American Tour, First Sacrifice (vs Manchester United)

Summer in America was brutal.

Texas heat, in particular, was murderous. Humidity hovered above ninety percent, and sweat poured down like rain even when you stood still. Yet NRG Stadium, packed with seventy thousand souls, burned hotter still with the roar of the crowd.

"CITY! CITY!"

"UNITED! UNITED!"

Manchester City versus Manchester United. Preseason friendly or not, the words "friendly" had no place in a Manchester Derby. And the two men in charge were bitter enemies of the highest order.

Pep Guardiola versus José Mourinho.

In the locker room before kickoff, Pep was quieter than usual. He had written the starting lineup on the board, arms folded, staring the players down.

Gang-cheol's name sat at right wing-forward. Gabriel Jesus, Raheem Sterling, Leroy Sané—the regular starters—were all on the bench. A so-called "1.5-team" lineup. But for Gang-cheol, that spot was a guillotine.

"Gang-cheol."

Pep finally spoke.

"You see their lineup?"

"Yes."

United had come to win. Romelu Lukaku, Paul Pogba, Marcus Rashford, Henrikh Mkhitaryan—essentially their best eleven. Especially the 130-billion-won man Paul Pogba and the human tank Lukaku; their physical presence was oppressive.

"Mourinho came here to win. That man hates losing even in preseason."

Pep stepped closer to Gang-cheol.

"You were a physical monster at the U-20 level, right? Good. Then show me."

"......"

"Show me whether that body of yours still works against monsters like these. If Pogba erases you today, there is no place for you in the opening-day squad."

A brutal ultimatum. Yet Gang-cheol only curled the corner of his mouth upward. This kind of tension—he had missed it.

"Don't worry, Boss. Today I'll show you what a Texas chainsaw massacre looks like."

Kickoff.

The whistle shrieked, and United immediately surged forward with raw aggression. Classic Mourinho. Even in a friendly the tackles came in late and heavy; the physical battles looked more like mixed martial arts than football.

Fifth minute of the first half.

Gang-cheol received the ball on the right flank. United's left-back Blind charged in. Gang-cheol sold a light upper-body feint and burst past him. Speed was a complete mismatch in Gang-cheol's favor.

But waiting behind him was a wall of pure mass.

Paul Pogba. One hundred ninety-one centimeters of height, flexibility included—one of the finest midfielders of his generation.

"Hey, kid."

Pogba stretched those long legs and cut off Gang-cheol's dribbling lane, then drove his shoulder in.

Thud!

"Ugh!"

Gang-cheol bounced off him. It felt like slamming into a stone wall. The French defenders he had faced at the U-20 World Cup were not even in the same dimension. This was the senior stage—world-class physicality.

Boos and cheers mixed from the stands. Pogba never even glanced at the fallen Gang-cheol as he carried the ball away. The silent message was clear: Go home, little boy.

Gang-cheol brushed the grass off and stood. His pride wasn't wounded so much as his curiosity was piqued.

Yeah... he's strong, all right.

The system flashed its analysis.

If strength won't cut it...

Then mix in technique.

Gang-cheol's eyes flashed. Thirty-five years of experience were not decoration. Players like Pogba knew how strong they were, so when an opponent charged them they tried to reverse that force. The answer, then, was simple.

Steal the timing.

Fifteenth minute of the first half.

A City counterattack. Yaya Touré won the ball in midfield and lofted a long pass toward Gang-cheol up front. The ball dropped between Pogba and Gang-cheol—a 50-50 contest.

Pogba looked relaxed.

I'll bounce him again.

He already had his shoulder loaded, ready to shove Gang-cheol aside. But Gang-cheol never collided. At the last instant he slammed on the brakes and leaned his upper body back.

"Huh?"

Pogba's shoulder sliced empty air. His balance shattered. The giant frame lurched forward—and in that split second Gang-cheol slipped into the gap.

Gang-cheol cushioned the ball with his chest and flicked it straight through Pogba's legs. Then he was gone like the wind—nutmeg and burst.

"What the...!"

Pogba's hand shot out too late. Gang-cheol already had acceleration. United's defensive line collapsed.

"Stop him! Smalling!"

De Gea roared. Center-back Smalling stepped across to cover, but Gang-cheol never slowed. At the top of the arc he sold a shot, froze Smalling, then cut a half-step right. He looked at the far post and curled it.

Whoosh—!

The ball painted a beautiful arc past De Gea's fingertips and rippled the net.

"WAAAAAAAH!!"

NRG Stadium erupted. Gang-cheol sprinted to the corner flag and unleashed his signature "Tiger Claw" celebration. A goal born not of raw power but of pure intelligence, humiliating Pogba.

On the bench Pep Guardiola shot to his feet, clapping hard.

"Yes! That's it! Not just muscle—use your head!"

After the goal United's mood turned ugly. Especially the prideful Pogba, whose face had gone stone-hard. A fifteen-year-old Asian kid had just beaten him and scored? Unacceptable.

"Give me the ball."

Pogba's eyes burned. United poured attack after attack through him. Then, in the thirty-fifth minute, their monster striker Romelu Lukaku showed his teeth.

