Why Do I Have to Play With Kids Like These?

Incheon International Airport.

The moment the arrival gate opened, camera flashes erupted like fireworks.

"There he is! Ma Gang-cheol!"

"Gang-cheol! Look over here!"

"That goal against Man City was insane!"

Thousands of people had packed the terminal. Airport police scrambled to throw up barricades, but nothing could hold back the fans' fever.

Fifteen years old, and he had scored in the Champions League round of sixteen. Against Manchester City, no less.

The team had lost, but to Korean football fans, Ma Gang-cheol was already a god.

Gang-cheol walked out in sunglasses, expression blank. His head was not filled with the cheers. It was still stuck on the memory of a few days earlier at the Etihad Stadium.

Vincent Kompany...

A wall of a man. That crushing pressure that had stolen the air from his lungs.

Compared to that, the airport noise was a lullaby.

Reporters shoved microphones at him.

"Ma Gang-cheol! Any thoughts on being called up for the U-20 World Cup?"

"You're the youngest on the national team. Think you'll get along with the older guys?"

"Is the goal the championship?"

Gang-cheol stopped walking for a beat. He slid his sunglasses down just enough to look over the rims.

"The goal?"

He let out a short laugh.

"I came here to win. Not for a social club. And..."

His eyes flashed.

"You should be more worried about whether the older guys can keep up with me. My standards have gotten a little high."

Cheonan, Korea National Football Center (K-NFC).

The air was cold.

It had nothing to do with the weather.

First day of the U-20 national team camp, and the cafeteria felt like a walk-in freezer.

"Yo, look who showed up. The world star."

"Damn, my eyes. What's a guy who scored on Man City doing in a dump like this?"

"Only ever seen him on TV. In person he's just some middle schooler."

The twenty-year-old seniors, trays in hand, sneered as he sat down. Most of them were college all-stars or K League second-team players.

They had hit twenty without a proper pro debut, stuck on the bench—while a fifteen-year-old had chewed through a European top flight and walked into the Champions League. Inferiority complexes were detonating left and right.

Gang-cheol set his tray down at an empty seat. No one sat near him. Quiet, deliberate isolation.

He didn't care. He shoveled in a big spoonful of rice.

After the Ajax diet of endless chicken breast, the spicy pork stir-fry tasted like Michelin-star cooking.

Then someone bumped his table.

Park Jin-ho, twenty, captain of the U-20 side and the so-called ace of college football. First time they had met.

"Hey. Ma Gang-cheol."

Gang-cheol looked up, still chewing.

Park Jin-ho stood with his arms crossed, posture cocked and arrogant.

"Yeah. Hello."

"So you do know how to greet people. Figured Europe washed the hierarchy right out of you."

Park Jin-ho jerked his chin toward the water cooler.

"Go get me some water. That's the youngest's job around here. I don't care how big you are outside—this is Korea, and I'm the captain. Got it?"

The older players snickered. Opening shot fired.

We know you're famous. Doesn't change the fact that we're five years your senior.

Classic Korean seniority flex.

Gang-cheol swallowed the rice in his mouth. Then he picked up his own cup, brought it to his lips, and drained it in long gulps.

He set the empty cup down.

"It's self-serve."

"...What?"

"Water's self-serve. You don't have hands? And I'm past the water-fetching stage. I came here to play football, not to be a waiter."

The cafeteria went dead silent, as if someone had dumped ice water over the room.

Park Jin-ho's face flushed crimson. A fifteen-year-old talking back to a twenty-year-old captain?

"You little shit... Hey! You looking for a fight? You think your seniors are a joke?"

Park Jin-ho stepped in like he meant to grab him by the collar.

Gang-cheol stayed seated, looking up at him with cold eyes.

"Want senior treatment? Play better football. You think age ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wins matches? Then go play at a senior center."

"You crazy bastard—!"

"Enough!!"

A roar cut through the room as the cafeteria doors slammed open.

Coach Shim Yong-tae.

"What the hell are you doing while people are trying to eat? You all want to do push-ups until you drop?"

At the coach's entrance, Park Jin-ho backed off, seething. The look he shot Gang-cheol was pure murder.

Just wait. I'll crush you on the training ground. Overhyped middle schooler. Time you learned reality.

Gang-cheol picked up his spoon again. The food had lost its taste, but he ate anyway.

Dealing with small-time punks like these still required energy.

Next morning. Tactical training.

The atmosphere was toxic.

A mini-game: Team A (the starters, with Gang-cheol) against Team B (with Park Jin-ho).

Even his own Team A seniors refused to pass him the ball. The domestic players had closed ranks, running a full "break the Europe kid" campaign.

"Here! I'm open!"

Gang-cheol raised his hand. The midfielder senior back-passed to someone on the opposite side instead.

Tempo died. Spaces sealed shut.

"Ah..."

Gang-cheol exhaled hard.

Slow. Everything was so damn slow.

Pass timing. Decision speed. After the lightning tempo of Manchester City, this felt like watching slow-motion video.

The gap is ridiculous.

He thumped his chest in frustration. Win a World Cup with these guys?

Coach Shim Yong-tae stood with arms folded, brow furrowed. He did not intervene. He wanted to see how Gang-cheol would break the situation himself.

Then Park Jin-ho of Team B collected the ball and dribbled straight at Gang-cheol—on purpose.

"Stop me, world star! Don't they teach defending in the Netherlands?"

Park Jin-ho threw a flashy step-over.

