Pep's Test, and the First Rival

July 10, 2017

Manchester, England — Manchester City Training Ground (CFA)

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter-patter.

Rain was falling.

That peculiar Manchester rain — chilly, clammy, seeping into the bones. For Gang-cheol, who had been sweltering under Seoul's thirty-degree heatwave only two days earlier, the cold air was more than enough to deliver a brutal reality check.

He stepped out of the taxi and looked up at the massive emblem of the Etihad Campus.

The blue eagle crest glistened, slick with rainwater.

Suddenly, that night five months ago rose unbidden in his mind.

"I'll be blunt. Pep wants you."

Txiki slid a tablet across the table.

On the screen, alongside Gang-cheol's scouting report, were the terms of a jaw-dropping contract.

"You want me to join right now?"

"No. Pep has one condition."

Txiki held out his phone. A video call was already connected.

On the screen, Pep Guardiola stared at Gang-cheol with those trademark piercing eyes.

"Hey, Kid. Impressive game today."

"Thank you, Boss."

"The condition is simple. Finish the season at Ajax. Then win the U-20 World Cup in May. Come back a champion."

Pep's voice was absolute.

"I want players who carry the aura of a Winner. Become the king of Asia and return in glory. Do that, and I'll keep a place open in my squad for you."

Gang-cheol listened, then let out a short laugh.

The greatest manager in the world had just handed him a personal mission.

"Deal. I'll bring the trophy. Have the number 77 jersey hanging ready for me."

And so, on paper, Gang-cheol had already become a Manchester City player last winter. Now he had returned exactly as promised — World Cup trophy in hand.

Present — Main Gate, Manchester City Training Ground

"Welcome back, Kang."

"Thanks."

The security officer checked Gang-cheol's ID card and raised the barrier.

The flashback ended.

Here, he was no longer the "national hero."

Just one more fifteen-year-old prospect fighting for a first-team place.

Dragging his suitcase, Gang-cheol headed for the locker room.

Along the corridor walls hung photographs of City legends — Colin Bell, Mike Summerbee... and more recent greats: Aguero, Kompany, Yaya Touré.

My photo will hang there too.

No — I'll make sure it hangs bigger than any of theirs.

His heart pounded.

If the U-20 World Cup had been a neighborhood playground, this place was the Colosseum.

A den packed with lions, tigers, and bears.

First-Team Locker Room

He pushed open the door and was hit by a wall of heavy bass hip-hop and the sharp scent of sweat.

The players at the absolute center of world football were right there.

Raheem Sterling was dancing in front of the mirror. Kevin De Bruyne was stretching, face flushed red. In the corner, the "King" Sergio Aguero sat leisurely sipping mate tea.

As Gang-cheol entered, eyes that had been buried in the music began to turn toward him one by one.

"Oh! Look who's back!"

The first to react was the captain, Vincent Kompany.

He strode over and clamped a massive hand around Gang-cheol's shoulder — the grip of a bear pinning its prey.

"World Champion! Good to see that face. Heard Korea went completely crazy over you."

"Missed you too, Cap. Never thought I'd miss the smell of rain here."

Gang-cheol's cheeky reply drew chuckles from the surrounding players.

Yaya Touré walked past and rapped him lightly on the head.

"What's with the bandage? You fight a war or something?"

"Something like that. Played a little rough."

"Tough bastard. Coming straight back looking like that?"

The atmosphere was warm. Friendly.

But Gang-cheol could read the subtle undercurrent beneath it.

Reconnaissance.

This kid came back as World Cup MVP — so how much better has he actually gotten?

The strikers' eyes, in particular, were razor-sharp.

Then, from a corner of the locker room, someone was staring straight through him.

Four years older. Brazil's ultra-premium prospect.

Gabriel Jesus — the one who had joined in the winter window and already exploded with seven goals in seven games.

Their eyes met.

Jesus did not smile.

He simply gave a short, curt nod of greeting.

So that's the one.

Gang-cheol knew it instantly.

If Aguero was the mountain he had to climb, Jesus was the rival already tightening the noose around his neck.

Rumors were everywhere that Pep Guardiola preferred Jesus — the maniacal high-pressing machine — over the lower-work-rate Aguero.

And now Gang-cheol was back.

Same position. Similar style.

Doesn't look like he's planning to step aside.

Neither am I.

Gang-cheol smirked and returned the nod.

Invisible sparks flew.

Manager's Office

"Come in."

Short. Dry.

Gang-cheol took one deep breath and opened the door.

Pep Guardiola.

The greatest tactician on the planet. The perfectionist.

Tactical diagrams covered every inch of his desk; he was deep in thought over something.

"I'm back, Boss. Promise kept."

Gang-cheol tossed his World Cup gold medal onto the desk with a soft clink.

Pep looked up.

Those deep eyes scanned him — the wound on his head, the scar near his eye, even the subtle change in the quality of his muscle.

"Sit."

Pep glanced at the medal, then spun the monitor around.

It was footage from the U-20 World Cup final.

The freeze-frame showed Gang-cheol in the dying minutes of the second half, conserving energy by playing with his back to goal and barking instructions to teammates.

"World Cup winner. MVP. Golden Boot. All excellent. But..."

Pep's voice dropped low.

"I don't like your play."

"...What?"

An unexpected dagger.

Pep pointed at the screen.

"This moment. You could have driven through yourself. Stamina? Of course you were empty. But instead of forcing it, you used your teammates — looking for the efficient solution. Very clever. As crafty as a thirty-five-year-old veteran."

A chill ran down Gang-cheol's spine.

It felt as if the secret of his regression — thirty-five years of experience — had been exposed.

This man's eyes could not be deceived.

"But this is not the U-20s. This is the Premier League."

