The Seoul air in July 2021 was a humid beast, heavy with the scent of grilled squid from street vendors and the distant pulse of K-pop drifting from Itaewon. Kim Min-jae, now 14, stood on the edge of the Han River Stadium's emerald pitch, a far cry from the patchy dirt of the 2020 academy tryout that had marked his rebirth. The National Youth Football Tournament was a crucible 32 teams, Korea's best under-15 talents, and, most crucially, scouts from Europe's elite academies, including Barcelona's La Masia, rumored to be in the stands. Min-jae's pulse thrummed, his 2042 memories sharp: in his first life, this tournament had been his breakout, a fleeting spotlight before the 2024 injury crushed him. Now, armed with the neutral-AI Football System and a 35-year-old mind, he'd seize this chance to rewrite his destiny, one pass at a time.
The system's HUD flickered in his vision, its text cold and mechanical: "Quest: Score or assist in the opening match. Reward: +10 Vision, Skill Unlock (Phantom Volley). Penalty: -15 Confidence." Min-jae's lips twitched. Phantom Volley a curling strike he'd seen in De Bruyne's post-2025 retirement highlights, a weapon to shift games. His stats glowed: "Stamina: 65/100. Physicality: 48/100. Vision: 75/100. Shooting: 50/100." A year of grueling training since the 2020 tryout had strengthened his teenage frame, but it still trailed his mind, honed by decades of analyzing Bellingham's control, Pedri's elegance, Yamal's flair, Haaland's power, Musiala's dribbles, and Lucas Silva's audacity. He gripped his worn football, its leather a talisman. La Masia was the goal, but the 2024 tackle loomed like a storm cloud.
The stadium buzzed, fans waving banners, vendors hawking kimbap and iced sikhye. Seoul United's U-15 squad huddled under Coach Han's scowl, his voice gravelly. "This is your shot, boys. Scouts are watching don't choke." His eyes lingered on Choi Tae-woo, the Haaland-like striker who'd overshadowed Min-jae at the 2020 tryout. Now 14, Tae-woo was a tower of muscle, his smirk sharper than ever. "Kim, don't drag me down," he sneered, juggling a ball with arrogant ease. "My goals need your passes, water carrier." Min-jae's jaw tightened, 2042's bitterness surging watching Tae-woo's Bayern Munich highlights while his own dreams died. "Score your own goals, Tae-woo," he retorted, voice steady. "I'm here to shine."
A familiar voice cut through. "Already bickering, Min-jae?" Park Soo-jin, now 15, stood at the sideline, her Canon swinging from her neck, her short bob catching the sunlight. Her teasing grin was the same as last year, but her eyes held a keener edge, her ambition to become a sports journalist burning brighter. In his first life, Min-jae had overlooked her at this tournament, too consumed by ego. Now, her presence was a spark, her camera a mirror reflecting his reborn fire. "Don't flop, maestro," she called, snapping a shot, her voice rising above the crowd. "I'd hate to waste a headline on 'Local Kid Fumbles.'" Her laugh was light, but her gaze lingered, piercing, as if she sensed the 2042 weight in his eyes.
Min-jae's cheeks flushed, his 35-year-old wit stumbling in his teenage body. "Keep your lens ready, Soo-jin," he said, forcing confidence. "I'm stealing the show." Her smirk softened, curiosity flickering. She was dangerous her intuition too sharp, her photos capturing more than moments. His heart thudded, a tangle of teenage nerves and adult longing. In 2042, he'd been alone; now, Soo-jin's spark was a tether he couldn't shake.
The whistle blew, and the opening match against Busan Hawks erupted. The crowd roared, banners fluttering, scouts scribbling. Min-jae anchored the midfield, his 2042 mind dissecting the pitch: Busan's defense was compact, their wingers pacy, but their midfield was sloppy a gap he could exploit, like Bellingham in a 4-3-3. Tae-woo demanded the ball, charging forward, but Min-jae ignored him, spotting Jae-ho's run on the left. His pass was sharp, slicing through two defenders, but Jae-ho's shot sailed wide. The system pinged: "Passing: 65 → 67. Precision +2. Stay focused." Min-jae gritted his teeth. Every move had to count scouts were watching.
A new figure emerged Busan's number 10, Yamada Haruto, a 14-year-old Japanese prodigy with a flair that echoed Musiala's. His black hair was tied back, his movements fluid yet precise, his eyes cold and calculating. Min-jae's 2042 memories stirred: Haruto had risen to stardom in Europe, a playmaker whose shadow loomed large. Was he the one behind the 2024 tackle? The thought burned, but Min-jae pushed it down. Haruto dribbled past Jae-ho, his pass sparking a Busan counter that forced a diving save from Seoul's keeper. The crowd gasped, Soo-jin's camera clicking. Haruto's eyes met Min-jae's, a smirk flickering. "Not bad, Seoul," he called, his accented Korean sharp. "Let's dance."
