The Monster Enters the First Team Training Ground

Amsterdam, Netherlands.

Ajax's first-team training center: De Toekomst — "The Future."

This was the dream of every Ajax youth player, and an untouchable sanctuary. A single wall separated the Jong Ajax second-team grounds from the first-team pitch, yet the weight of the air on either side was worlds apart.

Eight in the morning.

Gang-cheol was packing his bag in the locker room. His Jong Ajax teammates watched him with a mixture of envy and jealousy.

"You're really going? After only fifteen matches?"

"Hey, get me Bergkamp's autograph while you're at it."

Leaving their whispers behind, Gang-cheol slung his bag over his shoulder. It had been only a day since he washed away the nightmare of the Den Bosch match four months earlier and crowned himself king of the second division.

"Gang-cheol."

Coach Mitchell approached and offered his hand.

"Don't freeze up over there. You're already ready."

"Freeze up?"

Gang-cheol snorted and tapped his solid bicep.

"Those big brothers are the ones who should be freezing. A boulder just rolled into their yard."

Mitchell burst out laughing. That arrogance. That ease. The kid wouldn't flinch even among the first team.

Gang-cheol left the training ground. The moment he opened the side gate and stepped into first-team territory, a system alert chimed.

Even the air feels different.

The scent of freshly cut grass was thicker, the equipment gleaming. Farther off, players he had only ever seen on television were warming up — Netherlands national-team goalkeeper Cillessen, midfield linchpin Klaassen, and the legendary coaching staff seated on the bench.

The instant Gang-cheol stepped onto the pitch, every gaze locked onto him. Curiosity. Wariness. Dismissal.

"That the kid? The one who tore up the second division yesterday?"

"Come on, he's still fourteen. Physical or not, he's just a kid."

"Is de Boer spoiling him too much?"

Hazing. Every organization tests the new stone that rolls in. And when that stone was a fourteen-year-old Asian boy joining the first team, the proud professionals were never going to welcome him with open arms.

Then someone blocked his path.

A towering 190 cm frame — Ajax's starting center-back, Mike van der Hoorn.

"Hey, little boy."

Van der Hoorn looked down at him, chewing gum.

"This isn't kindergarten. If you came for autographs, the stands are that way."

Nearby players snickered. An opening salvo.

But Gang-cheol lifted his chin and met van der Hoorn's eyes dead-on. Then he grinned.

"Autographs? Don't need any."

He adjusted his bag strap.

"I'll give you one later. Just get in line."

"...What?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Van der Hoorn's face twisted. The laughter around them died.

A fourteen-year-old had just talked back to a first-team regular.

A whistle cut through the air.

"Gather up!"

Frank de Boer strode over. Beside him stood the legend of the shadow striker, chief coach Dennis Bergkamp, arms folded.

"Introducing Ma Gang-cheol. He joins training starting today."

De Boer's introduction was brief. The applause was half-hearted.

Bergkamp studied Gang-cheol in silence. His eyes were sharper than any scout's when it came to reading talent.

Lower-body balance is perfect. Center of gravity feels rooted into the earth.

Bergkamp's interest was piqued. In the flesh the boy looked even more solid than on video.

"We start training immediately. Five-a-side mini game. Gang-cheol, put on a bib and join Team B."

Gang-cheol pulled on an orange bib. Team B was reserves and prospects. Team A fielded the starters — van der Hoorn, Klaassen, and the rest.

"Hey, kid. When you get the ball, pass it right away. Don't dribble around and lose it."

A midfielder on his own side snapped at him. Gang-cheol only nodded.

Talking won't work. I have to show them.

Peeep—!

The match began. First-team tempo was blistering. The ball stuck to feet; the press was a different dimension from the second division. Yet every current of the game was clear in Gang-cheol's eyes.

Soccer Intelligence (S) and Vision (S) painted the entire pitch like a bird's-eye map.

They're fast, sure. But...

He smiled inwardly.

I'm faster.

Fifth minute of the first half. A pass found Gang-cheol.

The moment he controlled it, Team A's defensive midfielder Guddel charged in hard — a Serbian fighter who lived for physical battles.

"Got him!"

Guddel drove his shoulder into Gang-cheol.

An ordinary prospect would have panicked into a back-pass or spilled the ball trying to avoid the collision. Gang-cheol simply stopped.

Huh? His angle of approach is crystal clear.

In the past his head would have spun with calculations: reverse the center of gravity, snap the ankle to lift the ball... survival equations that burned brain cells. Now?

Just shove.

He settled into a light horse stance and loaded his shoulder. His brain went on vacation. The body already knew.

Boom!

"Ugh!"

The scream belonged ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to Guddel. On impact he bounced off as if he had hit a wall. Gang-cheol did not so much as sway. The Human Tank (A) trait reflected the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shock.

"What the hell?!"

De Boer's eyes widened. Guddel ranked among the top five physical players in the first team — and a fourteen-year-old had just overpowered him head-on.

Gang-cheol ignored the sprawled midfielder and drove forward. Space opened. Van der Hoorn charged with fire in his eyes.

"You arrogant little shit!"

The center-back launched a full-blooded sliding tackle meant to bury him — the classic first-team "welcome" that targeted ball and ankle together. Normally a player would leap clear or twist an ankle. In Gang-cheol's Regressor's Eyes the tackle unfolded in slow motion.

Before, I would have nutmegged him with a roulette... but jumping is a hassle.

He nudged the ball ahead and planted. Instead of dodging, he slammed his right foot down into the path of the tackle, rooting himself to the earth.

Stop if you don't want it broken.

Thud!

