26th Minute.
Kevin De Bruyne spotted the pocket of space and threaded a laser-focused diagonal ball. David Qin collected it on the left edge of the area, finding himself face-to-face with Benedikt Höwedes. The Schalke captain was no pushover; his pedigree was elite. This was the man who had anchored the defense of Germany's U21 European championship side alongside Jérôme Boateng, the man who inherited the armband at just twenty-three after Manuel Neuer's departure to Bayern.
David's gaze dropped, locking onto Höwedes' hips, waiting for the slightest shift in weight. His feet began a rhythmic, mesmerizing shuffle over the ball. It was a visual taunt, a silent invitation to the dance.
To the devil with this, Höwedes thought. He remembered their first encounter in November—the "Rabona" goal that had stunned the Veltins-Arena. In five months, the boy had evolved into something far more dangerous. Höwedes resisted the urge to lung, waiting for the split-second where David's touch grew heavy.
Now! Höwedes lunged.
Snap. With the predatory grace of a viper, David's left foot caught the ball in a lightning-fast chop, dragging it inches away from the defender's outstretched boot.
"Cover him!" Höwedes roared, his composure fracturing as he realized he'd been beaten. He looked back, expecting a teammate to have closed the gap, but his heart sank. David had already executed a jarring stop-start move that froze Manuel Friedrich in his tracks. The 193cm defender had turned his body to block the shot he was sure was coming, only to realize David hadn't even cocked his leg.
It was a phantom strike. A masterpiece of deception.
Friedrich scrambled, throwing himself into a desperate slide, but the window had already opened. David's right boot met the leather with a sickening thud. The ball screamed through the air, a blur of white and black that curled viciously toward the far corner. Ralf Fährmann dived, but he was grasping at shadows.
1-0!
"SENSATIONAL!" Derek Rae voice erupted through the broadcast. "David Qin! He has turned the area into his own private ballroom! A shimmy, a shake, and two Schalke defenders are left looking for their pride. Look at the replay—the poise, the arrogance, the pure, unadulterated technical brilliance. He isn't just playing football; he's composing a symphony!"
"It's the rhythm" Stewart Robson added. "He's got that Ronaldinho-esque spark. He plays with a smile on his face while he's tearing your tactical plan to shreds. The Volkswagen Arena is witnessing something truly special tonight."
In the corner, David threw his arms wide, soaking in the thunderous roar of the North Stand. The gray wolf mascot, Wölfi, was being waved frantically by the faithful.
"Still think you can stop us?" David murmured, a confident smirk playing on his lips. Huntelaar's pre-match boasts about shattering Wolfsburg's title dreams felt like a distant, hollow memory.
"Keep hitting them until they forget how to speak," Ivan Perišić laughed, ruffling David's hair.
"Don't compliment him too much," De Bruyne said with a rare, dry wit. "His head is big enough already."
The match resumed, but Die Königsblauen looked shell-shocked. Klaas-Jan Huntelaar, a veteran of the game's mental wars, tried to rally his troops. "We aren't out of this! Give me the ball!" Leroy Sané echoed the sentiment, though his eyes were clouded with a simmering jealousy. Every time he saw a headline about the "Chinese Prodigy," it felt like a slight against his own meteoric rise. He wanted the spotlight that David currently commanded.
Schalke pushed forward, abandoning their defensive shell out of necessity, but Wolfsburg's midfield was a meat grinder. Luiz Gustavo and Junior Malanda patrolled the center with predatory intent. Whenever Farfán tried to spark a break, David would drop back, nagging at his heels from the flank while Gustavo swooped in to finish the job.
By halftime, the score remained 1-0. In the dressing room, Dieter Hecking tapped a rhythmic beat on the tactical board. "We're going to try something different," he said. "We're going to sit back. Let them come to us. We're going to find that counter-attacking rhythm we'll need when we face Bayern."
"Do I drop deep, Boss?" David asked.
"No," Hecking replied, drawing a sharp line across the final third. "You are my spearhead. Stay level with their last man. When the turnover happens, I want you and Kevin to ignite."
63rd Minute.
The plan was working to perfection. Schalke were dominating possession but producing nothing but frustration. When Christian Träsch dispossessed Sané on the wing, he immediately looked for De Bruyne. Without even glancing toward the target, the Belgian playmaker spun and launched a booming, sixty-yard ball into the Schalke half.
"Go!"
David was a blur of green, his low center of gravity allowing him to accelerate while the defenders were still turning. He mistimed his run slightly, the linesman's flag going up for offside, but he didn't let it discourage him. He looked back at De Bruyne and tapped his temple. My fault. Next time.
Minutes later, the opportunity repeated. Knoche headed a cross out of the Wolfsburg box, and Gustavo bullied Max Meyer off the ball before shifting it to De Bruyne. This time, the Belgian held it for a beat longer. David saw the trap—Friedrich was trying to step up for another offside trap. David feinted a run inside, then suddenly darted wide, dragging Höwedes with him.
De Bruyne shifted the ball to Ivica Olić on the right. As the veteran Croatian prepared to cross, David suddenly changed direction, exploding toward the "D" at the top of the area. Höwedes, caught a half-second behind the play, couldn't close the gap.
David met Olić's pass first-time, his right instep catching the ball with a delicate, deliberate curl.
2-0!
The ball tucked itself into the absolute "postage stamp"—the ninety-degree junction where the crossbar meets the post. It was a ten-out-of-ten finish.
"Oh, the audacity!" Derek Raescreamed. "He's found the corner with the precision of a master watchmaker! Two for David Qin, and Wolfsburg have one hand on the three points!"
"The arc on that ball was incredible," Olić remarked as they celebrated. "You've been practicing that for less than six months, and you're hitting it like a ten-year veteran."
"Genius doesn't wait for a schedule, Ivica," David joked.
78th Minute.
The match had turned into an exhibition. David found himself trapped between Höwedes and Neustädter near the touchline. Instead of turning back, he began a juggling act—using his knees, shoulders, and forehead to keep the ball dancing in the air as the defenders closed in.
Just as Höwedes moved in to commit the foul, David arched his back.
Thump.
The ball bounced off his shoulder blade, looping perfectly into the path of De Bruyne in the center of the pitch.
"Is he even human?" Derek Rae gasped. "He's tamed the ball! He's playing a different game entirely!"
De Bruyne didn't waste the magic. He spread the play to Perišić, who whipped a cross into the heart of the box. Bas Dost, the "Dutch Tower," rose highest and powered a header home.
3-0.
The stadium was a sea of rhythmic clapping. Even the Schalke fans seemed hushed by the sheer aesthetic beauty of the performance.
"Everyone's going to talk about your back-flick, David," Dost grumbled playfully as they walked back. "Nobody cares about the guy who actually puts it in the net."
"Bas, do you want the goal or not?" David teased.
"I want the goal! Ten thousand Euros a pop! I'll take the money and you take the headlines," Dost laughed, ruffling David's hair.
The final whistle blew on a dominant 3-0 victory. Wolfsburg had dismantled a Champions League-caliber side with the cold efficiency of a team destined for silver. As David Qin walked off the pitch, the "Broadcast" focus lingered on him—the kid who didn't just play football, but made it dance.
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