Youngest Debut at Camp Nou (vs MSN)
Spain, Catalonia — Barcelona.
The promised land every footballer dreams of.
Camp Nou.
Europe’s largest stadium, seating 99,354. Its sheer scale felt less like a football ground and more like a vast coliseum.
One hour before kickoff.
The away dressing room.
The Ajax players sat in deathly silence. Even the usual loudmouths wore the tight, pale look of men who knew exactly what waited for them outside.
No wonder. Tonight’s opponents were FC Barcelona — the so-called Planetary Defense Force. And not just any Barcelona side. Lionel Messi, Luis Suárez, and Neymar: the greatest attacking trio in history, MSN, were all starting.
“Hoo…”
Captain Klaassen scrubbed a dry hand over his face. Fear hung thick in the air. Tactics, shape, pressing triggers — none of it mattered. Everyone was quietly calculating how many goals the monsters would put past them.
Everyone except one.
In the corner of the room, Ma Gang-cheol sat with a faint smile curling at the edge of his mouth.
Finally.
Memories of his previous life. The years spent bouncing between reserve teams and lower leagues, staring at this place only through a television screen. The realm where the gods lived.
And now, at fourteen years old, he had walked in through the front door.
[Area Entered] : Camp Nou (Legendary-Grade Stadium)
[Pressure] : The aura of the God of Football dominates the pitch.
[Hidden Quest] : How to Greet a God
[Objective] : Carve your name into the hearts of the Camp Nou crowd.
[Reward] : Explosive worldwide recognition, attention from Spanish La Liga scouts.
“Gang-cheol.”
Manager de Boer approached. Even his face was set in stone.
“You’re not starting today. But when we need to change the atmosphere in the second half, you’re going on.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be ready.”
Gang-cheol’s answer was calm, almost casual. The manager liked the attitude — and feared it. Would that confidence still be standing when Messi was in front of him?
Half-time: FC Barcelona 2 – 0 Ajax
Exactly as expected. No — worse.
Barcelona weren’t playing football. They were performing art.
Tiki-taka.
The ball moved like a living creature, slipping past Ajax boots as if they weren’t even there. Iniesta and Busquets conducted, Neymar danced, Suárez destroyed, and Messi finished.
Fifteenth minute: Neymar’s outrageous curling strike. Thirty-eighth minute: Messi’s magical dribble and delicate chip.
Ajax players weren’t even winning the ball; they were simply chasing it. Possession 75–25. The gulf in class was absolute.
In the stands, Camp Nou’s crowd casually rode Mexican waves, enjoying the show.
“Haa… haa…”
The Ajax players stumbled back into the dressing room already spent. Running without ever touching the ball had drained them twice as fast.
“We have to change the atmosphere.”
De Boer made the call. A tactical substitution? No. What they needed right now wasn’t a new shape.
They needed a rock — something that could stand against the tidal wave called Barcelona and not be swept away.
“Ma Gang-cheol.”
The manager’s eyes found him.
“Warm up. You’re on at the start of the second half.”
Just before the second-half kickoff, the fourth official raised the board.
OUT : 21 (El Ghazi)
IN : 77 (Ma Gang-cheol)
The stadium announcer’s voice rolled across the stands.
“Ajax substitution. Number seventy-seven… Kang-cheol Ma.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“What’s that? The little kid?”
“An Asian? From the youth team?”
“Ajax must have given up. Letting him get some experience, I guess.”
Laughter mixed with the whispers.
Gang-cheol stepped onto the grass and drew a long breath. Beside him stood Lionel Messi.
Smaller than he looked on television. Yet the presence rolling off that body felt like a giant’s.
Messi glanced at him without much interest. Their eyes met. Gang-cheol didn’t look away; he offered a light nod. Messi raised an eyebrow, faintly intrigued, then turned and jogged back to his own half.
Let’s go.
Gang-cheol sprinted onto the pitch.
Peeep—!
Second half underway.
Barcelona’s grip on the ball never loosened. Busquets collected it in midfield and dictated the tempo with lazy elegance. Ajax midfielders pressed; Busquets simply glided out of trouble with that trademark escape.
