The Semifinal Wall, Crimson Fighting Spirit (vs France)

Daejeon World Cup Stadium.

U-20 World Cup quarterfinals.

Before kickoff, the air in the locker room hung thick and heavy, as if the whole room had been submerged underwater.

Their opponents were France—the masters of Art Soccer.

Even back home, this French national team was being called a Golden Generation.

Kylian Mbappe (AS Monaco), Ousmane Dembele (Dortmund), Dayot Upamecano (Leipzig), Lucas Hernandez (Atletico Madrid).

These were already true monsters starting on the Champions League stages of Europe's biggest leagues.

Coach Shim Yong-tae tapped the whiteboard.

"I'll be honest. Looking at the specs, we lose."

It was a cold, clinical analysis.

Average height: 185 cm. Average 100-meter time: low elevens. Combined market value: five hundred billion won versus thirty billion.

The players' faces, still buoyed by the win over Japan, hardened all over again.

Physicality, technique—France was overwhelming in every category.

Gang-cheol silently wrapped his tape.

This was not the atmosphere for lightly joking, Don't be scared, hyungs, the way he usually would.

These guys were not fakes.

They carried that same world-class scent he had smelled on the Man City training ground.

If we go force against force… it won't be easy.

Gang-cheol knew it by instinct.

Today's match would not allow for slaughtering the weak or playing tactical games.

This was simply war.

The whistle shrieked.

First-half kickoff.

The French storm hit the moment the ball moved.

Their speed defied imagination.

"Huh?!"

Korea's wing-back could not stay within a mile of Dembele's drive-and-sprint.

A single burst of acceleration shredded the flank.

The cross came in. In the middle, Mbappe rose.

The spring was different. He launched like a coiled spring.

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

Crack!

Header. Goal.

Conceded in the fourth minute.

It was too fast.

The Korean defenders had not even finished setting their shape before the sequence was over.

The roar from the stands twisted into screams.

"Snap out of it! Drop the line!"

Goalkeeper Shin Geun-beom bellowed, but fear spread like a plague.

The French players handled the Koreans like children.

When bodies collided, Korean players bounced off. In footraces they lost by two or three strides.

The physical press that had worked against Japan was useless against France's elastic, explosive physique.

Twenty-fifth minute of the first half.

Gang-cheol received the ball.

France's defensive midfielder Tousart and the monster center-back Upamecano closed him down at the same time.

Gang-cheol turned his back and held them off.

Shove them off…!

The instant he tried to plant power, Upamecano read the timing and drove his shoulder in first.

It was heavy.

If every defender he had met until now had been a wooden wall, this one was reinforced concrete.

"Ugh!"

Gang-cheol's balance tipped for a fraction of a second.

Tousart did not miss the opening. He scraped the ball clean.

Turnover.

Then the counter.

Mbappe collected it at the halfway line, beat three defenders on a solo dribble, and finished the second goal.

It looked like an F1 car slicing between ordinary sedans.

Thirty minutes into the first half. Zero to two.

The stadium fell silent.

This was a pure difference in ability—a weight-class gap that tactics alone could not bridge.

Gang-cheol planted his hands on his knees and sucked air.

Sweat poured off him like rain.

It was the first time this tournament he had been overpowered like this.

It doesn't work.

Simply bulldozing with strength was useless.

There was no room to play the psychological games he had used against Japan either.

These bastards were already in his face before he could even start ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠something.

Even with thirty-five years of experience, players with this combination of physique and technique at this age were pure cheat characters.

Halftime.

The locker room felt like a funeral parlor.

The players sat with their heads hanging.

"They're too fast…"

"I can't even get a body on them… I can't catch them."

Defeat. The thought that they had already lost dominated the room.

Coach Shim Yong-tae tried to give instructions, but the light in the players' eyes was already dead.

Then it happened.

Bang!

Gang-cheol kicked a metal locker with everything he had.

The crash rang out. The locker crumpled.

Every head snapped toward him.

Gang-cheol's eyes were bloodshot and raw.

"Hyungs."

His voice came out low and rough. Every trace of the usual playfulness and ease was gone.

"So you're just going to quit?"

"…Hey, Gang-cheol. It's not that. Those guys are just too—"

Captain Park Jin-ho started to make excuses, but Gang-cheol cut him off.

"I know we're short on ability. Physicality? I admit they're better. I just got bounced off them myself."

Gang-cheol ripped off his sweat-soaked jersey and flung it to the floor.

His upper body was already a map of red bruises—medals earned over forty-five minutes of collisions with Upamecano and Tousart.

The older players shut their mouths. The youngest, the one they called a monster, had been taking that kind of beating.

"But this is the World Cup. This is our home ground."

Gang-cheol clenched his fists until the knuckles went white.

"If skill isn't enough, then we run until we die. If your feet can't reach, stick your head in. If that doesn't work, grab their shirts! Soccer isn't just played with your feet!"

"…"

"I can't win this alone. I tried doing it alone at Man City and I lost. If you hyungs don't run with me, it ends here today. You want to go home embarrassed after a 0–5 thrashing, or do you want to run until you drop?"

Silence.

But it was a different kind of silence from before.

Not the silence of helpless defeat—something hot was coiling up from the bottom of their chests.

Shame. Defiance.

Park Jin-ho lifted his head.

