Japan Is Light (Round of 16 vs Japan)
Cheonan Sports Complex.
The U-20 World Cup Round of 16.
Three hours before kickoff, the area around the stadium was already a seething clash of red waves and blue waves—the Samurai Blue—so taut with tension it felt ready to explode.
Republic of Korea versus Japan.
A fated rivalry where even rock-paper-scissors was not allowed to be lost.
On top of that, the match had been billed as a “preview of the battle for Asia’s throne,” and the media of both nations had whipped themselves into a frenzy.
Three thousand members of Japan’s away supporters, Ultra Nippon, packed the visiting stands; opposite them, tens of thousands of Red Devils stood ready.
In the locker room before the match, the atmosphere was anything but ordinary.
Even the older players who usually overflowed with jokes were rigid today, their faces set beyond mere resolve. The crushing weight of “lose and you’re a traitor” pressed down on the shoulders of twenty-year-old boys.
“Huuu…”
Captain Park Jin-ho scrubbed his dry face with both hands.
On the board, analysis footage of Japan’s ace Takefusa Kubo (sixteen years old) and Ritsu Doan looped endlessly—dazzling pass work, escapes from tight spaces under pressure. Japan’s trademark organization, the so-called “Sushi-Taka,” was undeniably dangerous.
Gang-cheol wrapped tape around his wrists while staring hard at the screen. Then he spoke.
“Hyungs.”
Every eye locked onto him.
“You scared of that?”
“Huh? No, I mean… not scared, exactly. They’re just good. You can’t take the ball off them.”
“Good at what? It’s just a game of tag.”
Gang-cheol stood and walked to the board. With a marker he traced the Japanese players’ movements on the screen.
“You know the Japanese kids’ specialty? They try to kick the ball pretty. They hate physical battles. Hate getting their shirts wrinkled.”
“……”
“When we stick a foot out to steal it, they see it coming and just pass around us. So don’t try to take it.”
He drew a big X across a Japanese player’s torso.
“Don’t look at the ball. Look at the man. Don’t steal it at the moment of the pass—just shoulder-check the guy who’s about to pass.”
“Isn’t that a foul?”
“If you hit him after he kicks, sure. But if you go shoulder-to-shoulder right before the kick, it’s a clean challenge. Their center of gravity is high and their physique is weak—barely touch them and their balance collapses.”
Gang-cheol slapped his own shoulder twice.
“Don’t play pretty soccer for them. Drag them into the mud and they’ll destroy themselves. Don’t block the passing lane—cut off the passer’s air supply.”
Chilling, yet crystal-clear. It was the hard-earned craft of a man who had survived thirty-five years in the rough lower leagues.
Fear drained from the players’ eyes, replaced by burning fighting spirit.
“Yeah. Let’s smash them with our bodies.”
“Show those pretty-kickers some real spice.”
Beeeeeep—!
First-half kickoff.
Japan seized the early flow exactly as planned—short, sharp passes, third-man combinations. Centered on midfield linchpin Takefusa Kubo, dubbed “Japan’s Messi,” they ramped up possession. Whenever Korean players charged, they danced away with little touches, baiting them.
Possession 3–7.
The Japanese fans in the stands pounded their drums in delight. “Nippon! Nippon!”
Fifteenth minute.
Kubo’s dazzling dribble beat two Korean defenders and produced a genuine shot on target. Only goalkeeper Shin Geun-beom’s save prevented a goal.
On the Japanese bench, Coach Uchiyama clapped.
“Good! Korea’s getting impatient! Keep circulating the ball! Drain their stamina!”
Gang-cheol stood at the halfway line, watching the whole spectacle. The system flashed a warning.
Allies are being drawn into the opponent’s rhythm.
Rhythm, huh…
Gang-cheol cracked his neck. It was as irritating as a mosquito buzzing in his ear. There was only one way to deal with pests that flitted around like that.
Swat them with a flyswatter.
