🎉 Full-Time Whistle
The final whistle blew.
Blue Flame 3 – 1 Leon Marshall.
Their bench erupted first, then the players. Jin-Woo jumped high, both fists in the air. The rest of the team swarmed each other, grinning, cheering, shouting names. For many, it was the biggest stage they'd ever played on—and they had won.
Most of the boys ran straight to the stands, to waving parents and shouting siblings. Some hugged their dads. Others held up their hands like champions, already dreaming of headlines.
Min Son stood a few steps behind them all.
He looked around, scanning the crowd—still no sign of his mother. No familiar face. No smile just for him. The stands were filled with proud families, and none of them were his.
He walked slowly toward the edge of the seating section, finding a place near the lower row, quietly sitting on the concrete step. He was drenched in sweat, his chest still rising and falling from the last sprint, but his mind was calm. Reflecting.
Then he noticed it.
Fathers.
Several of them, scattered through the seats—not cheering, not clapping—just watching him. Whispering something to their sons. Pointing. Nodding.
Their eyes weren't loud with praise. They were quiet with respect.
Like they'd just seen something.
---
🏆 The Man of the Match
A small ceremony unfolded at the edge of the pitch. The announcer's voice crackled through the speakers.
> "Man of the Match… Number 9… Jin-Woo!"
The crowd roared.
Jin-Woo jogged forward, his smirk proud but controlled. He accepted the medal with one hand, raising it briefly to the crowd.
He wasn't arrogant—but he knew what this meant.
Another step.
Closer to the pros.
Closer to being someone.
The coach clapped behind him, but didn't say much. He didn't need to.
Everyone already knew: Jin-Woo was a striker with fire.
Deadly runs. Smart positioning.
A future, if he stayed focused.
Min Son watched it all with a small smile.
---
🎥 The Next Lesson
As the players gathered near the touchline again, expecting to leave, the coach raised his hand.
> "Nobody goes home yet," he said firmly. "Sit down. Over there. Now."
The boys obeyed, sweaty and tired but too respectful to complain. They found seats along the edge of the field, just as the next match began warming up.
The coach pointed to the other end of the stadium where a new team was lining up in sharp black-and-white kits.
> "That's Seoul FC."
Some of the boys straightened up right away. Others widened their eyes.
> "You're gonna face them if we qualify. So you better watch carefully."
Min Son leaned forward slightly, already alert.
He scanned the players. They looked calm. Sharp. Clinical in their warmups. Like they'd done this a hundred times already.
From the corner of his eye, he saw one boy tying his boots while chatting with a coach. Number 10.
Ji-Ho.
The prodigy.
> "This is why I came," Min Son thought.
"To face players like him. To become players like him."
He didn't know what the next game would show.
But he was ready to watch.
And learn.
🏟️ The Shift in the Air
As Seoul FC stepped onto the field for warmups, something subtle—but powerful—started to shift.
At first, it was just a few more footsteps echoing up the stairs. Then murmurs. Then more chairs folding down. Then crowds—waves of parents, students, fans, even men in suits with sunglasses and clipboards. Foreigners. Europeans. Scouts.
The stadium, which had felt half-full during Blue Flame's match, now brimmed to the edge.
> "It's like the whole city knew when Seoul FC was playing…"
Kids pressed against the railings. Adults craned their necks. Even the referees straightened their backs.
Everyone could feel it:
These weren't just kids.
These were the elites.
The ones South Korea would pin its footballing hopes on.
---
⚙️ The Pro System
Seoul FC didn't just warm up — they operated. Their passes clicked like machinery. Their formations shifted in sync. Their drills looked like match footage.
And at the center of it all:
Jin-Ho.
Number 10.
Hair damp, long and golden in color. Eyes sharp. Calm like a boy who'd done this since the cradle.
When the whistle blew, the match wasn't a battle.
It was a masterclass.
Their coach didn't shout much. He barely needed to. His players flowed in perfect rhythm, executing tactics with the kind of understanding you'd expect from seasoned professionals.
Quick one-twos. Overlapping runs. Diagonal balls that cut defenses in half.
It was 1-0 in ten minutes.
2-0 before the half.
---
🌪 Jin-Ho — The Eye of the Storm
Jin-Ho was magnetic.
He didn't just play with the ball—he commanded it.
Close control so tight the defenders might as well have been chasing ghosts. Quick shifts of the hips that made opponents bite air. Balance that let him take shoulder-to-shoulder hits without flinching. And when he struck?
Deadly.
From the edge of the box.
From impossible angles.
One goal flew in off the post like a guided missile. The other? A feint past two defenders and a low, curling finish that froze the keeper.
He added an assist for good measure — a no-look through pass that left the crowd gasping.
---
🗣 The Crowd Reacts
Gasps.
Shouts.
Standing ovations.
> "Is that really a U-10 player!?"
"No way that boy's normal…"
"He's different. Special."
The scouts scribbled notes. Whispered in each other's ears.
A father muttered to his son, "That's the kid they said might go to Europe this year."
Junho stared with wide eyes.
Min Son didn't blink once.
> "So that's Jin-Ho…"
He didn't feel fear.
He felt fire.
---
📣 The Statement
The match ended 4–0.
Jin-Ho 2 goals, one assist
Seoul FC didn't celebrate wildly.
They just shook hands, bowed, and walked off like they'd done what was expected.
But the message was clear:
This was the level.
This was the future.
And at the center of it —
the boy everyone was already calling Korea's Next Star:
Jin-Ho.