A Barrage of Love Calls, and the Agent War

Barcelona, Spain. El Prat Airport.

The moment the Ajax squad stepped into the departure hall to return to the Netherlands, a roar of chaos erupted.

Hundreds of people surged toward the gate—reporters, fans, and even unidentified men in sharp suits. Airport security scrambled to form a human barricade, but nothing could hold back the heat of the moment.

"Kang-Cheol! Here! Look here!"

"Ma Gang-cheol! Korean broadcast! Just one word!"

"Sign, please! Just one sign!"

A storm of camera flashes poured ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠down. This was not the spotlight that used to fall on captain Klaassen or former ace El Ghazi. Every lens locked onto a single figure: the fourteen-year-old boy who had swapped jerseys with Messi at Camp Nou the day before and then, for good measure, fired home a goal of his own.

"Whoa… is this real?"

"Gang-cheol, you've actually become a superstar."

His teammates clicked their tongues in awe. Gang-cheol simply adjusted his sunglasses and walked on, unfazed. In front of his eyes the system window flickered without pause.

Buy-out, huh…

A faint smile touched Gang-cheol's lips. Under his current Ajax contract the buy-out sat at a mere five million euros—about seven billion won. For a youth deal it was a serious sum, yet to the big clubs that had watched yesterday's match it was pocket change.

Ajax must be panicking right about now.

Exactly as expected. At the entrance to the airport VIP lounge someone stepped into his path: a Western man with slick pomade hair, a luxury suit, and the eyes of a snake.

"Mr. Ma. Do you have a moment?"

He spoke fluent English and held out a business card.

One of the giant agencies that ran European football.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am—"

"Step aside."

Gang-cheol walked past without even taking the card. Jean-Paul's face twisted.

"Listen, kid. You seem to be under some misconception. That amateur agent trailing behind you can't handle this. Don't you want Real Madrid? The Premier League? We can open the door for you."

He jerked his chin toward Kim Ho-seok, who stood behind Gang-cheol sweating buckets and clutching his briefcase, crushed under the weight of a big-time agent's presence.

Gang-cheol stopped. He turned slowly and fixed Jean-Paul with a stare.

"I don't know how impressive your company is supposed to be."

He slid his sunglasses down just enough to reveal a pair of ice-cold eyes.

"I choose my own agent. And I open my own roads—nobody else does it for me."

"What…?"

"Block my path one more time and your company never does business with me again. Move."

He grabbed the arm of the still-stunned Ho-seok and pulled him along.

"Let's go, hyung. The flies are starting to swarm."

Jean-Paul stood open-mouthed, watching them leave. That kind of presence did not come from a fourteen-year-old.

Netherlands — Gang-cheol's Apartment

"Haa… haa…"

The moment they got home Ho-seok collapsed onto the sofa. His phone was dead. The second they landed, hundreds of missed calls had flooded in until the device simply gave up and shut down from overload.

"Gang-cheol."

"Yes, hyung."

"I'm… scared."

Ho-seok drank a glass of water with trembling hands.

"You saw him at the airport, right? Jean-Paul. In the industry they call him the 'man-eating shark.' Dozens of guys like him are lined up on my phone right now, telling me to hand you over. They're offering tens of billions in penalty fees and transfer rights."

Ho-seok was honest. He was a good man, and he knew the size of his own bowl. He had been a third-division player turned small-time agent. Meeting Gang-cheol had been pure luck—but that luck had grown far too large for him to carry.

"I'll be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠straight with you. I don't have the ability to take care of you properly. You're going to be world-class. If I keep holding on, am I just blocking your road…?"

His eyes grew damp. Gang-cheol pulled an electrolyte drink from the fridge and handed it over.

"Hyung."

"Yeah…"

"You're not blocking my road. I'm keeping you around so I can straighten out your life."

"What?"

Gang-cheol sat on the opposite sofa, crossed his legs, and summoned the system window.

"Those giant agencies? They look at me as a 'product.' They take their cut and dump me the second I'm no longer useful. But you're not like that."

Gang-cheol remembered his previous life. When injury had dragged him into the abyss, the only person who paid his hospital bills and helped him through rehab had been Kim Ho-seok. The one who stayed when everyone else left. In this life it was Gang-cheol's turn to repay him.

"I need someone who's on my side, even if he's a little short on polish, more than some slick con artist who pretends to be smart. And…"

He grinned.

"Whatever's missing, we fill it in. I've already got the answer key."

"Answer key?"

"Tomorrow's the renegotiation with the Ajax board, right?"

"Y-yeah. Director Overmars wants to meet in person. They're probably going to jack up the salary and try to erase the buy-out."

"Get ready. Tomorrow we clean out Ajax's wallet. Completely."

Gang-cheol's eyes glittered with mischief and steel at the same time.

"Just recite exactly what I tell you. The second you walk into that room tomorrow, you become South Korea's greatest super agent."

The next morning, ten o'clock.

Johan Cruyff Arena, club offices.

The air was heavy. Two legends who now ran the club—Marc Overmars, technical director, and Edwin van der Sar, CEO—sat with grave faces. Across from them sat Kim Ho-seok in a crisp suit and Gang-cheol in training gear.

"Ahem."

Overmars cleared his throat and slid a document across the table.

"I'll be direct. We want a five-year extension with Ma Gang-cheol. Salary ten times the current figure—first-team starter money. For a fourteen-year-old, that's an extraordinary offer."

Ten times. Ho-seok's pupils shook; he almost swallowed audibly. Under the table Gang-cheol kicked his foot.

Focus.

Ho-seok ran through the script Gang-cheol had drilled into him all night. He laced his fingers to hide the tremor and forced the most arrogant expression he could manage.

