14 — The First Match III (Conclusion)

There was an uneasy look on most spectating parents' faces. They had expected a close game. They had come to watch their kids put in their best efforts. Instead, they were watching a massacre. A slaughter. An absolute embarrassment of their children. There was a supportive cheer after that ridiculous first goal—after all, the kids were giving it their all.

But then the second one hit. And the third. And the fourth.

That's when the murmurs started, the looks turned sour, and the cheers became awkward clapping.

Because, at this point, it was no longer about their kids doing their best. It was about a single child doing the best. It was about the other kids being left in the dust, being outclassed and outmatched by a kid who didn't seem to belong on the same pitch. And that, in their eyes, was unfair.

A seven year old child, scoring six goals, dribbling around the other team like they weren't even moving, and making it seem effortless, wasn't just unfair.

It was impossible.

So, as the parents watched, as the assistants' expressions went from surprise to horror, the kids on the opposing team began to visibly despair. The coach for the opposing team looked on, his face a mask of resignation. He had no more tactics to offer, no more pep talks to give. He was helpless, standing on the sidelines of a game that was beyond him.

And the score kept rising. Not a steady rise, but a rapid, merciless accumulation.

I didn’t even have the ball at my feet for the seventh. Hyunwoo was on the wing and I was in the center. He put in a good cross. I flicked it on.

Another kid, Kim Jee, was there at the back post. He nodded it in. Not the cleanest, but it went in. Kim was jumping around, yelling his head off, like he’d scored in a cup final.

And the game went on.

The eighth goal was a penalty.

I didn't take it. Kim Jee did. He wanted a second.

I didn't mind. The ball rolled into the net. I didn't even look at the net. My gaze was on that kid—the one who'd dared to speak of Mia like she was some kind of trophy to win.

“......”

The ninth goal was the culmination of their despair. The kickoff was a formality. The ball was passed back, then sideways, with no intent, no direction.

It was as if they were merely going through the motions.

The ball eventually found its way back to their central defender, a slightly taller boy who, until now, had at least tried to maintain some semblance of order. He looked up, saw me casually drifting into his zone, and his shoulders slumped.

He attempted a long, hopeful clearance, more a hoof than a pass, aimed vaguely downfield.

It was easily intercepted by one of our midfielders, who quickly laid it off to me just inside their half. The entire opposing team seemed to freeze. Their defenders backed off, creating a vast chasm of space in front of me. They weren't even trying to close me down anymore. They seemingly opted to create some sort of wall around the goalpost.

As if that would stop me.

I didn’t even need to use any fancy dribbling. I took a few touches, advancing unchallenged towards their penalty area. The hair gel kid, who had drifted into a more central defensive position, made a token effort to step towards me, but there was no conviction in his movement.

His shorts were matted with grass and earth, a result of one too many unsuccessful slides.

I simply glided past him with a slight change of pace. Their goalkeeper, a picture of misery, stood rooted to his line. He looked small, defeated, and utterly alone. I didn’t blast it. I didn’t chip it. I just rolled the ball with precision into the bottom corner, an almost dismissive finish.

There were no cheers from our side this time. Just a heavy, profound silence from the stands, broken only by the distinct sound of a child on the opposing team starting to sob openly, his small body shaking.

Even Hyunwoo and my other teammates offered no celebration, just turned and walked back towards the center circle.

By the end of the first half, it was 10-0. Ten fucking nil. The other team hadn't even managed a shot on target. They’d given up trying. The kids were in tears. Some were angry. Some were just staring blankly, their spirit extinguished.

The piece of shit prince, who’d tried to taunt me about Mia, was now sitting on the grass near his own goal, head in his hands, his perfectly gelled hair dishevelled. Good.

The halftime whistle shrilled, a mercy for the vanquished.

Coach Park met us as we trooped off, his face unreadable beneath the brim of his cap. He didn't offer praise, nor criticism. He simply watched, his gaze lingering on the desolate figures of the opposing team being led away by their beleaguered coach. The murmurs from the handful of parents had died down, replaced by an uncomfortable, heavy silence.

Even Mia's usual exuberance was tempered; she was watching, a complex expression on her face.

As our team gathered around the water cooler, an almost reverent quiet enveloped me. My teammates, still buzzing from the one-sided demolition, kept stealing glances at me, a mixture of awe and something akin to fear in their eyes.

Perhaps, I overdid it a little. I had to admit it—but just because I could freely admit it, didn’t mean I was about to apologize for the chasm in skill, nor that they hadn't thoroughly earned every digit on that scoreboard.

Coach Park finally walked over, his footsteps measured on the artificial turf. He motioned for me to step aside with him, away from the others.

xXx

Coach Park’s POV:

"Jae-il…" He began, his voice low. "You've shown us more than enough today." His eyes, when they met Jae-il's, were serious. "The score… it speaks for itself."

Jae-il nodded, his expression calm. He knew what was coming. It was the logical, the only sensible, course of action.

"For the second half." Coach Park continued, his gaze drifting towards the other team's dejected huddle. "I'm going to take you off." He paused, letting the words settle. "It's not a punishment, son. Far from it. You’ve been exceptional."

He then elaborated, his points sharp and clear. "First, out of respect. These are children, Jae-il. There's a line between competition and humiliation. We crossed it about seven goals ago. Continuing like this serves no one, especially not them. Their confidence is shattered."

Jae-il’s gaze followed Park's. He saw the slumped shoulders, the tear-streaked faces. He’d been on the giving end of such defeats many times, but rarely against opponents so utterly outmatched from the first whistle.

"Second." Park went on, "Is for your own development. This… this isn't a challenge for you. Playing at this level, against this opposition, you risk developing habits that won't serve you when you face real competition. You need to be pushed, to adapt, to solve problems. Today, there were no problems for you to solve."

Jae-il understood that perfectly. The game had become a glorified training drill against moving cones.

"And third." Coach Park concluded, "I need to see the others. With you on the pitch, the game revolves around you. It's difficult to truly assess how the rest of the team functions, how they react under pressure, or how they create opportunities without your direct intervention. This is a youth academy; my job is to develop all of them, not just witness a one-man show, however brilliant."

He looked at Jae-il, awaiting a reaction.

Jae-il met his coach’s gaze, a flicker of that unnerving maturity in his purple eyes. "I understand, Coach. Completely." There was no disappointment in his voice, no petulance. Just a calm acceptance of an undeniable truth. He’d made his statement. The message had been delivered, loud and clear. "It's the right call."

A small, almost imperceptible sigh of relief escaped Coach Park. He’d half-expected some resistance, some youthful ego, but Cha Jae-il was, as always, an enigma. He clapped a hand on the boy's small shoulder. "Good. Get some rest. You've earned it."

As Jae-il walked towards the bench, the parents from the opposing team watched him. Their expressions were no longer hostile, but filled with a weary, almost grudging respect, and an undeniable sense of relief.

Their children wouldn't have to endure another twenty minutes of being systematically dismantled by the small boy with the number 9.

The boy who, in his short years, played football like a man who'd spent a lifetime on the pitch. A man who'd seen, experienced, and conquered it all, yet somehow found himself in a child's body, playing against children who were not even worthy of being called beginners.

A boy who was not a boy. A child who was not a child. An entity who defied all logical explanation, a living contradiction that the world was not yet ready to understand or explain.