“Jin-ho hyung! Jae-min! Now! Stick to them!”
Gang-cheol’s signal dropped.
The instant Japanese midfielder Ritsu Doan received the ball and prepared to turn, Gang-cheol exploded forward at full speed. Doan expected a tackle for the ball and pulled it back—but Gang-cheol had zero interest in the ball.
He drove his shoulder into Doan’s like a missile.
Bang—!
“Gyaah!”
Doan went flying like a bowling pin. The ball rolled free, an orphan without a master. The referee kept the whistle silent. Shoulder to shoulder. Clean charge.
“Counter!”
Gang-cheol scooped up the loose ball and took off. The moment Japan’s passing game snapped, their defensive line fell into chaos. Japanese defenders scrambled to drop deep—but it was already too late. Runaway Train had activated.
“Stop him! Tomiyasu!”
Japan’s next-generation defender, 188 cm Takehiro Tomiyasu, planted himself in the path. The core of Japan’s back line, an intelligent center-back already eyed by European scouts. Tomiyasu read the breakthrough route and set his feet early.
He’ll cut right. Block the lane, lower the center of gravity.
Smart defending. Gang-cheol only smiled.
The lane? Why go around?
He never changed direction. The spot where Tomiyasu stood was the shortest path to goal. Without slowing, Gang-cheol charged straight into him.
Human Tank (A) + Destructive Instinct (S)
“Out of the way!”
Gang-cheol drove into Tomiyasu’s chest like a rugby forward. Tomiyasu thought he had become a wall—what came at him was a siege ram built to shatter walls.
Crunch!
The collision was savage. Tomiyasu’s body lifted into the air and slammed backward. It wasn’t mere strength. It was thirty-five years of collision mechanics—acceleration converted straight into body weight.
“Nani?!”
The entire Japanese bench shot to its feet. Tomiyasu had flown. Japan’s best physical specimen had been crumpled like paper by a fifteen-year-old Korean boy.
Gang-cheol stepped over the fallen Tomiyasu into a one-on-one with the keeper. The Japanese goalkeeper was already sitting down in pure fear. Gang-cheol feinted a shot, stopped the ball dead with his sole, and when the keeper dived, lofted the softest chip over him.
Thud.
Cheonan Sports Complex erupted.
“Waaaaaah!!!”
“Dae—han Minguk!”
But the real highlight was only beginning.
Gang-cheol did not sprint after the goal. He did not roar. He walked, very slowly, toward the Japanese bench—the legendary “stroll celebration.” The same walk Baek Seong-ji had used in 2010 at Saitama Stadium to silence an entire Japanese crowd.
Hands clasped behind his back, Gang-cheol strolled past the Japanese bench, then stopped in front of the Ultra Nippon section. With a blank face he slowly scanned them all.
Keep shouting.
Why so quiet?
That organization you’re so proud of—one more collision and it shatters.
Bone-chilling silence. Three thousand Japanese fans who had been pounding drums moments earlier were crushed under Gang-cheol’s overwhelming gaze; not even a breath escaped them. Only the roar of Korean supporters rolled across the pitch like a tidal wave.
Gang-cheol tapped the tiger emblem on his jersey with a fist, then coolly turned away.
Dopamine explosion. Korean fans screamed themselves hoarse, some outright howling.
“Ma Gang-cheol! Ma Gang-cheol! Light Gang-cheol!”
Second Half
1–0 lead. Yet Japan refused to collapse. Their organization proved more tenacious than expected. Kubo fought desperately for openings.
Sixtieth minute.
Kubo’s through ball sliced the Korean back line. A clear scoring chance—until Korean defender Kwon Jae-min threw his body in the way and blocked the shot.
“Ugh!”
The ball slammed into his solar plexus, but Kwon Jae-min rose immediately. They had changed. The older players who had been backpedaling in the first half, terrified of being toyed with by Japanese passes, had found courage in Gang-cheol’s goal and advice.