Then it happened.
Just as Busquets turned to play the ball forward—
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud—!
Someone closed the distance at insane speed.
Ma Gang-cheol.
Huh?
Busquets didn’t panic. He did what he always did — a little upper-body feint, ready to roll the ball left and leave the kid behind with pure technique.
Gang-cheol didn’t buy it. He never even considered buying it.
Nice technique, hyung. Shame about the skinny frame.
He ignored the ball completely. His eyes locked on Busquets’s torso — right between shoulder and chest — and he drove straight through.
Move.
BOOM—!
A dull, heavy collision. Sergio Busquets, the finest defensive midfielder on the planet, bounced sideways like a man hit by a car.
Technique? Feints?
When a truck arrives, none of that matters.
“……?!”
Camp Nou gasped as one. The referee kept the whistle silent. Clean shoulder charge.
Gang-cheol left the sprawling Busquets behind and claimed the ball.
“Stop him! Mascherano!”
The heart of Barcelona’s defense, Javier Mascherano, came flying in. The man they called “The Eraser.” A fighter who would never take second place in a war of attrition. Only 174 cm, but carved from iron.
The moment he saw Gang-cheol he launched a full-blooded tackle.
“Not a chance!”
Gang-cheol only smiled. Same species. But—
I’m harder.
Human Tank (A) + Balance (S)
Instead of dodging, Gang-cheol flicked the ball up, then used Mascherano’s diving body as a stepping stone — planting a foot on the Argentine’s shoulder and vaulting clean over him.
Thud!
“Ugh!”
Mascherano groaned and rolled across the turf. Gang-cheol landed and accelerated again.
A fourteen-year-old Ajax boy was bulldozing through Barcelona’s midfield with pure force.
“Whoa… he’s insane.”
“What is that Asian kid? How is his physique even real?”
The mood in the stands began to shift. This was no longer a child’s party trick. This was a genuine threat.
Twentieth minute of the second half.
Gang-cheol received the ball on the right flank. Ahead of him stood Barcelona’s left-back, Jordi Alba — a man who lost to no one in a pure foot race. Alba dropped off, ready for the duel.
Gang-cheol stopped for a heartbeat and thought.
You’re fast, Alba hyung. But you’re too light.
No step-over. No body feint. He simply knocked the ball long past Alba’s right side and exploded after it — pure power dribble.
“Got him!”
Alba laughed and matched the sprint, certain he would win any race. He reached the ball half a step earlier and threw his shoulder in to barge Gang-cheol off.
At that exact instant—
“Oops.”
Gang-cheol timed it perfectly and drove his own shoulder back into Alba’s.
A collision at full speed.
CRACK!
Alba realized he had run into a wall only after he was already tumbling, rolling, and flying over the touchline hard enough to slam into the advertising boards.
Gang-cheol calmly collected the ball and strode into the penalty area.
“Good God…”
“Alba just got launched!”
The commentator’s voice cracked.
“Unbelievable! Fourteen-year-old Ma Gang-cheol just threw Jordi Alba aside with pure strength! No tricks — he’s simply crushing them with physique!”
Inside the box waited Gerard Piqué, 194 cm of center-back. He didn’t panic. He simply stepped across Gang-cheol’s path.
Strong kid. But height? Not a chance.
Piqué sealed off the shooting angle. Gang-cheol had no intention of shooting yet. His eyes found the far-side run — not Suárez, but Ajax’s striker.
Then instinct whispered.
No. I finish this myself.
If I pass here, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
He killed the ball dead in front of Piqué. A full stop. Then he lifted his right foot.
Piqué flinched and stuck out a leg.
In that split second—
Whoosh.
Gang-cheol’s right foot never touched the ball. Instead his plant foot — the left — snapped through it in a half-beat-early toe-poke. The same finish Ronaldo had loved in his prime.
Unpredictable Shot (A)
The ball threaded straight through Piqué’s legs — a perfect nutmeg. Ter Stegen, vision blocked, flung himself late.
Swish— bang!
The ball kissed the side-netting in the far corner.
“Woooooooo!!!!”
