De Klassieker: The Legendary Debut Goal

Rotterdam, Netherlands.

Feyenoord's home ground, Stadion Feijenoord.

Better known as De Kuip—the Bathtub—this place was the maw of hell itself for any visiting side.

The heat pouring from fifty-one thousand throats was no mere support. It was a thick, sticky air laced with pure hatred and murderous intent aimed at Ajax.

That was the essence of De Klassieker.

The thirtieth minute of the second half.

The scoreboard read 1–1.

Under that crushing tension, Ajax's fourteen-year-old boy, Ma Gang-cheol, stepped up to the touchline.

"Boooooooo!!!!"

"Get lost, you Ajax bastards!"

"You brought a kindergartener? Go home and suck on your mommy's tit some more!"

The jeers crashed down from the stands like a waterfall. Front-row hooligans flipped him the middle finger and screamed obscenities too filthy to print. Plastic beer cups sailed onto the pitch.

Any ordinary fourteen-year-old would have been shaking so hard he could barely stand.

Gang-cheol casually trapped an incoming cup with his foot and flicked it aside.

"Pretty intense welcome."

He smirked.

This level of noise? Compared to a Champions League final from his previous life, it was adorable.

The fourth official raised the board.

Ajax captain Klaassen trudged off, soaked in sweat. He clamped a hand on Gang-cheol's shoulder and muttered low.

"Watch yourself. Those ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bastards aren't playing football—they're trying to bury people. The ref barely blows the whistle because of the home pressure."

"Don't worry, hyung."

Gang-cheol loosened up as he answered.

"They're the ones who'll get buried."

He stepped onto the pitch.

The system switched to combat mode and flashed a crimson alert.

Reason reduced… so they're just rabid dogs, huh.

Gang-cheol was actually pleased.

Nothing was easier to handle than an opponent who'd lost his mind.

Peeeeep—!

Play resumed.

Feyenoord's goalkeeper launched a long goal kick. The ball soared high toward the center circle.

Gang-cheol was waiting at the drop point.

Right behind him, Feyenoord's defensive midfielder El Ahmadi came charging in—183 cm of pure muscle, faking a jump so he could drive a knee into the kid's lower back.

Die, you little brat!

Murder flashed in El Ahmadi's eyes. The crowd roared, hungry to watch Ajax's newcomer get crushed.

Gang-cheol didn't jump.

Instead he planted his feet shoulder-width apart, dropped into a horse stance, and drove his back into the ground like a wall.

Shielding.

The most basic technique in the book—and pure suicide if you didn't have the physique to back it up.

Gang-cheol emptied his mind. Complicated drop-point calculations? Impact dispersion? Unnecessary.

Just brace and hold.

BOOM—!

El Ahmadi's chest slammed square into Gang-cheol's back. The dull thud of impact carried all the way to the broadcast booth.

"Guhk!"

The scream came from El Ahmadi, still airborne. He bounced off like a fly hitting a windshield and crashed to the turf.

Gang-cheol hadn't moved an inch. He simply cushioned the ball on his chest and let it drop softly to his feet.

"……?!"

The jeering stands fell into sudden silence.

A fourteen-year-old had just launched a full-grown midfielder with a single shield?

It looked like the laws of physics had glitched.

Gang-cheol didn't even glance at the crumpled El Ahmadi. He simply started dribbling.

Man, this is ridiculously easy.

He marveled inwardly. In the old days, aerial duels meant pre-positioning, a subtle shove to steal the timing, and preparing to roll on landing. His head used to spin.

Now? He just stood there and they bounced off on their own.

So this is the life of a talent monster. Absolute free ride.

He drove forward with the ball. Feyenoord's back line panicked and dropped deep. After watching El Ahmadi fly, no one dared step up casually.

"Stop him! Somebody stop that bastard!"

The Feyenoord manager screamed from the bench. Only then did center-back van Beek charge out, keeping his distance, wary of Gang-cheol's speed.

Gang-cheol never slowed. Two meters from van Beek he threw his upper body hard to the left—body feint.

Bite.

But van Beek was a veteran. He held his center and refused the bait.

Gang-cheol smirked.

Not biting? Fine by me.

He didn't bother recovering balance from the feint. He simply exploded to the right—pure acceleration.

Van Beek reacted late and tried to throw a shoulder in.

Where the hell do you think you're going?

Gang-cheol leaned deliberately into the contact—178 cm and 72 kg of compressed muscle, now carrying full acceleration.

THUD!

"Ugh!"

Van Beek was shoved sideways, stumbling, center of gravity gone. Gang-cheol slipped past as if strolling through an open door.

"What the hell was that…?"

"Is he a tank? Why won't he fall?"

Fear rippled through the Feyenoord defense.

A dribbler who never went down. An attacker who hurt you when you touched him.

This was cheating.

Fortieth minute of the second half.

Gang-cheol's presence had handed Ajax the initiative, yet the goal still wouldn't come. Feyenoord had parked the bus in front of their net and locked every door.

A draw means nothing.

He glanced at the scoreboard. 1–1.

To leave a real mark on his debut, he needed a result.