"Well… extraordinary, you say…"

He opened his mouth.

"Director Overmars. Do you know why my phone is currently switched off?"

"…?"

"Real Madrid, Man City, PSG… their scouts have been calling every five minutes. The signing fees they've already put on the table are five times the salary you just mentioned."

Bluffing. True enough, but laced with exaggeration—a calculated gamble. Overmars's brow furrowed.

"But Gang-cheol wants to stay at Ajax. He loves the youth system and the philosophy here."

Ho-seok applied the push-and-pull. Van der Sar's expression softened a fraction.

"So you'll sign?"

"On one condition."

Ho-seok produced a single sheet—Gang-cheol's own list of demands—and laid it on the table.

"First: the buy-out is set at thirty million euros—roughly four hundred twenty billion won."

"What? Thirty million? That's far too low! It should be a hundred million at least—"

Overmars bristled. Thirty million was pocket money to the big clubs.

"Second: guaranteed starting appearances in at least twenty matches every season. If that clause is broken, the player becomes a free agent."

"A playing-time guarantee? That's the manager's exclusive authority!"

"Third: a special bonus of one million euros for reaching the Champions League semi-finals."

Overmars and van der Sar both clicked their tongues. This was not a fourteen-year-old's contract. This was the kind of nerve only a prime Zlatan Ibrahimovic would show.

"Listen, Mr. Kim. These demands are outrageous. Do you really think we'll accept them?"

Overmars played hardball, letting the air fill with the threat of collapse. Cold sweat ran down Ho-seok's spine.

Then Gang-cheol, silent until now, spoke.

"Director."

He picked up the pen on the table and spun it between his fingers.

"You saw me score against Barcelona, right?"

"…Yes. I did."

"Did that look like luck to you?"

His gaze pinned Overmars to the chair.

"I know exactly how big I'm going to get. Thirty million euros? It looks expensive now. But a year from now Ajax will be crying because they don't want to sell me for thirty million. By then you won't want to let me go even for a hundred million."

Overmars was speechless. It was insane talk—yet looking into the boy's eyes, a strange certainty whispered that it might be true.

"You don't have to sign today. We'll leave at the end of the season, in the summer. I hear Pep Guardiola at Manchester City is very interested in me."

Gang-cheol made as if to rise. Van der Sar's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hand shot up.

"Wait! Sit down."

The two legends exchanged a look. They both knew: losing this "asset" would be the biggest mistake in Ajax history.

"Fine. Buy-out at forty million euros. Not a euro less. In return, the salary will be whatever you want."

A compromise. Gang-cheol winked at Ho-seok.

Success.

Forty million was perfect—high enough to give Ajax a windfall later, low enough not to become a roadblock when the time came to move to a bigger club.

"Deal."

Ho-seok signed. The contract was sealed.

The moment they left the office Ho-seok's legs gave out and he sank to the floor.

"Whoa… I think I just lost ten years of my life."

"You did great, hyung. Nice acting."

"Acting? Kid, I thought I was having a heart attack. Did you see Overmars's eyes? I swear lasers were coming out of them…"

Gang-cheol laughed and hauled him up.

"This is only the beginning. With the signing fee we just got, let's move the office first. Time to grow Gang-cheol Management for real."

"Huh? Our company was called Gang-cheol Management?"

"I just decided."

Weekend — Eredivisie Matchday 18

The contract was settled. Now it was time to prove his value on the pitch.

Ajax's opponent was mid-table Vitesse. Gang-cheol's name appeared in the starting eleven—his first start at the Johan Cruyff Arena.

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

Fifty thousand voices chanted his name. Ten minutes into the match, the proof was already complete.

Gang-cheol collected the ball in midfield. A Vitesse defender charged; Gang-cheol activated Human Tank, brushed him aside like a fly, and threaded a forward pass—a perfect kill ball that needed only a simple finish.

Thirtieth minute of the first half. This time he finished it himself.

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

A corner. The ball spilled out to the top of the arc. Gang-cheol met it first-time with a non-stop volley.

BOOM!

A cannonball of a shot ripped the net.

Home debut: one goal, one assist. The Ajax fans lost their minds.

"Forty million euros? Cheap! Give him a lifetime contract!"

The match ended 3–0 to Ajax. Gang-cheol collected the Man of the Match trophy and faced the microphones.

"We've heard you signed a new contract."

He lifted the trophy and smiled.

"Yeah. I've still got work to do here for a while."

"What kind of work?"

"The league title. And…"

His gaze traveled past the cameras into the distance.

"The Big Ear. I figure I should lift it once."

Dutch league glory was a given; he was aiming at the Champions League. Arrogant—but for a fourteen-year-old monster, arrogance was allowed.

At that same moment, in Manchester, England, inside the manager's office at Manchester City, Pep Guardiola stared at a monitor as if he could burn a hole through it. On the screen Gang-cheol repeatedly dismantled the Vitesse defense with power and technique.

"Txiki."

Pep called his director of football.

"Yes, Pep."

"That kid. What's the buy-out again?"

"Forty million euros after the new contract."

Pep spun his chair and smiled. The lights gleamed off his bald head.

"Cheap. Far too cheap."

"Pardon?"

"The second the summer window opens, pull the trigger. Don't haggle a single euro—just wire the money. Before Real or Barça snatch him."

Greed glittered in Pep's eyes.

"I've found the final piece of my total football puzzle."

The whole world had caught Ma Gang-cheol fever. And the system quietly prepared the next quest.

Ten straight games with a goal or assist? Not exactly easy.

But Gang-cheol was enjoying himself. When the body felt this good, football became simple. All that remained was to use this broken physique to smash every record in sight.

The conquest of Europe.

Act Two was rising.