The Jeers of De Kuip and the War of the Stars (UCL Matchday 1)

The night sky over Rotterdam burned an unnatural red. Thick sea fog coiled through the city while hundreds of flares spat acrid smoke that pressed the air heavy and foul. The moment the Manchester City team bus turned onto the road near the stadium, a roar erupted from every side — the raw, waiting howl of a riot about to break.

Crash! Smash!

Beer bottles and unidentifiable filth hammered the reinforced windows, each impact a sickening crack. Thousands of Feyenoord hooligans ringed the bus, bloodshot eyes locked on the players beyond the glass, middle fingers thrust high. Dutch curses, thick with guttural fricatives, rode the wind and slammed into eardrums as if the volume had been cranked to maximum.

In the rearmost seat, a fifteen-year-old boy named Ma Gang-cheol watched the savage swirl through the nearest window. His face was strangely calm. No — the corner of his mouth had curved upward in the faintest arc of a smile.

"These lunatics. You'd think a war had broken out."

Beside him, Sergio Aguero sipped his mate and scowled. Even a veteran striker who had seen every kind of hell could only click his tongue at the murderous atmosphere of Rotterdam's home ground — the infamous De Kuip. In the seat ahead, Kevin De Bruyne had already cranked his headphones to full volume and closed his eyes.

"Gang, this is mostly your fault. Half the placards out there have your name on them."

Captain Vincent Kompany turned with a dry chuckle. He was right. Beyond the glass, countless signs and banners flashed crude drawings of Gang-cheol's face crossed out in red, beneath slogans like Ajax's Dog Dies in Rotterdam and Break Judas Ma Gang-cheol's Legs.

Gang-cheol tapped the raindrops on the window with one finger and answered quietly.

"It was only six months. That's how long I wore the Ajax shirt. But last winter, when we came here on the road, I put a hat-trick past them. I stomped Feyenoord's title hopes flat with my own boots. Of course their eyes are spinning."

"So. You scared?"

At Kompany's half-provoking question, Gang-cheol turned his head with deliberate slowness. A predator's gaze flared — far too deep and cold for any fifteen-year-old boy.

"The louder the boos, the higher my market value climbs. Captain, tonight I'll make sure those bastards lose their voices. By morning they won't even be able to talk."

Kompany smiled, satisfied, and nodded. The kid was the youngest on the squad, yet his mentality already belonged to a veteran who had walked out for a dozen Champions League finals.

The bus slid into the underground parking garage and the noise cut off at once. Pep Guardiola rose from his seat and clapped for attention.

"Focus, all of you. Three straight wins in the Premier League, the five-nil thrashing of Liverpool — forget every bit of it. From tonight we fight a war of an entirely different dimension. Champions League group stage. The first step toward our ultimate goal — the Big Ears. Feyenoord will come in rough. They'll try to tear us apart with the home crowd's madness at their backs. But we are Manchester City. Carve their fighting spirit to pieces with our passing."

Pep's eyes settled on Gang-cheol.

"Gang-cheol. You're starting. Pour every ounce of the stamina you saved against Liverpool into this pitch. Destroy their wing-back completely down the right flank."

"Yes, Boss."

Gang-cheol stood, slung his boot bag over his shoulder, and walked. Inside the tunnel leading to the dressing room the air tangled sweat, thick grass, and the ozone edge of tension drifting in from outside. He pulled on the sky-blue kit with the number 77 on the back and drew a deep breath. Cold air flooded his lungs; every cell in his body seemed to wake.

At the mouth of the tunnel both teams lined up. Feyenoord's eyes glittered with killing intent. Especially left-back Jan Orier, assigned to mark Gang-cheol — the man looked ready to tear the boy's throat out on the spot.

Then the stadium speakers tore open with a majestic melody.

Bam— bam— bam—

The music every footballer on earth dreams of hearing once in a lifetime. Tony Britten's official Champions League anthem ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rolled across the night sky above De Kuip.

"Die Meister, Die Besten, Les Grandes Équipes, The Champions!"