The look in his eyes had changed.

"Yeah… fuck it. If we lose, it's over anyway."

Park Jin-ho stood up.

"Hey, everyone up! Our youngest is like that and we're not even embarrassed? If your legs break, crawl and still block! Grab them until the jerseys tear!"

"Waaaaaah!!"

The dead Red Devils woke up.

Second half.

The shape of the match changed.

Murderous light entered the Korean players' eyes.

Their technique had not improved. Their physiques had not suddenly grown stronger.

But a vicious, clinging stubbornness had appeared.

When a French player dribbled, two Koreans latched on and threw their bodies in the way.

If a tackle was dodged, they got up and chased to the end.

Even while falling they hooked ankles, drove shoulders, and dragged the game into the mud.

So-called zombie soccer.

"Crazy Koreans!"

"What the f…!"

The French players began to panic.

Kids who had crumpled at a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠light ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠touch in the first half were now clinging on and biting like pit bulls.

Elegant Art Soccer was being dragged into a filthy street fight.

Fifteenth minute of the second half.

Corner-kick chance.

Inside the penalty box, Gang-cheol and Upamecano locked into a war of bodies.

Jerseys yanked, shoulders shoved—a battlefield.

The ball came in.

Gang-cheol jumped. Upamecano rose with him.

Aerial superiority belonged to Upamecano.

But Gang-cheol was not looking at the ball. He twisted his body and fouled Upamecano's jump trajectory.

Thud!

Upamecano's elbow clipped Gang-cheol's brow.

The impact sounded closer to a fight than a soccer play.

Pain of torn flesh flooded in.

Gang-cheol did not even scream. He wrenched his head around and forced the ball onto his forehead.

It was not a clean header, but the ball struck a French defender and deflected into the net.

The equalizer… no, the recovery goal.

Gang-cheol hit the ground, then surged back to his feet.

The skin above his right eye was split open. Blood streamed freely.

Half his face was painted in fresh crimson.

He did not even think of wiping it. He turned toward the stands and roared.

"Uwaaaaaaah!!"

An ace fighting while bleeding.

The Korean players and the crowd went insane at the sight.

It was not tactics. It was not technique. It was pure fighting spirit.

The referee stopped the match and ordered treatment. Medical staff sprinted over.

"The cut is deep! It needs stitches! You have to come off!"

"Just wrap it."

"But—"

"Wrap it!! We're out of time!"

Gang-cheol's shout cowed the medical staff into hastily wrapping a bandage.

Red blood immediately soaked through the white gauze.

The image was more than enough to plant fear in the French players.

That bastard… he's insane. He won't stop even if he dies.

Thirty-fifth minute of the second half.

France's stamina collapsed.

They had been broken by Korea's zombie-like press.

The Korean players, by contrast, had reached a state where spirit ruled the body.

Gang-cheol collected the ball in midfield.

This time he did not leisurely scan for open space. He had neither the strength nor the time.

He simply ran.

Three defenders latched onto him, but Gang-cheol dragged them forward like a beast.

Thirty-five years of technique? No. Right now it was pure grit.

"Jin-ho hyung! Run!"

Just before he went down, Gang-cheol poked the ball sideways.

Empty space.

No—someone was there.

Park Jin-ho was charging like a madman. The captain was limping, but his eyes were alive.

Park Jin-ho's long-range shot.

It was mishit.

But the ball rolled and rolled until it met the toe of Lim Woo-seung, who had stormed into the box.

Tap.

The goalkeeper's momentum was wrong.

Goal.

Equalizer. A miraculous equalizer.

Daejeon World Cup Stadium threatened to lift off its foundations.

The French coach hurled a water bottle. A match they had already won was slipping away.

There was no extra time.

Straight to penalties.

But the momentum had already swung completely to Korea.

The French kickers, crushed under the crowd's jeers and the blood-soaked, glaring presence of Gang-cheol, missed one after another.

The final kicker was Gang-cheol.

With a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his head, he set the ball on the penalty spot.

His eyes met the French goalkeeper's.

The keeper looked away.

Even with a split brow and blood running down his face, that devilish gaze was smiling.

Finish it.

Gang-cheol struck without hesitation.

A thunderous shot that looked ready to tear the net clean off.

Semifinals secured.

Players collapsed on the pitch and sobbed.

Only then did the tension leave Gang-cheol's body. He sank to the ground.

Every part of him throbbed.

His head pounded. His legs trembled.

"Haa… haa…"

Park Jin-ho crawled over and pulled him into a crushing hug.

His face was a mess of tears and snot.

"Gang-cheol… hhk… thank you. Really, thank you…"

"Hyung… that hurts… let go a little…"

Gang-cheol let out a short laugh.

He almost felt bad for yelling at them in the locker room. The hyungs had truly run as if their lives depended on it.

This was soccer.

Not winning by being brilliant alone, but filling each other's gaps with blood and sweat.

Something he had never learned at Man City, he was learning here.

A system window appeared.

Indomitable Fighting Spirit, huh…

Gang-cheol looked up at the sky.

He could see stars.

Maybe he was so exhausted he was seeing things.

"Who's next…"

Gang-cheol muttered.

It did not matter who came.

They had just taken down the French monsters. There was nothing left to fear.

Because right now, they were completely out of their minds.