The Monster of August and the Group of Death

The final match of August.

The opponent: Bournemouth.

It was a small, compact stadium, yet the roar of the home fans was louder than anywhere else. Even that noise, though, could not silence the bellow of the monster.

The 42nd minute of the second half. Score: 1–1. Manchester City had been grinding through an unexpectedly stubborn, frustrating stretch of play.

"Give it to KANG!!"

Pep Guardiola strode all the way to the touchline and roared the order.

In the end, the problem-solver was always Gang-cheol.

He collected the ball on the right flank. Bournemouth defenders Charlie Daniels and Nathan Aké closed in at once—a smothering double-team. Gang-cheol only smiled.

Two of them? Perfect.

He never stopped the ball. Instead he slipped it through the narrow gap between the pair and drove his shoulder into the space between them.

CRACK!

Charlie Daniels bounced off Gang-cheol’s shoulder and went sprawling across the turf. Nathan Aké, panicked, grabbed a fistful of jersey, but Gang-cheol simply charged forward like a bull, dragging the defender with him.

Into the penalty box.

"Stop him!!"

Goalkeeper Begović rushed out, yet Gang-cheol’s left foot was faster. A cannonball of a shot.

BOOM—!

The net nearly tore under the thunderous impact as the ball buried itself in the goal.

A late winner. Theater goal.

Gang-cheol charged the corner flag and nearly snapped it in half with a ferocious kick, roaring to the sky. That strike settled the match. Manchester City’s opening three-game winning streak was complete—and so was Ma Gang-cheol’s three-match scoring run ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠(four goals, two assists).

The “adaptation period” the English press had predicted never arrived. He had landed and immediately begun devouring the league.

A throng of reporters packed the room. It was the day of the Premier League’s official awards ceremony. A heavy trophy sat waiting on the podium.

The host took the microphone.

"For August 2017, the Premier League Player of the Month is…"

He let the silence stretch, then raised his voice.

"Manchester City’s Ma Gang-cheol!"

Camera flashes exploded like a waterfall. Gang-cheol stepped onto the stage and lifted the trophy high. It was a historic moment—an award that neither Park Sung-ji nor Shin Min-heung (at that point in time) had yet claimed. The first Asian player ever to win EPL Player of the Month, and he had done it in his debut month.

"Congratulations, Ma Gang-cheol. A few words, please."

Gang-cheol ran a hand over the trophy and stepped to the mic. His expression was far too composed for a fifteen-year-old boy.

"It’s heavy."

He gave a short, crooked smile.

"But it still feels lighter than the World Cup trophy."

Laughter rippled through the room. His arrogance had already become part of his charm.

"Before the season started, everyone said the same thing, right? What’s a fifteen-year-old going to do in the Premier League? He’d get bullied physically and warm the bench."

His eyes flashed sharp.

"I hope this trophy is answer enough. And this is only the beginning. September, October… I’ve left plenty of space empty on my shelf."

Pure confidence. Yet no one could argue. The numbers spoke for themselves.

The monster had arrived.

Gang-cheol sprawled on the sofa and switched on the television. Tonight was the Champions League group-stage draw—the war of the stars, the stage where the true giants gathered.

His teammates were already buzzing in the group chat.

On the screen, the Grimaldi Forum in Monaco. The UEFA General Secretary began drawing balls with solemn ceremony.

Because of last season’s results, Manchester City had been placed in Pot 2. That meant they would be drawn against one of the league champions sitting in Pot 1 no matter what. The Pot 1 list was merciless: Real Madrid, Bayern Munich, Juventus, Chelsea… Any of them would be a final-level matchup.

"Group H."

Legendary striker Shevchenko opened the first ball.

"Real Madrid (ESP)."

The defending champions. Back-to-back Champions League winners. Cristiano Ronaldo’s Real Madrid.

Then came the fateful moment—the Pot 2 draw. Shevchenko reached in again. The instant he unfolded the paper, Gang-cheol’s fist clenched of its own accord.

"Manchester City (ENG)."

Silence. The hall on television and the group chat both went dead quiet for a heartbeat.

The Group of Death had been born. Europe’s sharpest spear (Real) and the rising powerhouse (Man City) had collided.

Gang-cheol set his phone down and stared at the television. Ronaldo highlight reels filled the screen—the man they called God, the absolute ruler who split the football world with Messi.

Thirty-five years ago—no, in the life before the regression—Ronaldo had been nothing more than a figure on a screen. An existence from another dimension, someone you didn’t even dare look at directly.

But now it was different.

We meet.

And in the same group, no less.

His heart hammered wildly. Fear? No. This was the hunting instinct.

At that moment a system window unfurled with a majestic sound effect.

Skill theft?

The rewards were insane. Ronaldo’s knuckle-ball free kick? His leaping ability? His off-the-ball movement? Whatever it was, claiming even one would turn Gang-cheol into a finished monster.

He smirked and typed into the group chat.

The mood flipped. One line of Gang-cheol’s bravado had turned the team’s fear into fighting spirit.

Then the rest of Group H was decided.

Pot 3: Borussia Dortmund (Germany)
Pot 4: APOEL (Cyprus)

Real Madrid, Manchester City, Dortmund—an all-time Group of Death. Media outlets around the world were already screaming the headline in massive type.

Gang-cheol switched off the television, stepped out onto the balcony, and looked up at the Manchester night sky.

"Wait for me, Ronaldo hyung."

He shaped his fingers into a gun and fired into the empty air.

"It’s time you put the crown down."

The draw had left the training ground atmosphere grim and resolute. Pep Guardiola, however, looked almost delighted. As a man from Barcelona, the mere mention of Real Madrid made his blood boil.

"It’s a good draw," he told the gathered squad. "If we want to win the Champions League, Real is a wall we can’t avoid. Meeting them in the group stage is actually better. If we trample them early, the knockout rounds get easier."

Classic master-manager thinking—a complete reversal of perspective.

"But first we have business to settle."

Pep flipped the whiteboard. Next league fixture:

Jürgen Klopp’s Liverpool. The originators of Gegenpressing. Mané, Salah, Firmino—the so-called “wife line”—another genuine title contender.

"Liverpool run themselves into the ground. They press like mad dogs."

Pep’s gaze settled on Gang-cheol.

"Gang-cheol."

"Yes, boss."

"You’re on the bench for this one."

"……What?"

Gang-cheol’s eyes went wide. He had just won Player of the Month—and he was on the bench?

"Partly load management, but mostly a strategic choice." Pep smiled thinly. "Their back line will go berserk in the first half. If you start, the efficiency drops. But around the sixtieth minute, when their legs are gone…"

He clenched a fist, then opened it.

"You come on and finish them. To exhausted defenders, you’ll be a disaster."

"A joker, then."

"Exactly. A super joker."

Gang-cheol nodded. It made sense. And more than that, a Liverpool match was always full of variables—especially the infamous “kick incident” involving Sadio Mané that was scheduled for this game.

This should be fun.

He pictured himself reading the match from the bench, then stepping on at the decisive moment and flipping the board. The opponent was Liverpool. The Etihad Stadium was already preparing to burn white-hot once again.