into the dirt. Today he had broken that arrogance completely—with skill and with physique.

Human Tank… I like the sound of that.

Gang-cheol smiled.

The days of playing football with a headache were over.

When the body is strong, the mind is free. This was real football.

His gaze was already fixed far beyond the pitch—on the Johan Cruyff Arena, home of the first team.

After the final whistle.

Mixed-zone interviews.

The journalists' heat was blistering.

The same reporters who had called him a "bubble" four months earlier now thrust microphones at him and praised the "monster."

"Ma Gang-cheol! An unbelievable performance in your first game back after four months. What happened in that time? Your body is completely different."

Gang-cheol shrugged.

"Just… ate well and trained a bit."

"The clip of you launching their captain Van der Beek in a physical duel is already going viral. Any secret?"

Gang-cheol grinned straight into the cameras.

"Well… he looked a little light to me. Maybe he should hit the gym more."

Provocation.

But provocation backed by proof becomes pure charisma.

The reporters burst out laughing.

"What's the goal now? First-team promotion?"

Gang-cheol's eyes turned serious.

"Of course. I didn't come here to play king of the second division."

He pointed a finger at the massive stadium rising beside the pitch—the Johan Cruyff Arena.

"Playing there is my goal. And…"

He let the pause hang.

"The Champions League. I want to stand on that stage."

The Champions League.

The pinnacle of European football. The war of the stars.

A grand dream from the mouth of a fourteen-year-old boy—yet after tonight's match, not a single person could laugh.

Ma Gang-cheol had already proven he belonged.

That night Dutch sports news looped the goals and the clip of Van der Beek being launched into orbit without mercy.

And one man was watching every second of the broadcast.

Ajax first-team manager Frank de Boer.

Wine glass in hand, he studied Gang-cheol on the screen with quiet intensity.

"Hoh…"

His eyes narrowed.

"Interesting kid. I already knew about the technique, but that kind of destructive power as well…"

De Boer picked up the phone and called his assistant coach.

One in the morning. He did not care.

"It's me. Call the Jong Ajax staff first thing tomorrow. And…"

He pointed at the number 10 on the screen.

"Ma Gang-cheol. Bring him into first-team training. I want to see him with my own eyes."

The call ended.

De Boer smiled and took a sip of wine.

Ajax's oldest philosophy was about to awaken: Good enough is old enough.

Gang-cheol's charge had no intention of stopping.

Next target: the Ajax first team.

And after that—the conquest of Europe.