Trap Defense

"Hey, Haeseong Elementary! Didn't bring a basket today?"

Shinseong Elementary's soccer field.

Number 7 of the home team, clad in a crimson uniform, Choi Do-jin chewed his gum with deliberate insolence as he shouted toward the Haeseong bench. It was a cheap jab at last month's practice match—the 5–0 thrashing—when Haeseong's goalkeeper had been so busy fishing the ball out of the net that the taunt practically wrote itself: Better pack a basket for all those goals.

"Heh heh, look at their faces. Frozen solid."

"Hey, Captain! Go easy on 'em. The kids'll start crying."

The mocking laughter of the Shinseong boys rang sharp across the pitch. Home-ground advantage and the memory of that previous victory had swollen them with arrogance.

On the other side, the faces of the Haeseong kids flushed red and pale by turns. A strange current of rage and fear swirled among them. Hot-tempered Park Min-su clenched his fists, ready to charge at any second.

"That bastard's got a real mouth on him—!"

"Min-su. Stay."

Gang-cheol's low voice cut in as he laid a hand on Min-su's shoulder. It was the small hand of an eleven-year-old, yet the grip carried the solid weight of a thirty-five-year-old veteran.

Gang-cheol's gaze never settled on Choi Do-jin's sneering face. It dropped instead to the boy's lower body—the left ankle wrapped thick with tape, the uneven stance with weight cocked onto one leg.

Just as I analyzed. He loves flashy dribbling, but that puts massive load on the ankle. Center of gravity's tilted a fraction to the right.

Gang-cheol smiled faintly and walked toward Choi Do-jin at an unhurried pace.

"Don't need a basket."

"What?"

"I didn't come here to pick up balls today. I came to wreck your mental game."

Gang-cheol's eyes flashed cold. Choi Do-jin flinched and took an involuntary step back. The kid in front of him was clearly smaller and skinnier—a fifth-grader—yet the pressure rolling off him felt like standing before a grizzled pro on the verge of retirement.

"Th-this little punk's lost it..."

"And you—stop staring at the ground when you dribble. Keep that up and you'll run straight into a telephone pole without seeing it. Fixing that habit's gonna take some work."

Gang-cheol left the pointed remark hanging and turned away. Behind him came the sound of Choi Do-jin grinding his teeth, but Gang-cheol only curled one corner of his mouth in a thin, mocking smile.

Get mad. Jump around more. That's how you walk right into my trap.

Peeeeep—!

The referee's whistle cut the air and the match began.

Right from the kickoff, Shinseong funneled the ball to their ace, Choi Do-jin, exactly as expected.

"Do-jin! Show 'em!"

"Cut through those nobodies!"

Riding the roar from the stands, Choi Do-jin carved into Haeseong territory with swagger. A flashy step-over. Footwork so quick it was rare at elementary level.

Haeseong's defenders stumbled backward in panic. Fear had been drilled into them.

He's breaking through.

Another 5–0?

The moment their eyes wavered, the boy standing in the center circle—Gang-cheol—flared with sudden light.

Time seemed to stretch. Choi Do-jin's dribbling rhythm overlaid perfectly with the simulation running inside Gang-cheol's mind.

Tak. Tak.

Two short touches with the outside of the left foot, a big upper-body feint to the left, then a sharp cut inside to the right. The exact pattern he had watched hundreds of times on video over the past three days.

One, two... now!

The instant Choi Do-jin locked his eyes on the ground and prepared ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to cut the ball the way he always did, Gang-cheol snapped his fingers and barked the order.

"Min-su! Cover him!"

The second the signal dropped, Park Min-su exploded out of his crouch.

Like a predator that had been stalking its prey, Min-su didn't stretch a foot for the ball. Instead he simply erased the space Choi Do-jin needed to cut into with his massive frame.

"Wha...?"

Choi Do-jin's pupils shook as if an earthquake had hit. The pattern always worked. Cut here and the opponent got caught on the wrong foot and went down. So why was that mountain of a kid standing right there?

He tried to stop the ball in a panic, but the laws of inertia showed no mercy.

Thud!

Min-su's solid shoulder slammed into him. A perfectly legal shoulder challenge. Choi Do-jin screamed as he tumbled across the dirt, and the orphaned ball bounced free—straight into the waiting path of Gang-cheol's foot, delivered like a gift.

"What the hell?! That can't be right!"

"Foul, right?!"

The Shinseong bench shot to its feet. The referee only waved play on. This was no accident. It was a perfectly engineered trap defense, hammered into Min-su's body over three days of training that had even eaten into lunch breaks.

"Counter."

Gang-cheol wasted no time. One touch turned his body forward.

Shinseong's back line had pushed high near the halfway line for the attack. The space behind them yawned as wide as the Pacific.

