Sorry for messing up the chapter, guys. This week has been really overwhelming..
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The fans in the stadium held their breath, eyes locked on the leather as it compressed slightly under the force of the strike, screaming toward the net with frightening velocity. It threaded a needle through the chaotic cluster of bodies in the Fiorentina box, arrowing toward the top right corner. Between the posts, Neto lunged by instinct, but the mere brush of air against his fingertips told him what he already feared: he was too late.
1-0.
"Goal! It's that man again!" Derek Rae's voice cut through the roar of the Volkswagen Arena. "David Qin's second attempt of the evening, and he has already forced a breakthrough. We've played just nine minutes, and the Italian side looks utterly shell-shocked by the intensity of the Wolfsburg press!"
"They've come out like a whirlwind, Derek," Stewart Robson added. "Fiorentina simply can't cope with the movement. And look at David Qin—that's his twelfth goal in this Europa League campaign. At this rate, Radamel Falcao's record is no longer a distant dream; it's a target."
On the pitch, David turned toward the cameras with a beaming smile, flashing his fingers to the lens. He had seen the buzz on social media, the fans whispering about the history books, and it had ignited a fire in him.
"Seven more to go!" David shouted as he high-fived his teammates. "Keep those passes coming, boys!"
"Wait, David, isn't it six more to tie the record?" Junior Malanda asked, looking confused as he jogged back.
"I'm not here to tie it, Junior. I'm here to break it!" David threw a punch into the air, as if shattering an invisible barrier.
"That's the spirit!" Christian Träsch clapped him on the shoulder. "In individual awards, sharing is just another word for losing. We go for the top."
Ivan Perišić, however, was focused on the technique. "David, when did your laces shot get that fast? It's coming off your boot like a rocket now, even quicker than your curlers." As a master of the power-strike himself, Perišić recognized the elite level of that finish.
"I keep telling you, Ivan—I'm a genius. Logic doesn't apply to me!" David's bravado drew a collective laugh from the squad.
As they celebrated, Mohamed Salah's gaze lingered on Kevin De Bruyne. He felt a pang of envy. As a forward, he knew how much a world-class playmaker could elevate a striker's game. He realized that while David's individual brilliance was undeniable, the service from De Bruyne was the secret sauce.
People call me the 'Egyptian Messi,' Salah mused, yet they call him the 'Chinese Ronaldinho.' Is it because his trajectory is even steeper than the original's? He tightened his fists. He was older, yet he found himself looking at David as the benchmark.
"Don't just stand there," Mario Gómez barked, his veteran presence steadying the Italian side. "We need an away goal. Let's move!"
Fiorentina attempted to claw their way back, primarily using the flanks. Salah, whose technical game was still developing compared to David's polished flair, relied on raw pace. He had been a benchwarmer at Chelsea, but in Florence, he was a man reborn.
"Salah takes on Ricardo Rodriguez! He burns him on the outside, stops on a dime, and squares it for Gómez!"
The Fiorentina fans rose, but Gómez—the man whose peak seemed to have stayed in Munich—unleashed a strike that cleared the crossbar by a mile. Benaglio exhaled a sigh of relief.
In the 26th minute, Matías Fernández received a ball and, in a moment of brilliance, slipped a nutmeg through the legs of a pressing David Qin. The "La Viola" fans roared. Before coming to Italy, Fernández had been the South American Footballer of the Year, a "wonderkid" of FM legend. His style was reminiscent of Riquelme but played at a higher tempo, possessing that Ronaldinho-esque rhythm.
"With me!" David shouted, unbothered by the nutmeg, signaling Luiz Gustavo to double up. Gustavo's veteran grit came to the fore as he used his body to shoulder Fernández toward the touchline. Trapped in a phone booth, Fernández tried to drag the ball away but clipped Gustavo's heel. David, hovering like a vulture, pounced.
"Counter! Go!" David spun, but felt the hot breath of Fernández on his neck. The Chilean was tracking back hard.
CLICK. David had a flash of inspiration. With a subtle flick of his right boot, he sent the ball back through Fernández's wide-open legs. Revenge was a dish served cold and immediate.