Gang-cheol just stood there, looking almost vacant.

Park Jin-ho thought he had sold him and burst past—

Until.

Thud.

Gang-cheol stretched out a foot and casually stepped on the ball, pinning it dead.

Park Jin-ho tripped over his own momentum and went down hard.

"Agh!"

"Hyung. Your step-overs are way too slow. I can see everything. This is college all-star ace level?"

Gang-cheol stripped the ball and launched the counter.

Three Team B defenders charged him at once.

"Kill him!"

"Take him out!"

Tackles loaded with pure emotion. Not tactical. Just a street brawl aimed at burying Gang-cheol.

Think you're so special? We're twenty-year-old adults!

Gang-cheol did not slow down.

The system window flared red.

Kompany hyung was a boulder...

The seniors charging him looked like styrofoam mannequins in Gang-cheol's eyes.

These hyungs are just dust.

He did not ease off the gas. He drove straight through them.

"Out of the way!"

Bang! Bang! Thud!

Three impacts in a row.

The first defender barely brushed his shoulder and spun away like a top.

The second slammed into Gang-cheol's arm and sat down hard on his backside.

The third—the biggest of them, a 188 cm center-back—wrapped both arms around Gang-cheol's waist and hung on.

"You're not going anywhere!!"

Gang-cheol never stopped. He sprinted another ten meters with an eighty-five-kilogram adult man dangling from his waist.

"Aaaagh! What the hell is this?!"

The hanging senior screamed as he was dragged along like a rag doll. The sight was pure comedy.

When Gang-cheol reached a one-on-one with the keeper, he twisted his body like he was shaking off a coat, flung the clinging defender free, and struck the shot.

BOOM—!

The net bulged as if it might tear.

Silence blanketed the pitch.

Three defenders sprawled on the ground. The goalkeeper stood frozen.

And the monster who had not broken a single sweat.

Gang-cheol picked up the ball and walked straight to Park Jin-ho. He tossed it lightly into the captain's hands.

"Hyung."

"Y-yeah...?"

Park Jin-ho stumbled backward, eyes wide with fear. What he had just witnessed was not football. It was a dump truck running over a bicycle.

The physicality of a European-level player—only heard about until now—was beyond imagination.

"Let's make football a little more comfortable."

Gang-cheol patted his own thigh.

"Old saying: if your head's bad, your body suffers, right?"

"......"

"But if your body's good, your head gets to rest. You hyungs have bad heads and weak bodies. What are we supposed to do with that?"

Brutal, merciless facts.

None of the seniors could answer. In the face of absolute force, the rank badges of age turned into toilet paper.

Gang-cheol turned and shouted across the entire ground.

"You want to win? You don't want to go to the military? You want to go pro?"

His voice rolled like thunder across the K-NFC training pitch.

"Then drop the pride and give me the ball. I'll make us win everything. Instead of wasting time on petty hazing, go do another set of weights!"

Silence.

A moment later, Coach Shim Yong-tae started clapping.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

"You hear that? The youngest is right."

The coach barked at the frozen players.

"Aren't you embarrassed? A fifteen-year-old just ran through three of you like nothing. Is that the level of the Korean national team?"

No one lifted their heads. Shame. And a defeat they could not argue with.

"Starting today, the starting lineup is open again. Age means nothing. Only the ones who play better than Ma Gang-cheol get minutes. Anyone who has a problem can pack their bags right now."

No one moved.

Park Jin-ho clenched his fists until the knuckles went white. He was furious—but he had to admit it.

That kid was a monster. Not someone they could even approach.

Gang-cheol walked back to his position. The eyes of his teammates had changed.

Contempt and jealousy were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gone. In their place sat fear—and awe.

Now we can finally talk.

He checked the system window.

Afternoon training.

The ball started flowing to Gang-cheol.

When he gestured, the seniors sprinted like madmen. When a pass came late, he barked, "Faster!" and they answered, "Got it!" without a single complaint.

Coach Shim Yong-tae leaned toward his assistant and whispered.

"See that? That's leadership."

"Leadership? Looks more like a gangster to me."

"In the animal kingdom, the strongest one is king. That kid is even more of a monster than I thought."

Gang-cheol took the ball and conducted the pitch like a maestro. He was force-feeding these frogs in a well the "world-class standard" he had learned from Kompany and De Bruyne at Manchester City.

"Not there! Run the other way!"

"Push the line up! Don't be scared!"

Under Gang-cheol's roaring commands, the ragtag U-20 national team began to move like a single living organism.

And at the center of it all stood the Human Tank, Ma Gang-cheol.

When training finally ended, Park Jin-ho shuffled over, awkward and hesitant.

"Uh... Gang-cheol."

"What is it, Captain hyung."

"That thing earlier... running with three guys hanging off you. How do you even do that? Can you show me your weight routine?"

The captain swallowing his pride and asking to learn.

Gang-cheol snorted a quiet laugh. Not a bad hyung. Just a weak one.

"Come by my room later. I'll get you to a five-hundred-kilo total."

"F-for real?"

"In exchange, you bring the water."

"Obviously! I'll bring ice water!"

The attitude flip was instant.

Gang-cheol looked up at the sky over the K-NFC. The Cheonan sky was clear and bright.

Warm-up's over.

Time to meet the real enemies.

Argentina. England. The death group where the world's best prospects were waiting.

He clenched his fist.

In Korea he could play the tyrant. The world stage would be different.

But it didn't matter.

His body was harder now. His head was colder.