"Cheol-su! Run!"

Before the shout even finished, Kim Cheol-su—stationed on the right touchline—launched like a spring.

"Empty your head! Just run!"

The ball left ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Gang-cheol's foot and skimmed low and fast across the grass.

A so-called killer pass that threaded mockingly between three defenders' legs.

As if it possessed a will of its own, the ball landed precisely on Kim Cheol-su's sprint path into the open space and slowed just enough for him to collect it.

"Got it!"

Cheol-su's speed was not elementary-school level. In a blink he was one-on-one with the keeper. The trailing Shinseong defenders could only stare blankly at the number on his back.

My heart's about to explode. But... the ball's stuck to my foot like glue.

Cheol-su remembered Gang-cheol's tutoring.

"If the keeper comes out, don't panic. Just roll it into the corner. Tap."

He squeezed his eyes shut (the habit of closing them still hadn't died) and guided the inside of his foot to the ball.

Whoosh—!

The net bulged as if it might tear.

Opening goal, three minutes in.

Haeseong's half went dead silent for a heartbeat, then erupted.

"Waaaaah! Gang-cheol! Cheol-su! It went in!"

"Nice pass! They fell for it completely!"

The Haeseong kids swarmed Gang-cheol, jumping and hugging. Choi Do-jin sat in the dirt, covered in dust, staring blankly up at the scoreboard.

0–1.

He still didn't understand how the ball had been taken from him, or how that pass had even connected.

The shock of the opener was huge, but Shinseong was still the local powerhouse. They regrouped and came out rough.

"Hey! Don't lose heart! That was pure luck!"

"Push with your bodies! We've still got the physical edge!"

Captain Choi Do-jin screamed himself hoarse, eyes burning with venom. Pride scratched raw, he was no longer playing soccer—he was looking for a fight.

Fifteenth minute of the first half.

Gang-cheol collected the ball in midfield. This time Choi Do-jin charged in with all reason gone.

"I'll kill you!"

A vicious sliding tackle.

He wasn't going for the ball. It was a murderous lunge aimed squarely at Gang-cheol's ankle.

Screams of "Look out!" exploded from the sidelines.

Any ordinary eleven-year-old would have flinched or gone down screaming.

But Gang-cheol's time moved differently.

I see it. Way too slow.

A faint smile touched Gang-cheol's lips. Thirty-five years of experience meant he could dodge a dirty tackle like this with his eyes closed.

The moment the studs came in, he stayed calm, planted his left foot on the ball, and spun his body in a smooth circle.

An elegant pirouette.

Like a matador letting an enraged bull charge past.

Marseille turn.

Choi Do-jin's studs sliced empty air and buried themselves in the dirt.

"Gyaaah!"

While Choi Do-jin tumbled from the force of his own missed kick, Gang-cheol glided past him. The ball never left his foot.

"Th-that...! That's Zidane!"

"An elementary kid using that in a real match?"

Parents and teachers in the stands buzzed. Beyond the technical difficulty, the sheer nerve to pull it off in that split-second crisis was what stunned them.

Gang-cheol smirked at the Shinseong defenders scrambling backward in panic.

"Min-su, turn your back!"

At the shout, Park Min-su reflexively put his back to the defender and dropped his hips.

Gang-cheol stabbed a hard pass into him and burst forward. Min-su, exactly as trained, never tried to control the ball. He simply absorbed the defender's pressure with his backside and laid it off with a soft touch for the onrushing Gang-cheol.

A classic one-two wall pass.

The defensive wall crumbled in an instant. One-on-one with the keeper.

The goalkeeper rushed out to close the angle. Gang-cheol cocked his right leg high as if to smash a thunderous shot.

The keeper flinched on instinct and squeezed his eyes shut.

Got him.

Gang-cheol's foot never struck the ball hard.

Instead he flicked the underside with a light toe-poke.

Tok.

The ball floated in a graceful arc over the diving keeper's fingertips.

A chip shot.

It hung in the air for a lazy moment before nestling into the far corner of the net.

Score: 2–0.

The match was decided before halftime even arrived.

The Shinseong bench looked like a funeral. The coach hurled his cap and roared; the players turned on each other, blaming and shouting.

Gang-cheol walked back to the halfway line without so much as a heavy breath. Behind him, dirt-caked Choi Do-jin glared and panted, but Gang-cheol never glanced back. He simply tossed one last line over his shoulder.

"Should've brought a bigger basket. You're gonna be busy picking up balls."

Halftime. The Haeseong "locker room"—really just the bench under a tree—felt like a festival.

Coach Kim Pan-seok was so worked up that spit flew as he pounded the tactics board.

"Yes! That's it exactly! Min-su holds, Cheol-su runs, Gang-cheol threads it! Perfect! I thought you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠brats were goofing off in training, but you were cooking this up?"