High in the third tier, the tiny pocket of Ajax fans went berserk. Even more striking was the reaction of the Barcelona supporters. No boos. Only murmurs… then scattered applause rising from every corner.
“Wow… he actually scored that.”
“Kid’s the real deal. Absolute monster.”
Gang-cheol didn’t celebrate. He simply picked up the ball and sprinted back to the center circle. Still one down. They could still win this. At the very least, they could draw. His eyes burned with hunger for victory.
As he jogged back, someone fell into step beside him.
Lionel Messi.
Messi stared at him for a long second, then spoke a single quiet word.
“Bien.”
Just one word. Yet it carried the weight of a thousand gold coins. The God of Football had acknowledged him.
Twenty minutes remained. The match ignited.
Pride wounded, Barcelona finally got serious. Neymar tormented Ajax’s defense with dazzling footwork; Suárez prowled like a predator. Gang-cheol refused to yield an inch. He tore around midfield like a mad dog, body-checking Busquets, cutting out Rakitic’s passes.
“Does that kid never get tired?”
Barcelona players clicked their tongues. Being a second-half substitute helped, but his work rate defied common sense.
Relentless stamina engine pumping at full capacity.
Fortieth minute of the second half. Ajax’s final chance.
Gang-cheol won a free-kick right on the edge of the arc after Mascherano finally fouled him to stop another surge. Twenty-eight meters out. Kick-taker: Ma Gang-cheol.
Barcelona built a wall of giants — Piqué, Mathieu. Ter Stegen set himself, tense.
Gang-cheol placed the ball, took five measured steps back, and breathed. Ninety thousand people held their breath with him.
Show them my weapon.
Tap-tap, BOOM!
The ball left his foot not as a knuckleball this time, but with vicious, whipping spin. It sailed over the wall, then bent violently toward the top-right corner.
It’s in!
The instant he was certain—
CLANG—!
The ball smashed the underside of the crossbar and bounced out. A collective “Ahhhh!” exploded from the stands. Even Barcelona fans groaned at the perfection of the trajectory. Ter Stegen could only stare at the post. That shot was unstoppable. Luck alone had saved him.
Peeeeeeep—!
The final whistle.
Full Time: Barcelona 2 – 1 Ajax
They had lost. Yet no Ajax head hung low. Least of all Gang-cheol’s. Against the best team on earth he had scored once, rattled the woodwork, and physically dominated the midfield.
He stood with hands on hips, tasting the bitter edge of defeat, when someone tapped his shoulder from behind.
Lionel Messi.
Messi was already peeling off his sweat-soaked jersey.
“Cambio?”
Gang-cheol’s eyes widened. Messi had asked first. This was more than praise. This was respect — recognition as an equal.
Gang-cheol grinned and stripped off his own shirt. Cameras flashed the moment his hard, muscular frame appeared. The two players swapped jerseys and shook hands.
“Next time, not at Camp Nou. Let’s meet in the final.”
Messi spoke in Spanish. Gang-cheol understood every word (system translation).
He gripped Messi’s hand firmly.
“Next time, I win.”
Messi snorted a quiet laugh, clapped him once on the shoulder, and walked away.
Number 10’s jersey draped over his shoulders, Gang-cheol’s face appeared on the giant Camp Nou screens. The crowd rose to its feet and applauded — a standing ovation for the enemy’s young hero.
[Quest Complete] : How to Greet a God
[Evaluation] : SSS (The god offered the handshake first)
[Rewards] :
1. Explosive fame surge (Worldwide real-time trend #1)
2. Title acquired — 🌟 Giant Killer
— Stats +15% against strong teams
3. Your name has been registered as a top-priority observation target in La Liga and Premier League scouting reports.
Giant Killer…
Gang-cheol lifted Messi’s jersey and breathed in the scent — pure sweat, yet somehow fragrant.
The very top.
That was where he belonged.
On the road back with Ajax, every front page in Europe would soon be plastered with the same photograph: a fourteen-year-old boy who had sent Busquets flying and then exchanged shirts with Messi.
The conquest of Europe.
Act One had only just begun.