The Captain's Qualification

5:30 a.m.

Gang-cheol's eyes snapped open before the alarm even rang. The soul that had weathered thirty-five years of life was already locked into Combat Mode. His eleven-year-old body, however, was another story. The warm microfiber blanket tugged at him with the sweet, irresistible gravity of a black hole.

"Ugh... elementary-school bodies really do sleep like logs. Growth hormones won't cut me any slack."

He forced himself upright and stretched. Joints cracked in a crisp pop-pop-pop—not the worn-out grind of his previous life, but the fresh, vital sound of growth plates waking up. Out of habit he reached into empty air.

"Status window."

Familiar blue holographic text unfurled before his eyes. The data was far more detailed than the bare-bones readout he'd seen on discharge; training mode had unlocked the fine print. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he scanned the floating lines.

"Whoa... all A's. For an eleven-year-old, that's monster territory."

A satisfied smile tugged at his lips—until he spotted the tiny print in parentheses and clicked his tongue.

"Ah. There's the trap. Even an S-rank here just means 'king of the neighborhood.' Against Real Madrid youth standards I'd be lucky to scrape a C. No getting cocky."

He refused to let pride take root. The system's glittering S+ soccer IQ was worthless if this kid's body couldn't deliver—he'd learned that the hard way in yesterday's PE class.

After a light warm-up he padded into the living room. His mother, hair still mussed from sleep, had come out for a glass of water and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of her son standing in the dark.

"Good heavens! Gang-cheol, what are you doing up at this hour? Is your leg hurting again? Did you have a nightmare?"

"No. I'm going to train."

"Train? In the pitch-black dawn? You're still a patient! The doctor said you need rest!"

She planted herself in front of him, eyes round with alarm. Life as an eleven-year-old in Korea meant you couldn't conquer the world—or even walk to the convenience store—without Mom's permission. Gang-cheol put on his most reliable expression (which, on a chubby-cheeked fifth-grader, was only so convincing) and spoke.

"Mom. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠You remember we were going to Spain, right? Real Madrid."

"Th-that... didn't the accident cancel everything? The agent stopped calling, didn't he?"

"We're going again. No—I'm going to make them beg me to come. And for that, I have to build this body starting now."

He pointed at the wall clock. 5:50.

"Director Choi Hyeon-seok from LK Group is picking me up at six. I'm under national management now."

"L... what? Director Choi? Who is that? Did some bad older kids tell you to say this?"

She reached to feel his forehead, utterly bewildered. Fair enough—he'd decided the whole arrangement on his own last night. At that moment the ancient 2G flip phone in his pocket erupted in a shrill ring.

"Mom, take this. It's my manager... no, my coach."

He handed her the phone. From the other end came Choi Hyeon-seok's deep, trustworthy voice—tinged with just enough polite tension. Gang-cheol had pre-ordered "parent-consultation mode."

"Yes? Oh, yes... I think I've seen you on the news... the real LK Group? The big conglomerate?"

His mother's pupils trembled as if an earthquake had hit. "Conglomerate," "full scholarship," "chairman's orders," "Spain"—it was a precision airstrike on every Korean parent's heart.

"Oh my goodness... our Gang-cheol is that special? Well of course! He has to go! Sleep? Who cares about sleep? I'll wake him myself if I have to!"

The moment she hung up, her attitude flipped one hundred eighty degrees. She dove into the refrigerator.

"Gang-cheol! What are you standing around for? Wash your face this instant! You'll keep the coach waiting! Here—eat this before you go! You can't train on an empty stomach!"

What she pressed into his hand was a single precious dried persimmon she'd been saving.

Gang-cheol snorted a quiet laugh and bit into it. Sweet, chewy, perfect. So this was the taste of success.

"I'm off. Coach will drop me at school after training."

"Yes! Be polite! Listen carefully! Watch the cars!"

He stepped out the front door. The dawn air was sharp, but his chest burned hotter than it had in years.

LK Sports Science Center — Elite Training Zone

"Grrraaagh...!"

A death-rattle tore from Gang-cheol's throat.

He was strapped into a state-of-the-art strength machine measuring his thigh power. It wasn't simple exertion—the machine forced constant-speed resistance that he had to fight to the bitter end, wringing every fiber of muscle dry.

"Your right quadriceps is eighteen percent stronger than the left. Balance is completely shot."

Choi Hyeon-seok studied the angry red graph on the monitor with clinical detachment.

"This isn't just post-accident damage. It's proof you've been using your muscles with classic right-footed bias for years. Everyone called you a genius, so you leaned entirely on kick power, right? That's what made your body lopsided. Keep growing like this and your pelvis will twist; you'll have a herniated disc by fifteen."

Brutal, unfiltered facts. In his previous life Gang-cheol had been the textbook one-trick right-foot merchant. The price of treating his left foot like a decorative afterthought was now written in muscle imbalance.

"We rewrite the training routine starting today. Raise left-foot usage to a 7:3 ratio. Double the core-work sets. An eleven-year-old's bones and muscles are still soft clay—if we mold them now, we can build perfect symmetry."