Gang-cheol took a swig of water and looked around at the kids.

Only a few days ago they had been drowning in defeatism—"We can't do it," "They're too strong." Now their eyes burned with the certainty that they could, even a touch ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of arrogance that whispered they were the stronger side.

Good. Momentum's ours. Time to drive the stake in.

Gang-cheol clapped his hands.

"Guys, it's not over. Two-nil is the most dangerous score, you know that? One goal against us and the whole mood flips."

"Aw, Captain, relax. Their heads are completely gone."

"Yeah. Earlier Choi Do-jin was cussing out his own defender and fighting."

Min-su snickered.

"Exactly why we stomp them harder. So they never even dare look us in the eye again. Second half we change tactics."

"Change?"

"Yeah. First half was counter-attacks. Second half we go for possession. Keep the ball, toy with them, drain their stamina. When I give the signal, everyone pushes the line up."

The second half was a massacre.

Mentally broken, Shinseong self-destructed. In their desperation they pushed forward recklessly, leaving oceans of space behind, and sprayed pass after pass into nowhere.

Gang-cheol, by contrast, was the conductor of an orchestra.

"Slow it down! No rush! Recycle!"

"Min-su, drop and receive!"

"Cheol-su, switch sides!"

He barely dribbled himself. He simply stood near the center circle, received, distributed, received again, switched the point of attack.

The most efficient soccer an eleven-year-old body could produce.

He didn't run much, yet every ball still found its way through him.

Twentieth minute of the second half.

Shinseong legs began to turn to jelly. Gang-cheol was never going to miss that moment.

"Now. Line up!"

At his signal the entire Haeseong side surged forward like a wave.

Gang-cheol—Min-su—Cheol-su—even the wing-backs joined the rolling assault.

The ball never stopped, flowing like water until it rolled once more to Gang-cheol's feet.

Dead center of the penalty box. Unmarked.

He could have shot. He didn't.

Instead he laid it off lightly to the fourth-grade substitute who had huffed and puffed alongside him—Yeong-sik.

"Yeong-sik, finish it."

"Huh? Oh!"

Yeong-sik stuck a foot out in a daze, and the ball rolled gently into the net.

3–0.

A complete victory for Haeseong Elementary.

Peeeeeeep—!

The final whistle stretched long across the field.

To Shinseong it was a death sentence. To Haeseong it was the fanfare announcing a new era.

Gang-cheol clenched his fist tight.

A pleasant tingle ran through his body. With the unlocking of Precise Kick, the tiny muscles of his ankle and instep felt as if they were rearranging themselves. It was like mounting a high-precision scope onto the fresh, springy ankle of an eleven-year-old instead of the worn-out joint of his previous thirty-five-year-old self.

No more shanking the ball. Free kicks are worth aiming for now.

At that moment Coach Kim Pan-seok, who had been watching open-mouthed from the corner of the bench, strode over and practically lifted Gang-cheol off the ground in a bear hug.

"You little monster! Are you actually a genius? No—genius isn't even enough! How did you know every single move they were gonna make? You wearing fortune-teller pants or what?"

"C'mon, Coach. Basics. They were way too predictable. And the guys played great."

Gang-cheol played it cool and deflected the praise onto the team. From a distance Park Min-su and Kim Cheol-su came sprinting over with water bottles.

"Gang-cheol! We actually won! Three-nil! Three-nil!"

"Dude, did you see my goal? I think I can be the top scorer! Your passes were insane!"

Not a trace of the old defeatism remained on their faces.

Confidence. The taste of victory. And the iron conviction that we are strong.

That expression—not any system stat—was the real reward Gang-cheol had wanted to plant in them.

The pure joy of soccer he had lost in his previous life.

Not bad at all.

Gang-cheol grinned brightly amid the sweat-soaked kids.

But his eyes were already looking past the field, toward a bigger stage. Choi Do-jin and the rest were nothing more than tutorial mobs he had already cleared.

Neighborhood domination complete. Time for the city tournament.

Just then a black sedan glided silently through the far entrance of the grounds and stopped.

The heavily tinted window rolled down. Team Leader Choi Hyeon-seok, sunglasses on, raised a thumbs-up toward Gang-cheol. A satisfied smile curved his lips.

On the passenger seat beside him lay a thick manila envelope. Gang-cheol's eyesight locked onto the bold lettering printed across it.

Gang-cheol's heart hammered.

The real battlefield. The place where the monsters of the entire nation gathered.

And the stage where his name would once again be carved into the world.

Wait for me. Ma Gang-cheol is coming.

On an autumn day in 2013, the butterfly effect that began on a small elementary-school field finished its preparations to shake the entire Korean soccer world.