The rain lashed Seoul's Gangnam district, neon signs bleeding electric hues into the wet asphalt. Kim Min-jae, 35, sat hunched in a dive bar, a soju bottle trembling in his calloused grip. It was 2042, and his life was a graveyard of shattered dreams. Born in 2007, he'd once been a football prodigy, tipped to eclipse Park Ji-sung and Son Heung-min, his vision carving defenses like a scalpel, his long-range shots electrifying Seoul's street pitches. But at 17, in a 2024 youth final, a brutal tackle maybe Yamada Haruto's, maybe sabotage snapped his leg, leaving a compound fracture and a lifetime of regret. Now, a salaryman fired that morning for a boss's nephew, he drowned his failures in bitter liquor, the neon glow mocking his faded spark.
The bar's TV flickered with a 2042 Champions League rerun. Jue Bellingam, now 39, dictated play with surgical passes, his veteran presence a haunting reminder of midfield mastery. Pidri, aged 40, moved with timeless elegance, threading balls through impossible gaps. Lmine jamal, 35 like Min-jae, dazzled with flair, his wing play a blur of audacity that had defined a generation. Min-jae's heart twisted. He'd dreamed of matching them, of rivaling legends like Kevin De Brune, whose pinpoint assists immortalized in reruns after his post-2025 retirement had inspired Min-jae's youth, or Jamal Musiala, whose silky dribbles lingered in his memory. He'd even envied a fictional star from 2042 broadcasts Lucas Silva, a Brazilian winger whose flair burned bright. Instead, Min-jae was a nobody, his knee a knot of scar tissue, his ambition buried under Seoul's electric sky.
He drained the soju, the world tilting. Another shot, then another, each burning less than the ache of failure. He stumbled into the rain, Gangnam's pulse a cruel mirror to his own. The traffic light glowed red, but his blurred eyes missed it. Tires screeched. A horn roared. Pain exploded then darkness swallowed him whole.
Min-jae's eyes snapped open, lungs heaving like he'd sprinted a marathon. The air carried the faint scent of mildew and cheap detergent, a memory etched into his soul. A single bulb cast a dim glow over his childhood bedroom, walls plastered with Park Ji-sung posters, 2NE1 and Big Bang stickers fading at the edges relics of 2020. His hands, small and unscarred, trembled as he touched his face. No stubble, no wrinkles just the smooth skin of a 13-year-old. His knee, once a mangled ruin, flexed without pain. A worn football rested at his bed's foot, scuffed from countless street games in Seoul's alleys.
"No way," he whispered, voice cracking with youth. His heart raced, 2042's crash vivid rain, headlights, the end. Born in 2007, he was 13 again, in 2020. His 35-year-old mind churned with memories: Bellingham's midfield control, Pedri's elegance, Yamal's explosive runs, Haaland's power, Musiala's flair, De Bruyne's retired legacy, Lucas Silva's audacity. The 2024 tackle that broke him loomed like a specter. This was real the creak of his old bed, the hum of Seoul's morning traffic, the weight of a second chance to rewrite football's destiny.
A sharp ping cut through, like a computer booting up. A translucent HUD materialized in his vision, text glowing in a neutral, mechanical tone:
"System Activated. User: Kim Min-jae. Objective: Rewrite Football's Destiny. Quest: Run 5km today. Reward: +5 Stamina. Penalty: -5 Confidence."
Min-jae blinked, the interface unwavering. No voice, just cold, precise text a Football System, like a game guiding his fate. "What are you?" he muttered, but no answer came. His 2042 knowledge flooded back: formations, set pieces, the moves of stars he'd face in 2025 and beyond Bellingham, Pedri, Yamal, Haaland, Musiala. This system was his lifeline, a chance to dodge the 2024 injury, reach Barcelona's La Masia, and become the eternal maestro he was meant to be.
His mother's voice pierced the haze. "Min-jae! Breakfast! You'll be late for academy tryouts!" The words hit like a thunderbolt. The local football academy his first step in the original timeline, where he'd shone briefly before Choi Tae-woo's shadow and the 2024 injury buried him. Now, with 35 years of insight and this mysterious system, he could forge a new path Seoul, La Masia, a World Cup for South Korea.
He pulled on a faded academy jersey, too tight on his scrawny frame. His 2042 mind buzzed with strategies: exploit gaps like De Bruyne's retired brilliance, control tempo like Bellingam, create like Pidri. But his 13-year-old body? Weak, untrained, a shadow of the midfielder he'd been. The system flashed: "Stamina: 60/100. Physicality: 45/100. Vision: 70/100. Begin training." He grabbed his football, its leather cool against his palms, determination igniting. He'd died in 2042, lost everything his career, his passion, his life. Not again.