The system flashed: "Optional Quest: Outplay Haruto in a 1v1 duel. Reward: +5 Agility. Penalty: -10 Confidence." Min-jae's blood surged. Haruto was a test, a rival to outshine before facing Mateo Alvarez in La Masia or the 2025 stars Bellingham, Yamal, Haaland, Musiala, and Lucas Silva. He intercepted Haruto's next pass, sliding through the grass, dirt smearing his shins. The crowd roared, Soo-jin's lens tracking him. "Nice one, maestro!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. Min-jae's heart skipped, her nickname fueling his fire.
The match seesawed, Seoul United pressing hard. Tae-woo bullied Busan's center-back, his shot rattling the crossbar. Coach Han bellowed approval, but Min-jae saw the flaw Tae-woo's greed left the midfield exposed. Haruto pounced, weaving through Seoul's lines, his pass setting up a winger who nearly scored. Min-jae's mind raced, replaying Pedri's calm, De Bruyne's retired vision. He dropped deep, stealing another of Haruto's passes, his body straining but his 2042 instincts razor-sharp.
With minutes left and the score 0-0, Min-jae saw his moment. Busan's defense pushed up, leaving a gap. He surged forward, Haruto lunging to block him. Min-jae feinted right, spun left, his teenage legs syncing with his 2042 brain. The system chimed: "Agility: 50 → 52. Quest progressing." The crowd roared as he broke free, spotting Tae-woo's run greedy but perfectly placed. Min-jae loathed feeding his rival, but victory was paramount. He whipped a curling pass, echoing De Bruyne's retired brilliance, landing it at Tae-woo's feet. The striker smashed it home, the net rippling as the stadium erupted.
Tae-woo soaked in the cheers, his fist raised, but his glare at Min-jae was venomous, as if the assist stole his glory. Soo-jin's camera caught it all, her eyes meeting Min-jae's with a nod that sent his heart racing. The system chimed: "Quest Complete. Vision: 75 → 85. Skill Unlocked: Phantom Volley. Confidence: +5." Energy surged through him, his body lighter, his mind sharper. Phantom Volley a weapon to rival the greats felt like a key to his maestro destiny.
The match ended 1-0, Seoul United advancing. Coach Han clapped Min-jae's shoulder, grumbling, "Good pass, Kim. Don't let Tae-woo hog the spotlight." Min-jae nodded, his eyes on the stands, where a scout in a Barcelona jacket scribbled furiously. La Masia was watching. His 2042 memories flashed: Mateo Alvarez, a physical Spanish midfielder, awaited in Spain. Bellingham, Yamal, Haaland, Musiala, and Lucas Silva loomed in 2025, with De Bruyne's retired legacy a towering benchmark.
Soo-jin approached, her camera swinging, her grin teasing but warm. "Nice assist, maestro," she said, flipping her screen to show the pass, the ball's arc frozen in time. "Headline material: 'Seoul Prodigy Steals Show.' Don't let it go to your head." Her laugh was light, but her eyes searched his, that intuition cutting deep. "You play like you've seen the future, Min-jae. What's your secret?" Her question stung, his 2042 truth death, regret, the system teetering on exposure. He forced a grin, teenage awkwardness clashing with adult caution. "Just chasing a dream, Soo-jin. You'll see."
She tilted her head, unconvinced but intrigued, her camera clicking his expression. "I'll hold you to that, maestro," she said, the nickname sparking his resolve. Haruto strode over, his demeanor cool but charged. "Good move, Kim," he said, his accented voice sharp. "But this tournament's mine. Final's coming." His smile was a challenge, a hint of the 2024 tackle's shadow. Tae-woo shoved past, his bulk looming. "One assist doesn't make you a star, Kim," he growled. "Next game, I bury you." The system pinged: "Optional Quest: Outscore Tae-woo in the next match. Reward: +10 Shooting. Penalty: -10 Confidence."
As the crowd thinned, Min-jae lingered, the Han River's shimmer reflecting his fire. Soo-jin's silhouette vanished into the throng, her maestro echoing. The system glowed: "New Quest: Earn La Masia scout's attention by tournament's end. Reward: +15 Vision, +10 Mentality. Penalty: -20 Confidence." A glitch flickered: "Timeline stability: 90%. Avoid excessive deviation." The warning chilled him, but the pitch was his battlefield. La Masia was next, then dodging 2024's injury, and facing 2025's stars Bellingham's control, Yamal's flair, Haaland's power, Musiala's dribbles, Lucas Silva's audacity, De Bruyne's retired legacy. With Soo-jin's spark and the system's edge, Min-jae would rewrite football's destiny as the eternal maestro.