May 7, 2015.
In the days leading up to the Europa League semi-final, David Qin had been a ghost on the training pitch—staying long after the sun dipped below the horizon to refine his finishing. He could feel the "The Magician Touch" skill stagnating, a ceiling he suspected was tied to his overall template integration.
"I need to break that 90% threshold," David murmured to himself during a breather. He knew the end-of-season rewards were his best shot at ascending to that elite tier where the ball didn't just move with him—it became an extension of his will.
The following evening, the Volkswagen Arena was a cauldron of green and white. Despite the recent tactical exit from the DFB-Pokal at the hands of Bayern, the faithful had turned out in droves. For the city of Wolfsburg, the Cup was a secondary concern; the Bundesliga and the Europa League were the promised lands. They wanted silverware, and they wanted it now.
In the press room, Fiorentina manager Vincenzo Montella—the man they called L'Aeroplanino for his trademark celebration—looked every bit the sophisticated Italian tactician. A former striker who had once traded blows with the likes of Shevchenko and Batistuta, Montella brought a blend of Florentine elegance and gritty pragmatism to "La Viola."
"Mr. Montella," a reporter from Gazzetta dello Sport began, "Wolfsburg has already dispatched Inter Milan and Napoli. They're being hailed as the 'Serie A Assassins.' As the last Italian side left in the competition, how do you plan to defend the honor of Calcio?"
Montella leaned into the microphone. "My players possess a spirit of sacrifice. We won away at Empoli with heart and tactical discipline. We have the confidence to stop Wolfsburg and protect the dignity of Italian football."
"And what of Mohamed Salah?" another journalist asked. "He's been a revelation since arriving in January."
"Salah? He is unpredictable," Montella smiled. "He provides us with a different dimension in attack. Watching him... it reminds me of myself in my younger days. That magical left foot, the ability to kill a game in a heartbeat."
"But what about David Qin?" a reporter from The Sun interjected, looking for a headline. "Salah on the right, Qin on the left. Who would you rather have in your side?"
Montella paused, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "They both possess talent that makes a manager envious. I'll leave the comparisons to the scoreline."
--
In the tunnel, David Qin finally caught a glimpse of Mohamed Salah. The "Egyptian Messi" was still in his formative stages, the trademark afro not yet at its full, iconic volume. He was at Fiorentina on loan from Chelsea, a fellow "Mourinho cast-off" much like Kevin De Bruyne.
"Kevin, you know him well?" David whispered, nodding toward Salah.
"Well enough," De Bruyne replied. "We were in the same boat at Chelsea—talented enough for the bench, but never the pitch. We spoke a few times, but he was always being moved around on loan."
"I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of him in the future," David said with a prophetic glint in his eye, leaving De Bruyne looking puzzled.
Further down the line, Mario Gómez was exchanging pleasantries with Ivica Olić. Former Bayern teammates and one-time rivals for the starting spot, the fire of competition had cooled into mutual respect.
"Your team is frightening," Gómez admitted. He couldn't help but wonder if his career would have found a second wind in Wolfsburg.
"It's the kids," Olić laughed, glancing at David. "I'm just the veteran holding the water bottles these days."
The anthem of the Europa League—the wordless, driving orchestral piece by Yohann Zveig—began to swell. It was jagged and intense, capturing the frantic nature of the competition.
"Still doesn't hit quite like the Champions League anthem," David thought, his mind drifting to the "Zadok the Priest" melody that heralded Europe's elite. "Soon. Next year."
"Good evening and welcome to the Volkswagen Arena!" Derek Rae's voice boomed across the airwaves. "I'm Derek Rae, joined by Stewart Robson for the first leg of the Europa League semi-final. Wolfsburg vs. Fiorentina—The Wolves vs. The Purples!"
"Wolfsburg are the favorites here, Derek," Robson noted. "Their attacking quartet of De Bruyne, Qin, Perišić, and Dost has been the most prolific in Europe since the turn of the year. But Fiorentina have that Italian defensive steel, and in Salah, they have a counter-attacking weapon of mass destruction."
BEEP!
The match roared into life. Playing at home, Wolfsburg didn't bother with the counter-attacking shell they had used against Bayern. De Bruyne immediately took the reins, orchestrating a high-tempo press.
In the 6th minute, the breakthrough almost arrived. De Bruyne exchanged slick passes with Malanda and Perišić, carving a hole in the Florentine right flank. The ball was slipped through to Christian Träsch, who beat Alonso for pace and whipped a cross into the box.
"Bas, leave it!"
Bas Dost, about to challenge for the ball, heard the call from his left and daintily stepped over it. The ball bobbled into the path of David Qin.
David collided with the 184cm, 79kg frame of Tomović. Despite the weight disadvantage, David's low center of gravity won out. He bullied his way into a pocket of space.
"Qin with the volley!" Rae shouted. "Oh, it's agonizingly close! Just ripples the side netting!"
"The intent is there, Derek," Robson added. "You can see it in his eyes. He isn't here to play; he's here to score."
Qin rubbed his hip where he'd taken the impact. "No problem," he muttered, giving Dost a thumbs-up. "Keep them coming."
On the touchline, Montella's expression darkened. He realized he had made a grave tactical error: he had spent so much time worrying about David Qin that he had underestimated the ginger-haired maestro, Kevin De Bruyne. De Bruyne was moving with an elegance that reminded Montella of Andrea Pirlo—a player who saw the game three moves ahead of everyone else.
Suddenly, the ball was switched horizontally. It found David Qin on the wing. A purple shadow—Salah—closed him down with blistering speed.
David didn't panic. He performed a sharp drag-back-and-push, leaving Salah overextended. Matias Fernández rushed over to help, but Qin flicked the ball past him with a nonchalance that bordered on insulting.
"It's like watching a ghost," Fernández thought. He had played against the peak Ronaldinho years ago at Villarreal; the sensation was identical. You knew where the ball was, but you simply weren't allowed to touch it.
"No-Look Pass!"
David's eyes looked toward the corner flag, but his foot played the ball centrally. Salah, caught in the deception, froze.
"Qin splits them open for De Bruyne!" Rae narrated. "Wolfsburg up the tempo—through-ball to Dost! He's one-on-one with Neto!"
Dost opened his foot for a side-foot finish, but Neto produced a miraculous reaction save, fingertipping the ball around the post.
"Bas, no time to mope! Get in the mixer!" Qin shouted, waving his teammates forward for the corner. Qin himself lurked at the edge of the area, waiting for the scrap.
De Bruyne swung the delivery toward the penalty spot. A chaotic scramble ensued as Dost's header struck Savić's shoulder. The ball squirted out of the crowd, rolling perfectly toward the arc of the box.
"Lady Luck, I love you," David thought. He killed the ball dead with one touch, setting it half a meter in front of him. He wound up his right leg, a coiled spring ready to snap.
CRACK.
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