The Seoul academy pitch was a patchwork of dirt and grass, wedged between towering apartments and a tteokbokki stall's spicy aroma. Summer heat pressed down, sweat beading on Min-jae's brow as he stood among a gaggle of 13-year-olds, their chatter a mix of bravado and nerves. His adult mind scanned the scene like a tactician: uneven turf favored short passes, the coach gruff Coach Han prioritized physicality, and Choi Tae-woo loomed like a predator, his presence a bitter echo of 2042's failures.
Tae-woo, even at 13, was a beast tall, broad, with a striker's swagger reminiscent of Haaland. In 2042, Min-jae had watched him dominate for Bayern Munich, his goals replayed on bar TVs while Min-jae nursed soju and regrets. Now, Tae-woo strutted onto the pitch, kicking up dust, his smirk sharp as a blade. "Midfielders are water carriers, Kim," he taunted, voice carrying over the crowd. "Leave the goals to me. You'll be passing to my feet soon enough."
Min-jae's jaw tightened, 2042's failures fueling his fire. Tae-woo's arrogance had haunted him, outshining him in youth leagues until the 2024 injury sealed his fate. Not this time. "Keep talking, Tae-woo," he said, voice steady despite his racing pulse. "We'll see who's carrying who." The system pinged, its text stark: "Quest: Assist a goal in today's scrimmage. Reward: +5 Vision. Penalty: -10 Confidence."
From the sidelines, a girl with a camera caught his eye. Park Soo-jin, 14, her short bob swaying as she adjusted her Canon, a badge of defiance in a male-dominated crowd. In his first life, she'd been a fleeting presence, her photos of youth matches barely registering in his haze of ambition. Now, her sharp gaze locked onto him, lips curling in a teasing smirk that sent his teenage heart skittering. "Don't choke, Min-jae," she called, snapping a shot, her voice cutting through the chatter. "I'd hate to waste film on a miss."
His 35-year-old mind tried to suppress the flush creeping up his neck, but his 13-year-old body betrayed him, cheeks warming. Soo-jin was bold, her confidence a beacon, her camera capturing moments others overlooked. She was dangerous, her intuition a blade cutting too close to his 2042 secrets. "Just watch, Soo-jin," he managed, earning a raised eyebrow. Her presence was a spark he hadn't expected, a tether to this new life.
The whistle blew, and the scrimmage erupted into chaos. Min-jae's legs felt heavy, his young body lagging behind his mind's commands. Tae-woo dominated, muscling past a defender named Min-soo to fire a shot wide, skimming the post with a dull thud. Coach Han clapped, shouting, "Good effort, Tae-woo! Keep pushing!" But Min-jae saw the flaw: Tae-woo's greed left gaps, his runs predictable to a 2042 tactician who'd studied Haaland's power and Yamal's explosive bursts.
Min-jae intercepted a loose ball, his instincts honed from years of barstool analysis Bellingam's positioning, Pidri's subtle shifts, Yaml's flair. A wiry defender lunged, but Min-jae feinted left, spun right, breaking free with a burst of speed that surprised even him. The crowd gasped, a murmur rippling through parents and scouts. Soo-jin's camera clicked, her lens tracking him like a hawk. The system flashed: "Vision: 70/100. Analyze play." Time slowed, the pitch a chessboard in his mind. Angles sharpened teammate Jae-ho's diagonal run, a gap between two defenders, the keeper's slight lean to his left.
His footwork was rusty, his teenage body unpolished, but his brain was decades ahead, replaying Pidri's elegance, Bellingam's control, De Brune's long-retired pinpoint crosses. He lofted a no-look pass, the ball arcing over the defense with a spin that kissed the humid air. It landed perfectly at Jae-ho's feet, who slotted it home with a clean strike. The crowd erupted, cheers echoing off the apartment blocks, drowning out the tteokbokki vendor's calls. Soo-jin's camera clicked furiously, her eyes wide with surprise, a flicker of admiration breaking her teasing facade. Tae-woo kicked the dirt, his smirk gone, replaced by a scowl that promised war.
The system chimed: "Quest Complete. Vision: 70 → 75. Confidence: +5." A rush of warmth flooded Min-jae, his teenage nerves steadying, his chest swelling with a fire he hadn't felt since his first life's youth. He caught Soo-jin's gaze, her nod subtle but approving, a spark in her eyes that made his heart thud harder than the goal. For the first time since 2042, he felt alive not just reborn, but destined to rewrite football's history as an eternal maestro.
The scrimmage stretched on, Min-jae weaving through the chaos with growing confidence. His body was weak, but his 2042 mind saw every play Jae-ho's runs, Tae-woo's predictable charges, Coach Han's bias for power over finesse. He threaded another pass, a sharp through ball that nearly set up a second goal, only for Jae-ho to scuff the shot. A scout in a black cap scribbled notes, his gaze lingering on Min-jae. The system flashed: "Shooting: 50/100. Passing: 65/100. Mentality: 40/100. Continue to impress." Min-jae's pulse quickened. In his first life, this tryout had been his peak, a fleeting moment before Tae-woo's shadow and the 2024 injury buried him. Now, the system's stats and his future knowledge shifted the game.