"QIN!!!" The Wolfsburg fans drowned out everything else. To them, it didn't matter who the "super wonderkid" was; in terms of sheer, effortless swagger, nobody touched their boy.
Fernández looked as though he might burst, either from the sprint or the indignity. He reached out for a tactical foul, but David accelerated into the vacuum of space.
"Beautiful nutmeg and he's inside! Into De Bruyne... the Belgian slides it back to the left! Rodriguez hits the byline, crosses—Bas Dost with the header! OFF THE BAR!"
"Oh, agonizing!" Stewart Robson cried. "The Dutchman just can't find his luck tonight. That's two golden opportunities gone begging."
On the pitch, David caught Fernández's eye and saw a flash of genuine hostility. He remembered the "Top 10 Wonderkids" list from 2008—Pato, Bojan, Balotelli, and Fernández. They were supposed to rule the world. But while Fernández had struggled with the physicality of Europe, David was thriving in its most grueling environment.
"Fiorentina's lateral defense is soft," David whispered to De Bruyne. "Keep the cutbacks coming."
The match shifted into a tactical grind until the 38th minute. Salah tried to weave through again, but Rodriguez—the second-most valuable left-back in the Bundesliga—waited for the perfect moment to step in. He bullied Salah off the ball and immediately ignited the engine.
"Rodriguez is away! Fernández tries to cover, but Rodriguez skips past him and finds De Bruyne!"
The Belgian didn't even look up before switching play to the left channel. David timed his run perfectly, shaping his body to curl one into the far corner. Panicking, Nenad Tomović reached out and hauled him down.
THUD.
David hit the turf hard. The referee didn't hesitate, blowing the whistle and brandishing a yellow card. He paced out the distance and sprayed the white foam.
"David, it's a good spot. Take it," De Bruyne said, stepping over the ball.
"No, no. Kevin, remember that routine we worked on? You do this, then I do that..." David whispered behind his hand, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"I'm in," Rodriguez added before De Bruyne could even answer.
David jogged over to the left side of the wall, standing right next to Tomović. He even gave the Serbian a friendly wink. The crowd was baffled. This was prime 'David Qin Curler' territory. Why was he acting as a screen?
Neto, the Fiorentina keeper, was screaming instructions, his eyes darting between the ball and David, terrified the youngster would suddenly drop out of the way for a direct strike.
"Here we go. Rodriguez with the run-up... he feints! De Bruyne chips it!"
The Volkswagen Arena erupted in disbelief. Rodriguez had run over the ball, and De Bruyne had delicately scooped it over the wall. In that exact heartbeat, David had spun off his marker.
"STOP HIM!" Tomović yelled, but David was already two yards clear. He met the falling ball perfectly, using his left foot to guide a side-footed volley under Neto's arm and into the bottom corner.
2-0.
"INCREDIBLE! Absolute ingenuity from Wolfsburg!" Derek Rae screamed. "A set-piece routine straight from the training ground! The feint, the scoop, and the finish—Fiorentina were looking for a cannon and got hit by a magician's trick!"
"Look at the replay, Stewart. Rodriguez sells the shot, De Bruyne is precise, and David's timing is impeccable. He even hid his face behind his hands in the wall to sell the 'innocent bystander' act. It's pure theater!"
"That's a brace for David Qin," Robson noted. "Thirteen in the Europa League. He's making the difficult look laughably easy."
On the pitch, David was mobbed. "How was my acting?" Rodriguez joked.
"Five stars! And Kevin, that scoop was inch-perfect."
In the dugout, Dieter Hecking pumped his fists. If they could maintain this lead, he could sub out his stars for the second half. He needed them fresh. In forty-eight hours, they had the Match of the Century against Bayern Munich.
"The stars are aligning," his assistant murmured. "Bayern is playing Barcelona tonight in the Champions League. We have the momentum, the home crowd, and the lead. Why not win it all?"
The referee's whistle signaled the end of a dominant first half.
Half Time: Wolfsburg 2-0 Fiorentina.