As the sun dipped low, casting golden light over the worn-out pitch, Coach Park brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp whistle.
"Alright, that's it for today!" he called, voice cutting through the hum of tired breaths and fading laughter. "Head home. Get some rest. Tomorrow, there's a mock match among yourselves."
The boys began to gather their things, sweat clinging to their skin, jerseys damp with effort.
Coach Park paused, looking out at them. "And don't forget… the match in three days—that's the one that matters. It's your best shot at getting scouted. Your best shot at being seen."
His gaze swept across their faces, young and hungry. "If you ever want to surpass your idols… this is where it starts."
He let that hang in the air a moment.
Then, almost casually, he asked, "Speaking of which… who are your idols?"
The boys lit up.
"Messi!"
"Ronaldo!"
"Mbappé!"
"Son Heung-min!"
"Lamine Yamal!"
"Bellingham!"
"Park Ji-sung!"
"Sergio Ramos!"
They shouted over each other, voices high and urgent, like their heroes might hear them if they yelled loud enough. Most threw out names they'd never actually seen play—only heard of in highlight reels, whispered stories, or childhood posters.
But one voice cut through them all—quieter, lower, yet it froze the moment.
"Ronaldo… El Fenómeno," said Jin-Woo.
The coach turned sharply.
Some of the boys paused, blinking. A few looked confused.
Coach Park stared at Jin-Woo. "Where did you hear that name?"
Jin-Woo kept his expression blank. "My father," he replied. "He said I have to be as good as that legend."
The coach's face softened a little. "R9… The Phenomenon. The perfect striker. The original force of nature. That man… he was football before you knew what football was."
He sighed, folding his arms. "But you don't have to idolize someone just because you were told to. Especially not someone you've never seen play. You can't connect to a ghost."
Jin-Woo said nothing. But in his mind, the bitterness simmered.
Of course. My father again. Always forcing me to idolize your GOAT. R9 this, R9 that. I've never even watched a full game of his. Who cares? I don't. My idol is Mbappé.
Not some player from a decade I wasn't even born in.
The moment passed. Coach Park gave a final nod.
"Dismissed."
The boys scattered, still buzzing with leftover energy and their own names ringing in their heads. But Jin-Woo lingered a moment longer, watching the shadows stretch across the field.
He didn't say a word.
💪Iron Discipline
Everyone had left, their shouts and footsteps fading into the distance. But Min Son remained on the pitch, beads of sweat dripping from his brows as he tried again and again to perfect his "Blitz Curl." Each attempt seemed harder than the last—like the move was evolving with every failed repetition.
Jin-Woo stepped through the academy gate. Like a few of the more privileged kids, a luxury black sedan was already waiting out front. The car's polish caught the sun like a mirror. A man in a black suit stepped forward, opened the back door, and bowed with trained precision.
Jin-Woo barely acknowledged him.
---
Home was another world entirely. A sleek marble floor welcomed him, cool under his feet. Tall glass walls let in the golden dusk light that shimmered against imported sculptures and minimalist high-tech furniture. His father's wealth showed in everything—from the imported wine resting untouched in a cabinet, to the state-of-the-art holographic fitness room he walked past.
This was affluence. Controlled, calculated affluence.
He stepped into the living room and gave a short bow. His father was on the sofa, still in his training gear, one arm resting over the edge with the posture of a man who'd never taken orders in his life. Jin-Woo could already tell something was off.
"WHO ATE THE FRIED FISH IN THE FRIDGE?" his father's voice thundered like a gunshot.
Jin-Woo froze. He opened his mouth, already in defense.
"I only tasted a little—"
SLAP. The sting came fast, the ring in his ear familiar.
"What did I tell you about fried food? Sugary food?" his father barked. "You think you'll become the greatest striker in the world by eating like a street dog?"
Jin-Woo clenched his fists. He knew better than to talk back—but something about tonight made it impossible to hold his tongue.
"I—"
"You think R9 became great by eating fried fish?" his father snapped. "You think I pay for nutritionists and personal coaches so you can be outclassed by your Number 10 at training?"
That stung. Jin-Woo's eyes narrowed just a little.
"Oh? You're glaring at me now?" his father snarled. "Stubborn, just like your mother."
He stood up.
"You have to be better than everyone. Fast, strong, clinical. Left foot, right foot, headers, reflexes. All of it! You inherited my athletic frame. Tall and Strong. But your brain?" He sneered. "That, you got from your mama."
Jin-Woo broke. "You didn't even watch my last match. I scored three goals—three!"
"So what?" his father snapped, voice like cold iron. "That's in the past. You should be starving for more."
Tears welled in Jin-Woo's eyes.
"That boy you told me to surpass," he said hoarsely, "He's a genius. I've trained my left foot for years. For him it's natural. He's just... good at everything. He can write with both hands. He doesn't even look. He knows where you are. It's like he has a stopwatch in his head—"
CRACK. Another slap.
"Do you think Cristiano Ronaldo sat and cried because Messi had talent?" his father yelled. "No. He worked! He trained to surpass him! You fool."
Jin-Woo sobbed silently now.
"You're not sleeping tonight," his father growled. "Downstairs. Two hundred targets. Minimum seventy-five percent shot power. Get to it."
---
Jin-Woo descended into the underground training facility—his prison. The air inside was colder, sterile, lit by glowing blue LED grids that lined the walls. The floor was turf but padded beneath, engineered to simulate match conditions.
In the center of the hall was a high-speed ball launcher, a digital scoreboard, and an AI-controlled set of glowing red targets that blinked on and off every fifteen seconds. Some were mounted high on the wall, some low, and all of them required laser focus. The AI refused to count a shot unless it surpassed a pre-set power level.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand.
I hate this. But I have to be better.
He stepped up to the ball. Fired.
Miss.
Again. And again. BAM. BAM. BAM.
Sweat poured down his temple, staining his shirt. His thighs burned. His ankles trembled slightly after each shot. But his eyes stayed locked. Not once did he look at the timer. He wasn't doing this for praise anymore.
He was used to this. The loneliness. The pain. The impossible standards.
By 3:12 a.m., Jin-Woo had hit the last target. The AI blinked a dull green. Approved.
He limped upstairs, numb and hollow. His mother had left a small bowl of warm porridge and grilled vegetables on the kitchen counter, covered with foil.
He sat, ate in silence, then went to bed—no dreams, just fatigue.