"Understood. Hah... hah..."

Sweat poured off him like rain as he dropped back into a plank.

One minute. Two. His entire body shook like a leaf in a gale. Any ordinary elementary-schooler would have been sobbing for his mother by now.

This level of pain is nothing. Compared to the days I sat in a lower-league apartment nursing injuries and cracking open soju... these are happy screams.

Choi watched him with quiet awe.

Most kids can't endure pain. This one is enjoying it. He instinctively knows he's getting stronger.

Ninety minutes of hell ended. After a shower Gang-cheol ate the high-protein lunchbox LK had prepared—chicken-breast salad and brown rice—in the car on the way to school.

3:00 p.m. Haeseong Elementary School athletic field.

As after-school soccer practice approached, familiar uniforms began to gather. Dusty pitch, rusted goalposts, the sharp scent of kids' sweat. Compared with the gleaming LK Center that morning it was a dump—but to Gang-cheol this was the real battlefield.

The moment he appeared, every player mid-warm-up turned as one.

"Huh? It's Gang-cheol!"

"Yo! Captain's here!"

They swarmed him. Until the accident he had been Haeseong Elementary's undisputed ace and captain. News of the truck crash had turned the whole team into a funeral parlor; now he was back—whole, and with eyes harder than ever.

"Ma Gang-cheol! You really okay? The leg? Cast off?"

"News said you were a total hero! Did you dodge the truck or stop it?"

Then a boy with pure poison on his face shoved through the crowd.

Park Min-su from Class 4.

A full head taller than most kids his age. Same team as Gang-cheol, yet forever hungry for the number-10 ace jersey. Yesterday in PE he had been thoroughly toyed with and left face-down in the dirt.

"Hey, Ma Gang-cheol! Don't think I let you off easy yesterday just 'cause I slipped!"

Min-su jabbed a finger, breathing hard. Dark circles ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠under his eyes said the previous day's defeat had kept him awake all night.

"One lucky win and you're already strutting? Official practice is different! Temporary captain is still me, so don't get fancy and end up back in the hospital."

His voice dripped with the need to erase yesterday's humiliation. While Gang-cheol was gone he had played king; the real king had returned and publicly dismantled him. His footing was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crumbling.

Gang-cheol smirked and gave Min-su's shoulder a light shove.

"Yeah, yeah. Dirt tasted pretty bitter yesterday, huh? Nose still straight? Oh, and my captain's armband—you kept it nice and sweat-free, right?"

"Wh-what? Hey! I'm the captain right now!"

Min-su's face flushed purple. A sharp whistle cut the air and Coach Kim Pan-seok waddled into view—classic neighborhood-uncle build, beer belly and all. More "Run harder!" than tactics, a pure 1980s throwback, yet to the kids he was the reaper himself.

"Line up! Look at you sluggish little—! Fifth-graders, last ones again!"

Spotting Gang-cheol among the ranks, the coach flinched.

"Huh? Gang-cheol, you're here? Heard you got discharged—how’s the body?"

"Perfect, Coach. I brought the doctor's clearance. I'm joining training starting today."

Kim's face clouded with reluctance.

"Kid, you some kind of steel robot? How long's it been since the truck hit you? Push too hard in a growth spurt and your bones turn to dust. Heard you kicked a ball around in PE yesterday? That's how people get wrecked. You sit on that bench for a while. Water boy duty while you rehab."

"Coach, I'm really fine. Rest will only dull my touch. Let me play."

"Quiet! When I say no, it's no. You get hurt again and the school takes the heat—I get every angry parent call! You know how worried your mother must be!"

He was immovable. Deep down he cared, but the instinct was pure civil-servant self-preservation more than player protection.

Gang-cheol didn't back down. Bench time meant zero progress on the system's "match sense" stat. More importantly, a wavering team's spine needed straightening.

"Then test me."

"What?"

"Give me twenty minutes of a practice match. If my form looks off, if I limp even once, if I start gasping—I'll sit the bench the rest of the month like a good boy. Water duty, no complaints."

Those eyes were not an eleven-year-old throwing a tantrum. They were an adult proposing terms. The coach coughed under the pressure.

"Heh. Look at this stubborn little—same as ever."

The surrounding kids piled on: "Let Gang-cheol show us!" "Come on, Coach, just once!"

"Fine. But you face Park Min-su's A-team—the starters. You go to B-team, the reserves. Survive that and I'll acknowledge you."

Practice Match: A-Team (Starters) vs B-Team (Reserves)

The matchup was a complete mismatch. A-team packed every strong, fast kid around Park Min-su. B-team was lower-graders and benchwarmers who still couldn't trap a ball cleanly.

"Ma Gang-cheol. Yesterday was luck. Today you cry for real—and if you get hurt, go tell Mommy."

Park Min-su, lined up as A-team's lone striker, flashed the yellow captain's armband on his bicep and ground his teeth. Gang-cheol's gaze lingered on that band for a heartbeat.