The fourteen-year-old who scored the winner in De Klassieker.

That title alone would put all of Europe on notice—fame, transfer value, even a Champions League ticket.

One chance. Just one.

Forty-fourth minute. One minute of regulation left.

A Feyenoord counter was snuffed out and the ball rolled back into Ajax territory. An Ajax defender launched a hopeful long ball into empty space—pure route-one football.

But Gang-cheol was already running.

While everyone else trudged on tired legs, he alone tore into a full sprint.

The ball dropped into the right corner of Feyenoord's half. Left-back Kongolo jogged over, thinking Gang-cheol was still far away, taking his sweet time.

Then—

THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD—!

The sound of cleats shredding turf. By the time Kongolo turned his head, Gang-cheol was already on his back.

"Wha—?!"

Kongolo lunged to clear. Gang-cheol was faster. He faked a slide, stretched a toe, and nicked the ball clean away.

"Damn it!"

Kongolo swung at air and went down. Gang-cheol recovered the ball and tore up the touchline.

Nothing ahead of him now. Thirty meters to the penalty box.

"Stop him!! If he gets through it's over!"

Feyenoord's keeper screamed. The two center-backs scrambled across. Gang-cheol didn't slow—he accelerated harder.

He reached the edge of the box. A 190 cm giant stepped across, body-blocking any cut inside.

Gang-cheol feinted a stop. The defender flinched and planted.

In that instant—

Tap.

His right foot pretended to push the ball outside. The defender's weight shifted wide.

A tenth of a second later his ankle cracked like a whip, dragging the ball back inside.

The defender's ankles tangled.

"Urgh!"

He crumpled in place. Perfect breakthrough—the classic ankle-breaker.

Now it was one-on-one with the keeper. The angle was tight. Feyenoord goalkeeper Vermeer rushed out, narrowing the space. A seasoned veteran, he refused to dive early and watched Gang-cheol's feet to the end.

No one to pass to. No shooting angle either.

Most players would panic. Gang-cheol's world had slowed to a crawl.

No angle? Then I'll make one.

He cocked his right leg high as if to shoot. The keeper flinched—but it was only a plant foot. Instead of striking, Gang-cheol stepped on the ball and spun a full circle.

Marseille turn.

Right in the keeper's face. Vermeer's timing shattered; he stood frozen. Gang-cheol left him behind and stood before an empty net.

This was pure humiliation—toying with both defender and goalkeeper deep in enemy territory, then rolling the ball into a vacant goal.

He nudged it in with the lightest of touches.

The ball rolled… and nestled into the net.

Silence.

True silence this time. Fifty thousand souls inside De Kuip held their breath. No jeers. No curses. Only the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠raw terror of a performance that absolute.

Gang-cheol didn't sprint to the corner flag. He walked slowly to the center circle, stopped, and faced the Feyenoord ultras.

He pointed a finger at the name and number 77 on the back of his jersey.

Then he pressed that same finger to his lips.

Shh.

Silence.

A declaration that this patch of earth now belonged to him.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!"

The two thousand Ajax fans crammed into the away corner exploded. Flares bloomed. They chanted his name like a war cry.

"MA! GANG! CHEOL! KING GANG-CHEOL!"

Ajax players poured off the bench and buried him in a pile. Manager de Boer clutched his head in disbelief. Coach Bergkamp stood arms folded, a quiet, satisfied smile on his face as he nodded.

"A monster. Absolute monster."

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

[Mixed Zone]

Gang-cheol emerged from the showers. Dozens of reporters swarmed him.

"Ma Gang-cheol! Winning goal on your debut—how do you feel?"

"Was the flip-flap planned?"

"What did that final celebration mean?"

Questions poured in. He stepped calmly to the microphone.

"How do I feel? Hmm…"

He thought for a second, then shrugged.

"Easier than I expected."

A ripple of murmurs. The Eredivisie—De Klassieker, no less—and he called it easy?

"When your body's this good, your head stays clear. Used to be I'd overthink how to break them down. Today I just…"

He clenched a fist for them.

"…pushed through and the door opened. Felt like an automatic gate."

Arrogance. Yet no one could argue. He had proven every word on the pitch.

"And the celebration?"

Gang-cheol grinned.

"The stadium was too loud. I was just politely asking them to keep it down. They were being rude."

The press corps burst into helpless laughter.

Tomorrow's headlines were already written.

On the bus ride home, Gang-cheol stared out the window and checked his system rewards.

Winner Mentality…

Gang-cheol smiled. This was the ability he had wanted most—big-game temperament, pure star quality.

His phone vibrated. Caller ID: Agent.

Ho-seok hyung.

"Hello."

"I know. I scored."

"What?"

Gang-cheol's eyes widened.

Barcelona.

Camp Nou.

And… Lionel Messi.

The greatest stage on earth. The first gate of European conquest was swinging open far sooner than expected.

Barcelona…

A dream stage he had never set foot on even in his previous life.

His heart began to hammer like mad again.

"Hyung."

"Book the plane tickets. We're going to Spain for some tapas."

Gang-cheol clenched his fist tight.

It was time to start writing a real legend.