A dull impact. Van der Hoorn's shin smashed squarely into Gang-cheol's iron calf and outer thigh — like a speeding motorcycle hitting a steel utility pole.

"Gyaaah!"

The scream came from the tackler. Gang-cheol did not move a millimeter. Absolute lower-body balance. Van der Hoorn took the full rebound and rolled across the turf.

"...?!"

Silence swallowed the training ground. Gang-cheol left the fallen center-back behind, faced the keeper one-on-one, and finished with a casual chip.

Ripple.

Wiping sweat, he muttered to himself,

"Man, this is easy. When you don't have to use your head, soccer's a breeze."

His voice sliced through the hush. The players stared in shock. A fourteen-year-old had just school-of-hard-knocks'd Ajax's starting center-back and defensive midfielder — not with skill, but pure physical power.

"Hold it. Stop the game."

De Boer blew the whistle and turned to Bergkamp on the bench.

"Dennis, what do you think?"

Bergkamp rested his chin on his hand, looking intrigued.

"Interesting. Technique already complete, and he carries that kind of muscle. A mini Rooney? Or maybe Tevez."

"So he passes?"

"Not yet. One more test."

Bergkamp rose. The legend's entrance parted the players like the Red Sea. He walked onto the pitch carrying a ball and stopped in front of Gang-cheol.

"Gang-cheol."

"Yes, Coach."

"I see the strength. But this is Ajax. We don't play brainless power football."

He tossed the ball lightly.

"Touch. Receive every ball I give you perfectly. Bounce even once and you're straight back to the second team."

Bergkamp's trial: the first touch. The Iceman's touch was art itself. Anyone he refused to endorse could not survive at Ajax.

"Ready."

Gang-cheol lowered his stance. Bergkamp retreated thirty meters, then suddenly lofted the ball high.

Whoosh—!

It flew toward him with vicious spin — reverse rotation that would make the bounce unpredictable the instant it hit the ground. The surrounding players held their breath.

Even first-teamers struggle to kill that cleanly...

Bergkamp's going to break the kid's spirit for sure.

The ball dropped toward Gang-cheol's head. He watched it and thought,

This isn't something you take with the body. This is...

This is art.

Gang-cheol lifted his right foot a fraction. He emptied every ounce of tension until the foot became a soft quilt.

Tuk.

No sound at all. The ball kissed his instep and, as if magnetized, surrendered all kinetic energy, settling obediently at his feet. Spin? Reverse spin? One touch from Gang-cheol erased the laws of physics.

A perfect soft-tofu touch.

"...!"

Bergkamp's eyes widened. He struck again — a hard, driven ground pass. Gang-cheol flicked it up with his heel and cushioned it on the back of his neck.

"One more?"

He asked casually, the ball balanced on his nape.

A faint smile curved Bergkamp's lips.

"No. That's enough."

He turned to the squad.

"See that? That's fundamentals. He didn't neglect technique just because he has power. This kid is the real deal."

De Boer clapped. The other players had no choice but to accept it. They had thought he was a physical monster; his technique was even more monstrous.

Van der Hoorn scratched his head awkwardly.

"Tch. Kid's not bad."

Gang-cheol's entrance exam was over. No — it had never been a test. It was a hierarchy reset.

"Ma Gang-cheol."

De Boer called him over.

"This weekend. Against Feyenoord. You start on the bench."

"!!"

The squad murmured. Feyenoord. The biggest rivalry in the Netherlands — De Klassieker. The roughest, most important, most feverish match of all, and he was throwing a fourteen-year-old rookie into it.

"Can you handle it? Away at Rotterdam. The crowd might throw water bottles."

De Boer's question. Gang-cheol eyed the new quest flashing in the system window and grinned.

"Water bottles?"

Gang-cheol shrugged.

"They can throw rocks for all I care. I'll bounce every one of them."

"Hahaha! I like that guts!"

[Three days later. Rotterdam, De Kuip Stadium]

Feyenoord's home ground was hell itself. Fifty thousand home fans raining abuse and curses — a graveyard for any visiting side.

Thirtieth minute of the second half. Score 1–1. Deadlock. Ajax's attack had stalled; the forwards were wilting under Feyenoord's brutal defending.

"Get ready to come on."

De Boer gestured. Gang-cheol stopped warming up and sprinted to the bench.

"Go in and smash them."

"Yes, sir."

The fourth official raised the board.

Number 77.

Gang-cheol stood on the touchline. Fourteen years and ten months old — the youngest first-team debutant in Ajax history. Cameras zoomed in on his face. No nerves. He looked like he was enjoying himself.

"Hey! Who's that? They're sending out a kid?"

"Ajax has lost it! They're putting a kindergarten kid on the pitch!"

Feyenoord fans howled. Beer cups flew. Gang-cheol casually sidestepped one and stepped onto the grass.

The air is different.

Top-flight air. The scent of blood and sweat mixed together — the true smell of a battlefield.

He jogged to the center circle. Feyenoord's massive defenders smirked down at him.

"Lost, little boy? Want me to find your mommy?"

A 195 cm Feyenoord center-back blocked his path. Gang-cheol looked up and smiled.

"No. I came to clear a path."

"What?"

"You can just step aside, uncle."

His eyes flashed like a predator's. The system switched to combat mode.

The referee's whistle blew. Play resumed.

The ball rolled to Gang-cheol. Three Feyenoord players charged at once, screaming "Kill him!"

He did not run. He drove straight into them.

Alright. Empty the head.

Let's talk with our bodies, big brothers.

Boom—!

A massive collision, and a legend began.

The first footsteps of the fourteen-year-old monster who would conquer the Dutch league.