Pep ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stood and walked toward him.

"The defenders here will not give you even a tenth of a second to think. The moment you turn your head to 'cleverly' find a teammate, the ball is already gone."

"..."

"I do not want a teenager with the cunning of a thirty-year-old. I want a monster who has the insane energy of a teenager — and still understands the tactics."

Pep jabbed a finger into Gang-cheol's chest.

"Stop protecting your body. Stop calculating. Why are you rationing that overwhelming physique of yours? Afraid you'll break? Then that is as far as you go as a player."

Shock therapy.

Worried that Gang-cheol might still be floating on the high of victory, Pep had not merely thrown cold water — he had dumped a bucket of ice over his head.

Gang-cheol's eyes changed.

"Understood."

"Good. One more thing."

Pep tossed a document from the desk.

This season's squad list.

"Gabriel Jesus. Leroy Sané. Raheem Sterling. Bernardo Silva."

Heavyweight names.

"Those are your competitors. Cold truth: right now you are fifth among the forwards."

"...Fifth."

"Feel wronged? Then prove it on the training pitch. Show me you run more than Jesus, score more than Jesus, and understand the tactics better than Jesus. Names mean nothing to my eyes. Only ability."

Gang-cheol clenched his fists.

Defiance surged up like fire.

Fifth? That meant he might not even make the bench.

World Cup MVP treated like a reserve?

"Boss."

He lifted his head and met Pep's gaze dead-on.

"When the USA tour is over, that ranking will be rewritten."

"Oh?"

"My name will be at the very top."

The corner of Pep's mouth twitched upward.

Exactly the answer he had wanted.

He already knew that for this kid, provocation was the purest fuel.

"I'll be watching. Now get out. Training starts in ten."

Training Pitch

The rain had stopped. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The smell of wet grass hung thick in the air.

The players gathered in a circle.

After a light jog, Pep's trademark rondo — the keep-ball drill — began.

"Faster! No two touches! One touch!"

"See the space! See it early!"

Pep's shouts echoed across the pitch.

Gang-cheol was placed in Group A — David Silva, De Bruyne, Sterling, and Jesus.

The speed...

He clicked his tongue.

This was a different dimension from the U-20 World Cup.

Passes arrived like bullets. Defenders closed in before you even controlled the ball.

Time to think? There truly was none.

Tak. Ta-dak. Tak.

The ball ricocheted around like a pinball.

It came to Gang-cheol.

Out of habit he took a touch, looking for the open man.

In that instant—

"Too slow!!"

Jesus exploded into the space, snapped the ball away, and with a mocking little nutmeg fed it straight to Silva.

"Hey, Kang! Wake up!"

Kompany barked.

Gang-cheol's face burned.

Humiliation.

In Korea he had been king. Here he was just a hole that lost the ball.

So this is Premier League tempo.

The system flashed an urgent message.

Gang-cheol drew a deep breath.

Pep's words from earlier echoed in his skull.

Stop calculating. Stop protecting your body.

Right. I've got thirty-five years of experience. I'm not losing here.

He shifted gears.

Pre-regression experience (prediction) + post-regression body (reaction).

He synchronized the two.

The ball started circulating again.

The instant Silva prepared to pass to Jesus—

Gang-cheol's eyes flashed.

There.

The angle of Silva's ankle. The direction of his gaze. Thirty-five years of data read the passing lane perfectly.

Just as Jesus moved to receive, Gang-cheol's body had already claimed the space.

He shouldered Jesus aside and intercepted cleanly.

"Ugh!"

Jesus bounced off him.

Gang-cheol never even took a touch to settle. Non-stop, he threaded a diagonal through-ball into the path of Sterling, who was already bursting into the opposite channel.

Zzzzip—!

The sound of the ball slicing the wet grass was pure music.

A perfect killer pass.

Stones and Otamendi, the defenders, could only stare in stunned silence.

"Good ball!!"

Sterling gave a thumbs-up.

De Bruyne nodded. "Not bad."

Gang-cheol looked down at Jesus, still on the ground, and offered a hand.

"Sorry. I'm heavy."

Jesus slapped the hand away and sprang to his feet.

His eyes were burning.

Pride had taken a scratch.

"Next time, I'll kill you."

"Try it."

The tension crackled.

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

From a distance, Pep Guardiola whispered to his coach.

"See that?"

"Yes. Adapting fast. That intercept just now — he read Silva's pass perfectly."

"I thought he was just pure physique. Turns out the eyes are good too. Jesus is going to feel the pressure."

Pep smiled with quiet satisfaction.

Internal competition.

That was the finest tonic for making a team stronger.

Training ended.

Players collapsed around the locker room like wreckage.

Gang-cheol gulped water, chest heaving.

Every muscle in his body was screaming.

But he felt fantastic.

I can do this.

No — this is doable.

He had been rattled at first, but once he adapted, everything became clear.

His physique worked here. More than worked — it dominated.

Polish the technical side and he could absolutely fight for a starting place.

Just then a club staff member walked in and pinned a notice to the board.

Gang-cheol's name sat right there near the top of the list.

He clenched his fist.

The system window flared with a new quest.

Loan? Don't make me laugh.

Gang-cheol packed his bag and stood.

From the neighboring locker, Kompany asked, "Where you going? Not coming for lunch?"

"Weights. Need to get stronger than that Jesus guy."

Kompany threw his head back and laughed.

"Tough bastard. That's how you survive. Go!"

Gang-cheol strode across the rain-soaked training pitch toward the gym.

Behind him the gray Manchester sky began to clear, and a single shaft of light broke through the clouds.

The return of the king.

Now it was time to write the real legend.

The opponents waiting: Manchester United, Real Madrid... and Tottenham's Shin Min-heung.