As the choir's voices soared to their peak, goosebumps raced over Gang-cheol's skin. The stage he had hungered for in his previous life and never reached. After thirty-five years of injury and frustration, the miracle of regression had brought him here in a fifteen-year-old body to set foot on this sacred battlefield. He closed his eyes and savored the tremor. The bite of the studs against the turf felt sharper and clearer than ever.

A translucent blue system window bloomed before his eyes.

Peeeeeeep—!

The referee's whistle opened the curtain on Matchday 1 of the 2017-18 Champions League Group ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠H.

From the first second the roar of fifty-one thousand throats exceeded imagination. Every time Gang-cheol touched the ball, a wall of boos crashed down as if the stadium itself might collapse. The sound of "Boooo—" carried physical pressure that threatened to rupture eardrums and rattle the vestibular system behind them.

Fifth minute. Near the touchline Gang-cheol cushioned a pass from David Silva on his chest. From the blind spot a red-shirted shadow rocketed in like a shell. Feyenoord left-back Jan Orier. This was no tackle for the ball — a clear two-footed lunge aimed straight at Gang-cheol's knee joint.

Crazy son of a bitch.

For any ordinary fifteen-year-old the bones would have shattered. But Gang-cheol's mind dissected the instant of the tackle into fractions of a second and calculated the answer. If he could not dodge, he would smash through.

Instead of retreating he dropped his center of gravity toward the oncoming studs and drove his right boot deep into the turf. The insane fibers of thigh and calf swelled and contracted as one. Traits Core Strength S and Human Tank ignited together.

Thuuuud—!

A dull explosion rolled across the pitch, the sound of a compact car meeting a truck head-on.

"Aaaaaagh!"

The scream did not come from Gang-cheol. Orier, who had driven both feet into the boy's shin, rebounded a full meter into the air and crashed onto the grass. Gang-cheol's Pain Tolerance A reduced the stud marks to the annoyance of a mosquito bite. He stood motionless, looked down at the writhing defender, and dragged the ball back under his sole.

The whistle blew. Not for Gang-cheol. A clear caution for Orier's reckless challenge.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, you little brat!"

Feyenoord captain Karim El Ahmadi charged in and shoved him. Gang-cheol only squared his chest and stepped forward. Already approaching the mid-180s in height, the fifteen-year-old's massive frame and killing aura made the captain flinch and retreat a pace.

"Did you come to play football or to fight? If you wanted to break my leg you should have put more weight behind it. Felt light as a feather — I barely noticed it was a tackle."

The fluent Dutch provocation turned El Ahmadi's face tomato-red. The stands erupted into full riot-level abuse, but Gang-cheol merely shrugged and jogged back to position.

Having won the early war of nerves completely, he began to ravage Feyenoord's right flank in earnest. Eighteenth minute. Manchester City's trademark tiki-taka shredded the home midfield. A pass from İlkay Gündoğan found David Silva, then the tip of Kevin De Bruyne's boot. KDB took one touch and, without lifting his head, threaded a ground-splitting through-ball into the right half-space.

"Gang!!"

At KDB's shout Gang-cheol exploded into a sprint. Like a cheetah locking onto prey, his torso dropped nearly parallel to the ground; within three strides he hit top speed. Center-back Eric Botteghin scrambled desperately to close the angle, but Gang-cheol's pace was beyond imagination.

Near the right corner of the penalty box Botteghin planted himself like a wall.

Left? Right?

The defender's pupils flickered between both feet. In that instant Gang-cheol's left shoulder twitched in a faint feint toward the inside. Botteghin's weight shifted unconsciously inward.

Tap.

With the outside of his right foot Gang-cheol nudged the ball wide, perfectly selling the reverse. In less than a second Botteghin was rooted to the turf, watching the boy glide past in helpless disbelief.

One-on-one with goalkeeper Brad Jones. The angle from the right was tight, yet more than enough. Jones threw himself to narrow the shot, but Gang-cheol's right instep struck the dead center of the ball without mercy.

Kwaaaang—!

A sonic boom of torn air. The ball left his foot with zero spin, a laser beam that punched straight through the top corner of the net. It was a miracle the mesh did not rip.