The conviction: If we collide, we win.
“Stick to them! Shoulder them!”
Korean players no longer chased the ball. The moment a Japanese player prepared to receive, they drove a shoulder in first and wrecked his balance. Elegant Sushi-Taka was crushed under Korea’s brutal “Kimchi Pressing.” Once pretty soccer turned into a mud-wrestling brawl, the Japanese players began to panic.
Seventy-fifth minute.
Japan pushed their line high in search of an equalizer. Gang-cheol’s eyes flashed. The bait had been taken.
He collected the ball at the halfway line. Three Japanese defenders swarmed him.
“Not this time!”
They were ready to foul if necessary, grabbing his shirt and hanging on. Gang-cheol held firm.
Core Strength S.
A giant tree that would not fall even with three men clinging to it.
Let go already. You’re annoying.
He twisted his body—not to shake them off. Pre-regression Gang-cheol would have flung them away, but the current Gang-cheol chose something far crueler. He simply dragged all three defenders with him, lumbering toward the right flank. The entire Japanese back line was sucked toward him. The center emptied completely.
“Jin-ho hyung! Delivery!”
Gang-cheol threaded a perfect through ball between the defenders’ legs—a no-look pass. The whole Japanese defense, eyes locked only on Gang-cheol, took it square in the back of the head. A pristine one-on-one chance.
Park Jin-ho did not miss this time. He calmly slotted it into the far corner.
The dagger. Japanese players sank to the turf in despair. They had charged with organization and been beaten by physique; when they tried to stop the physique, they were shredded by tactics (the pass). An opponent they simply could not beat. One monster had trampled an entire team.
Korea 2 : 0 Japan
A complete victory. Night in Cheonan became a festival. Players locked arms and spun in a circle like a traditional folk dance.
In the center of the pitch, Japan’s ace Takefusa Kubo stood with his head bowed, tears streaming down his face—frustration, the despair of having his soccer denied.
Gang-cheol walked over and tapped Kubo’s shoulder.
“Hey.”
“……?”
Kubo looked up with tear-streaked eyes. Gang-cheol spoke flatly.
“Don’t cry. It’s not that you were bad. It’s that I was just too good.”
An obnoxious consolation—yet an undeniable truth.
“And you—don’t stay in the J-League with those skills. Go to Europe.”
“……”
“Asia’s too small. Over there, kids who play like you are everywhere. Survive there, and then you’ll be worth facing me again.”
Advice from a senior. Gang-cheol helped Kubo to his feet and turned away—a cool exit. Japanese media cameras captured that retreating back and let out sighs of lament.
Mixed Zone
Reporters swarmed like clouds. The questions were predictable.
“The stroll celebration—was that intentional?”
Gang-cheol wiped sweat and grinned.
“Yes. An homage to senior Baek Seong-ji.”
“What’s the secret to dismantling Japan’s organization?”
He tapped his temple with a finger.
“The Japanese friends play soccer too nicely. Like a textbook.”
“Excuse me?”
“But real matches don’t come with a reference book. When all they try to do is play pretty, you just handle them rough and they break. Sushi tastes best when it’s fresh, right? I had a delicious meal today.”
The reporters exploded with laughter. Tomorrow’s front page was already decided.
Back in the locker room, the system message glittered.
[Quest Complete]: <Fated Rivalry>
[Evaluation]: Complete Victory (Psychological and physical domination of Japan).
[Rewards]:
1. Title acquired: King of Asia
2. Team Synergy Stat increased (E → E+)
3. Next opponent (France) “Caution” level massively increased
Caution, huh…
Gang-cheol’s lips curled upward. Now it was the quarterfinals. The opponent: European powerhouse France. A place crawling with real monsters like Mbappé and Dembélé. They would not be as light as Japan.
Even better.
Gang-cheol liked heavy opponents. The satisfaction of smashing them was greater. And now he had teammates he could trust at his side.