As the match ended 2-1, Min-jae's assist the decider, Coach Han pulled him aside, his scowl softening. "Kim, you've got eyes like Park Ji-sung, maybe even Pidri. Keep that up, you're going places." Min-jae nodded, but his mind raced. In 2021, a national tournament would draw La Masia scouts, the gateway to Barcelona's elite academy. In 2024, the injury that ended his first life loomed a tackle tied to a rival, maybe Haruto, maybe malice. Beyond that? Clashes with Bellingam's control, Yamal's flair, Haaland's power, Musila's dribbles, and Lucas Silva's audacity, all while chasing De Brune's retired legacy. With the system, he could outshine them all, forging a legacy as the eternal maestro.
Soo-jin approached, camera slung around her neck, sneakers crunching on the gravel. Her confidence cut through the dispersing crowd, boys casting wary glances at the girl who dared invade their turf. "Nice pass," she said, her tone teasing but warm, a glint in her eyes. "Thought you'd trip over your own ego first, Kim." Min-jae's 35-year-old wit stirred, but his teenage tongue fumbled, cheeks flushing under her gaze. "Uh, thanks," he managed. "Got a good shot of it?"
She smirked, flipping her camera to show the screen a freeze-frame of his pass, the ball mid-air, his focus intense. "Got you looking like a star," she said, voice softening. "Don't let it inflate your head, okay?" She paused, eyes narrowing, her tone shifting to something deeper. "You're… different, Min-jae. Like you've seen things kids our age haven't. What's your deal?" Her gaze pierced, searching, and his heart thudded. She couldn't know about 2042 his death, his regrets but her intuition was a blade, cutting too close to his truth.
Before he could answer, Tae-woo shoved past, shoulder-checking him hard enough to sting. "One lucky pass doesn't make you a hero, Kim," he growled, voice low and venomous. "Next match, I'll bury you. You'll be fetching my balls." Min-jae's fists clenched, 2042's failures watching Tae-woo's Bayern highlights while his own dreams died fueling his fire. The system pinged: "Optional Quest: Outscore Tae-woo in the next match. Reward: +10 Shooting. Penalty: -10 Confidence."
Soo-jin raised an eyebrow, unfazed by Tae-woo's bulk. "Ignore him," she said, her voice sharp but steady. "He's all talk, no brain. Focus on your game, Min-jae." She turned to leave, her camera swinging, but her words lingered a challenge, a comfort, a spark in the chaos of his reborn world. He watched her go, her silhouette framed by the tteokbokki stall's steam, and something stirred a feeling his 2042 self had buried under years of regret. Soo-jin saw him, not just the kid on the pitch, and that was both thrilling and terrifying.
Min-jae jogged home through Seoul's bustling streets, the system's HUD flickering: "Quest: Run 5km completed. Stamina: 60 → 65." His legs burned, but the stat boost felt like power surging through him, a promise of the strength he'd need for La Masia in 2021, the 2024 injury crisis, and the World Cup in 2026 or 2030. The city pulsed around him vendors hawking mandu, K-pop blasting from a shop, salarymen rushing past like shadows of his 2042 self. He dodged a cyclist, his young body catching up to his mind, each step a defiance of his past life's failure.
At home, his mother fussed over his muddy jersey, her voice sharp with worry. "Min-jae, football's fine, but what about your grades? You need a stable job, not dreams that break your legs!" Her words stung, echoing 2042's regrets, but his father, a quiet man who'd once played street football in Busan, slipped him a worn Park Ji-sung biography. His eyes were soft, hopeful. "You've got his fire, Min-jae. Don't let it die like I did." The words hit harder than in his first life, when he'd ignored them, only to crash in 2042.
In his room, Min-jae clutched his football, its leather cool against his palms. The system's text glowed: "New Quest: Impress the scout at the next tournament. Reward: +10 Vision, Skill Unlock. Penalty: -20 Confidence." His 2042 memories churned Bellingam's relentless control, Yaml's explosive runs, Haaland's towering headers, Musila's silky dribbles, Pidri's elegance, Lucas Silva's flair, De Brune's retired assists haunting his dreams. A glitch flickered: "Timeline stability: 92%. Avoid excessive deviation." The cryptic warning sent a chill down his spine. Was the system a 2042 tech remnant, a cosmic fluke, or something else?
Soo-jin's words echoed, her piercing gaze a challenge and a tether. Tae-woo's threat loomed, the first of many rivals Haruto in Japan, Mateo Alvarez in Barcelona, and the global stars awaiting in 2025. Min-jae's lips curled into a determined smile. He'd died in 2042, lost everything his career, his passion, his life. Now, at 13, with a system guiding him, a girl who saw too much, and a fire to rival the maestros, he'd rewrite football's destiny. La Masia beckoned in 2021. The 2024 injury would not break him. Bellingam, Yaml, Pidri, and beyond they were his targets. The pitch was calling, and Kim Min-jae was ready to answer, an eternal maestro rising to claim his legend.