> Seoul, South Korea – July 10, 2030
South River District Junior League Friendly
Blue Flame FC vs Jeonma Youth Club
(U-10 Match)
The sun was warm, but not scorching. A faint breeze rustled the trees behind the stands, where a few dozen parents and locals sat on low benches, sipping iced coffee and watching the players warm up. It was just another Saturday match — nothing official, nothing serious.
At least, not for most people.
On the sidelines, two coaches stood shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed, watching the kids jog in circles on the turf. They weren't friends — they barely liked each other — but in the tight world of youth football, rivalry was unavoidable.
Coach Park, tall and slightly round in the belly, wore dark sunglasses and a windbreaker even though it was too hot for it. He was the head of Blue Flame FC, one of the most respected junior academies in the district. He had that permanent smirk that made people wonder if he knew something you didn't.
Beside him stood Coach Sung, the head coach of Jeonma Youth Club. He was watching Blue Flame's players with careful eyes.
"You all have been talking about that boy all week," Sung said, finally breaking the silence. "The kid in jersey ten."
Park's smirk widened.
"You'll see for yourself today," he said smoothly. "They say talk is cheap, right? Good. Because I'm planning to make a fortune off this one."
Coach Sung snorted. "Heard of him a few times. Never seen him play. People throw the word 'genius' around too easily these days."
Park turned slightly, eyes scanning the far side of the field, where a small boy in a plain hoodie sat quietly on the bench, lacing up his boots. "Well," Park said, voice low and proud, "You're about to watch a future fortune walk."
Coach Sung folded his arms tighter. "How'd you even get your hands on a kid like that?"
Park glanced at him, and for the first time, didn't answer immediately.
He adjusted his sunglasses, watching the boy from a distance.
Then, with a chuckle, he said, "You know how it is. Only two kinds of kids get into Blue Flame FC."
Sung grunted. "Yeah. Rich kids and real talents."
"Exactly." Park looked down at the grass as if the memory was playing back in front of him. "This one… well, he didn't walk in with money. So he had to be the other kind."
---
📸 FLASHBACK: Two Parents and a Dream
Three Years ago, 2027 -
It was a rainy Thursday afternoon when Park first saw them — a man and a woman, standing nervously at the academy gate. The father looked like a delivery driver. The mother held a plastic folder to her chest, soaked from the rain. Their shoes were cheap. Their clothes were clean, but worn.
Park had already made up his mind before they spoke.
"Hello, sir," the man bowed deeply. "We were hoping to speak to someone about registering our son. He's seven."
Park leaned against the doorway, arms folded. "You're in the wrong place. This isn't just any academy. We're Blue Flame FC."
The woman stepped forward. "Yes, we know. But we heard you scout talents. Our son… he's good. Really good."
Park raised a brow. He'd heard it all before.
Everyone thinks their son is special.
"I believe you," he said dryly. "Just like every other parent that's walked through here."
She opened the soaked folder, revealing photos, handwritten certificates from local contests, and a USB stick taped to the paper.
"We don't have money. And we're not important people," the father said plainly. "But we believe he was born for this."
Park sighed and rubbed his temple. This again. "What's his name?"
"Lee Min Son."
The name meant nothing back then. Not yet.
Park tapped the folder lightly. "Come back at the end of the month. We'll be testing new kids then."
"But—" the woman began.
"No promises," Park said. "We only take two types. And you're clearly not the first."
Still, something in the father's eyes made Park pause as they turned to leave.
There was no arrogance there. No desperation either.
Just belief.
Pure belief.
---
(Flashback ends.)
---
Back on the field, Park nodded toward the boy finally pulling off his hoodie and stepping onto the pitch.
Coach Sung narrowed his eyes.
"That's him?"
Park smiled. "You tell me in twenty minutes"
The referee's whistle pierced the air, sharp and quick.
The match began.
From the first kick, Blue Flame FC surged forward — a wave of blue against a disciplined wall of red. Their jerseys shimmered under the sun: deep sapphire with silver accents down the side, the club's flame insignia embroidered just above the heart. Clean, confident, built like a team that knew how to play.
Across the pitch, Jeonma Youth Club wore a bold crimson, black trim on their sleeves, and a hawk symbol stitched into their chest. They were well-trained, serious, organized — the kind of team that could break your rhythm in five minutes if you weren't focused.
Blue Flame lined up in a 4-4-2 — old-school, but effective.
Two wide midfielders hugging the flanks.
Two forwards pressing the defense.
And just behind them, in that crucial pocket of space — the number 10.
Lee Min Son.
Coach Sung squinted across the field, watching him closely now.
That was the boy everyone whispered about.
He looked smaller than the rest. Thinner. His jersey hung a little loose around the shoulders, and his socks bunched up unevenly. No fancy hairstyle. No wristbands or flashy boots. Just plain white cleats and calm eyes that scanned the pitch like he was studying a chessboard.
The game moved quickly, the ball darting from flank to flank, Blue Flame testing Jeonma's shape, looking for cracks. Kids were sprinting, calling for passes, pressing high with all the frantic energy their lungs could afford.
But Min Son?
He wasn't sprinting.
He wasn't even jogging.
He was walking.
Slow. Casual. Almost lazy.
Coach Sung frowned. "What's he doing?"
Park didn't answer. He was smiling quietly, arms folded.
Min Son drifted across the midfield like he had no interest in the ball. He stepped between pockets of space, pausing now and then, adjusting his position without a word. No calls. No shouting. Just… reading.
Coach Sung tilted his head, still watching.
Then it hit him.
"He's… measuring the field."
Park nodded. "Told you."
Still, Sung was unconvinced. The game was flowing fast, but the number 10 wasn't involved yet. Not a touch in the opening two minutes. Was he nervous? Hiding?
Then — the ball rolled toward him.
It wasn't even a clean pass. Just a loose recovery bouncing into midfield. A Jeonma defender closed in fast, but Min Son stepped toward it like he had all the time in the world. No panic. No rush.
One touch.
Not a flick, not a dribble.
Just a gentle tap — a no look-back pass to the right midfielder who was already overlapping.
Coach Sung blinked.
That was it?
Min Son moved again, drifting left this time, eyes never leaving the flow of play. While the others played with noise and heart, he moved like silence itself — light, steady, deliberate.
Sung folded his arms.
"He passed it back."
"And that pass opened space on the right," Park said. "Look again."
Sung glanced down the field.
Blue Flame's RMF had surged into the open lane, and the opposing left back had been dragged out of position chasing the earlier movement — exactly where Min Son had baited the pressure.
The attack didn't lead to a goal, but it pushed Jeonma deep into their own half.
And Lee Min Son?
He was already drifting into another patch of space.
No flash. No fancy footwork. Just presence.
A strange, silent rhythm.
Sung exhaled through his nose.
This wasn't a regular kid.
This wasn't even a footballer trying to prove himself.
This was a boy who already understood the language of the game — and he was speaking it fluently without saying a word.