Make me cry for real? There's no crying in soccer. You either die or black out.

He gathered the B-team kids. Their faces were already frozen with fear. Among them stood his best friend, Kim Cheol-su—blazing speed, raw technique, forever stuck on the fringe of the starting eleven.

"Hey! Heads up, all of you! Don't freeze!"

Gang-cheol clapped hard.

"Cheol-su. You confident in your running, right?"

"Huh? Yeah, running... I'm number one in our class."

"Then stop thinking. Empty your brain. When you get the ball, just kick it forward and sprint. Pure 'hit-and-run.' I'll handle the rest."

"For real? I just run?"

"Yeah. I'll be your brain. You just use your legs."

He turned to the others.

"Everyone else—get the ball, give it to me. Then stretch the field. Drag a defender with you. I'll carve the rest open."

Tweet—!

Coach Kim's whistle launched the match. A-team poured forward under Min-su's lead. B-team kids wilted, passes broken, defense scrambling.

Gang-cheol planted himself in central midfield and read the entire board.

The ball found him. Park Min-su, thirsting for revenge, charged in hard.

"Yesterday's debt—paid in full!"

Min-su lunged into a sliding tackle. Gang-cheol never touched the ball. He simply dipped his upper body a fraction to the left.

Body feint.

Min-su's center of gravity lurched. In that blink Gang-cheol nudged the ball the opposite way and glided past. No flashy step-over—just the pure timing only a veteran could own, stealing the opponent's breath itself.

"Wha—again?!"

Yesterday's nightmare replayed. Once Min-su was beaten, the forward lanes opened wide. A-team defenders panicked and collapsed toward Gang-cheol.

They clustered. Even a rat hole gets its day of sun—and the sun ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠just rose.

His eyes ignored the goal and locked on the far right touchline. There stood Kim Cheol-su, brain emptied exactly as ordered, coiled to run.

"Cheol-su! Sprint!"

The ball left Gang-cheol's foot on a gorgeous arc, clearing three defenders—a perfect "delivery cross."

It dropped into empty space. Time for Cheol-su's speed to shine.

"Waaaaah!"

Cheol-su exploded forward, snatching the ball. A defender tried to close; acceleration already won.

"Just hit it!"

At Gang-cheol's shout Cheol-su squeezed his eyes shut and blasted.

Thwack—!

The ball punched between the keeper's arms and rippled the net.

"Goal! Insane! Cheol-su!"

B-team erupted. Coach Kim Pan-seok, however, never looked at the scorer. His eyes stayed glued to the boy who had threaded the pass.

That kid... his vision is insane. Used to be all selfish dribbling; now he treats the whole pitch like a chessboard. An eleven-year-old with that kind of accuracy?

Play resumed. Park Min-su, desperate to erase successive humiliations, forced a reckless dribble and ran straight into Gang-cheol's intercept. Instead of launching an instant counter, Gang-cheol simply planted a foot on the ball and stood.

"Min-su. Soccer isn't played with the feet—it's played with the head. You've got the physique, but your vision is tiny. Stop staring at the ball. Look at the people."

"What? Shut up! I'm taller and stronger than you!"

Min-su charged, face scarlet. Gang-cheol sighed, flicked the ball lightly over his head—a clean sombrero. Min-su headed empty air and once again planted his nose in the grass.

Gang-cheol collected the ball at leisure and slid a killer through-ball forward. A B-team attacker found himself one-on-one with the keeper and casually finished the second goal.

Twenty minutes. Final score 2–0. Complete B-team victory.

Gang-cheol walked up to Coach Kim looking as if he hadn't broken a sweat (he had simply controlled his breathing).

"Coach. Promise kept. I'm fine, right?"

Kim gave a hollow laugh and nodded.

"Fine doesn't cover it... you came back a monster. I acknowledge it. You're the ace."

He called over Park Min-su, who was still panting on the ground.

"Park Min-su. Hand over the captain's armband."

"C-Coach... just one more chance..."

"You lost on pure skill—own it. Gang-cheol is better. No—he's on another level. Learn from him."

Min-su bit his lip hard, but finally peeled off the armband and held it out. Gang-cheol took it, slid it onto his own arm, and offered his hand.

"Min-su. You hate losing to me, right? Pride hurts?"

"...Yeah."

"Then play on my side. Your physique plus my passes—we can win the national tournament. Take my service and become top scorer. You're the one putting the ball in the net; the spotlight's all yours."

"...Hmph."

Min-su slapped the offered hand away as he stood, yet his eyes no longer held contempt—only recognition and fresh competitive fire.

Gang-cheol adjusted the captain's armband and clenched his fist.

Good. School's locked down. Time to take these kids and conquer the nation. And then...

He lifted his gaze to the distant sky, picturing the dream stage still far beyond reach—somewhere in Spain.

Wait for me, Real. Once this body is ready, it'll be my turn to choose you.

The legend of Haeseong Elementary Soccer Club raised its second curtain in brilliant light.