The instant the net bulged, the ear-splitting boos of fifty-one thousand throats died as if someone had cut the power. Faces that moments earlier had twisted with rage now held only shock and hollow emptiness.

Gang-cheol jogged slowly toward the corner flag. There, in full view of fifty thousand Feyenoord fans, he planted his feet, raised his right index finger to his lips, and delivered a silent "shhh."

This is my playground, you trash. Sit quietly and watch.

The provocation blazed from his eyes. Arrogant, overwhelming charisma poured from the fifteen-year-old who had never flinched even in the Bernabéu. After a heartbeat of stunned silence De Kuip exploded into twice the abuse, yet the sound now carried more terror than rage.

On the bench Pep Guardiola clenched both fists and roared.

"That crazy monster of a kid! Perfect! An absolute destroyer!"

The second half followed the same script. Trailing, Feyenoord pushed their line high and threw everything forward — exactly the prey Manchester City loved most. Twelfth minute of the second half. From deep, Ederson's pinpoint long ball sailed over the halfway line straight toward Gang-cheol.

Two Feyenoord defenders surrounded him at the landing spot. Aerial duel. The big Dutchmen sandwiched him, trying to spoil the jump. They had not calculated the monstrous spring compressed in Gang-cheol's legs.

He absorbed their body checks with the power of Human Tank and launched straight upward from a standing start.

Even at full stretch the two defenders' heads reached only his chest. Suspended in the air, Gang-cheol arched his back like a bow and funneled every ounce of power into his forehead. The ball struck dead center and rocketed, bouncing once, into the far corner before the keeper could move.

Bang!

A brace. The contact point of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠header was so high that even Premier League commentators cried out in disbelief, "It looks like Cristiano Ronaldo's leap!"

The moment his boots touched grass again, Gang-cheol raised a thumb toward Ederson, who had delivered the pass. The jeers of De Kuip had faded to almost nothing. Only deep despair and silence remained in the face of overwhelming talent. In the library-quiet away ground, the three thousand traveling City fans alone sang "Blue Moon," the chorus rising both mournful and beautiful.

In the end Gabriel Jesus added a third in the thirty-fifth minute of the second half. Final score 3–0, a complete Manchester City victory. Gang-cheol was withdrawn in the fortieth minute for Leroy Sané, a precaution for the weekend league fixture. As he left the pitch a scattering of Feyenoord supporters even began to clap — the primitive respect paid to a true superior.

Peeeeeeep—!

Gang-cheol sat on the bench, towel around his neck, sipping water, when a clear chime sounded in his ear.

Good. A perfect start.

Gang-cheol smiled in quiet satisfaction as he looked up at the scoreboard. A brace on his Champions League debut — a flawless narrative the world's media would splash across every front page by morning. Yet already the small Dutch stadium had been erased from his mind.

After the shower, on the way out of the dressing room, a Sky Sports reporter waiting in the mixed zone thrust a microphone forward.

"Gang-cheol! A perfect debut. It must have been heavy pressure, playing at the home of your old club's rivals. How does it feel to score a brace?"

Gang-cheol shook water from his hair with casual arrogance and smiled.

"Pressure? Honestly, the hooligans' boos sounded like a lullaby. I feel like I just woke up from a good nap and did a light warm-up."

The reporter coughed at the sheer swagger and pressed on.

"Your next Champions League fixture is the famous trip to the Santiago Bernabéu. Real Madrid — and Cristiano Ronaldo — are waiting."

Ronaldo. At the name, Gang-cheol's eyes flared with predatory light. The true prey he had waited so long to hunt. He stared straight into the camera lens and spoke with deliberate clarity.

"Tonight was an excellent warm-up. I hope the King of Madrid was watching my game. By the time I arrive in Spain, he'd better have vacated the throne. I plan to be a very rude invader."

It was a declaration of war — confident, no, downright insolent. The moment the interview hit ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the airwaves, football fans across England and Spain erupted in frenzy.

Gang-cheol walked out of the tunnel, ready for the flight back to Manchester. The storm that had begun at the feet of a fifteen-year-old boy was now gathering force, about to sweep toward Madrid — the very heart of world football.