Lukaku held off Kompany in a physical duel, protected the ball, and slipped it to the onrushing Rashford. Rashford's thunderous shot ripped the net.

Equalizer. Lukaku looked straight at Gang-cheol and gave a smug little shrug of the shoulders.

See that? This is real physicality.

Gang-cheol just smirked.

Fun. My turn to show you what Korean physicality looks like.

Second half began. Both sides made wholesale substitutions. City took off Aguero and Yaya Touré, bringing on Gabriel Jesus and Nasri. But Gang-cheol stayed on the pitch. Pep intended to test him to the very end.

Tenth minute of the second half. United corner.

Lukaku, Fellaini, Pogba—giants flooded the box. Gang-cheol dropped deep to defend. His mark: Lukaku. One hundred ninety centimeters, one hundred kilograms of pure muscle.

Lukaku pressed in from behind. His breath was hot on Gang-cheol's neck.

"Move, little boy."

The corner came in. Lukaku prepared to leap. Any ordinary player would have been crushed and never left the ground. But Gang-cheol timed the exact moment Lukaku generated power and drove upward with his hips and thighs, checking him like a springboard.

The true value of [Core Strength S].

"Ugh!"

Lukaku's own jumping force collided with Gang-cheol's resistance; his balance shattered. He never got properly airborne. In that gap Gang-cheol soared and headed the ball clear, far away.

Lukaku landed with a look of pure disbelief.

What the hell? Why is this kid so strong?

Outwardly an ordinary frame—inside, solid as rock.

Then, thirtieth minute of the second half. Another chance for Gang-cheol.

The moment Kevin De Bruyne entered as a substitute, the quality of the game transformed. KDB collected the ball in midfield. Without even lifting his head he threaded a killer pass into the right channel.

Gang-cheol sprinted. This time it wasn't Blind but the newly introduced Phil Jones who tracked him. Jones, notorious for his roughness, grabbed Gang-cheol's shirt and tried to haul him down before he could accelerate.

Gang-cheol did not fall. He kept running with Phil Jones still hanging off him.

"Uwaaaaah!!"

Monstrous strength. Gang-cheol shook Jones off and burst into the box. The angle was gone—De Gea filled the entire goal. In the center Jesus had his hand up, screaming, "Pass! Pass!"

But Gang-cheol chose the shot. And not just any shot—a thunderous one. The ball sat perfectly on his instep.

BOOM!

It screamed past De Gea's face and nearly tore the roof of the net at the near post. A brazen near-post strike.

"Crazy!!"

"Unbelievable!"

The commentators screamed. From an almost nonexistent angle he had beaten the world's best goalkeeper—with pure power.

Gang-cheol sprinted over and high-fived Jesus. Jesus looked completely stunned.

He shot from there? And it went in?

Even Pogba and Lukaku, who had dismissed him, fell silent. That Asian kid was no mere pacey winger. He belonged in the same category as them.

A monster.

Full time. 2–1 to Manchester City. Gang-cheol had scored twice and become the hero of the Manchester Derby.

When the final whistle blew, Pogba walked over. He peeled off his sweat-soaked jersey and held it out to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Gang-cheol.

"Good game."

"You too."

Gang-cheol swapped jerseys as well. Pogba's eyes flickered with surprise at the web of scars and the dense muscle carved across Gang-cheol's torso. That was not a fifteen-year-old's body. It was the body of a warrior who had rolled through battlefields.

"I'll remember your name. When the season starts, let's go properly."

"Anytime."

Pogba grinned and walked away. Gang-cheol draped Pogba's jersey over his shoulder and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠headed for the bench. Waiting there, arms folded, was Pep Guardiola.

"Boss. Did you see?"

Gang-cheol asked boldly. Pep looked down at him with a blank face, then tossed out a single word.

"Pass."

Short, but searing recognition. Staff and teammates around them erupted in cheers.

"Wooo! Gang-cheol! You were insane today!"

"You made Pogba look like a fool!"

The system window blazed with light.

Giant Killer...

Gang-cheol inhaled the scent of Pogba's jersey and smiled. He had proven it. An Asian tiger could become king even inside the Premier League's lion den.

On the way into the locker room, reporters swarmed like a cloud. The questions were predictable.

"How was the duel with Pogba?" "What's the secret to beating De Gea?"

Gang-cheol looked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into the cameras and winked.

"The United hyungs have great physicality. But football isn't a bodybuilding contest, is it? Scoring goals is how you win. Just like today."

A provocative interview. Tomorrow's British front pages were already booked.

Then someone grabbed his shoulder. Gabriel Jesus—rival, same-age competitor. He looked at Gang-cheol with a complicated expression, then muttered,

"I'll admit it. You were better today."

"Oh? What's this?"

"But don't get the wrong idea. The opening-day start is mine."

Jesus strode off. Gang-cheol snickered.

Cute kid.

Next up: Real Madrid. Then Tottenham. And waiting at Tottenham was someone special.

South Korea's superstar—Shin Min-heung.

Min-heung hyung. Wait for me.

Gang-cheol's gaze lifted higher still. The American tour had only just begun.