Inside the dressing room at the Volkswagen Arena, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of wintergreen and heavy breathing.
Dieter Hecking didn't waste time on tactical board work; they had dissected Bayern Munich's skeletal structure a thousand times over. Instead, he sat on the central circular table, leaning in like a man sharing a secret over a pint.
"I remember Pierre de Coubertin once said: 'The important thing in life is not the triumph, but the struggle,'" Hecking began, his voice steady. "It's simple. Only one general can return in triumph, but everyone must fight for their ideals. If a man loses his fighting spirit, he loses his soul."
David Qin knew the gaffer was speaking directly to him, washing away the lingering guilt of his earlier mistake. David stood up, his eyes locking onto Luiz Gustavo. "Luiz, I'm going to need you to cover my back again in the second half. Ricardo, push up. Let's double-team their flanks and tear them open!"
"You've got it!" Rodriguez replied, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. They preferred this David—the one whose confidence was so infectious it practically forced the rest of the squad to believe.
"Excellent," Hecking said, clapping his hands. "David, I want you on the ball even more. Kevin, stay close, ghost into those half-spaces. And remember, based on my years in this game, when a team has won as much as Bayern, they eventually drop from 100% to 90%. Like a bottle of soda left open—the fizz starts to leak out. They've lost their fear of the 'little' teams. Today, we show them that the commoners can topple the giants."
"Let's ruin them!" David roared, raising a fist.
In the visitors' locker room, the scene was a stark contrast. Pep Guardiola was at the tactical board, his head reflecting the fluorescent lights as he drew a frantic web of arrows.
"Wolfsburg are going to bypass the midfield and go direct," Pep warned. "We need another goal before the 65-minute mark to put this to bed. There's a massive night waiting for us at the Allianz in four days, and I don't want us gassed."
"Should I push up to provide the width we're missing without wingers?" Philipp Lahm asked. "I can help Thomas get into the box."
"No, no, no!" Guardiola shook his head emphatically. "You stay home on that flank. That kid—Qin—he's a box of surprises. And we have to cage their number 14. If those two link up, they can conjure miracles just like Leo does at the Nou Camp."
Lahm nodded, though a seed of unease remained. He was fine with sacrificing his offensive output if it meant stabilizing the defense. After all, they were leading. Even if the Wolves managed an equalizer, Bayern's goal difference was nearly twenty better.
The fifteen-minute respite vanished, and the gladiators returned to the arena.
"Welcome back, everyone!" Derek Rae's voice boomed over the international feed. "The Wolves and Bayern have switched ends. It's 2-3 to the champions, and the second half promises to be an absolute humdinger!"
On the pitch, the Wolves didn't bother with patient buildup. They had no luxury of time; it was all-or-nothing. Bayern, meanwhile, sought to turn the midfield into a graveyard for Wolfsburg's ambitions.
The game turned physical fast. In the 57th minute, Juan Bernat pushed too far forward, leaving a gap that Kevin De Bruyne exploited instantly.
A razor-sharp through-ball sliced the Bayern formation, finding Ivan Perišić in stride. Rafinha, realizing he was about to be burned, committed a cynical tactical foul, hauling Perišić to the turf. The referee's whistle shrieked, and a yellow card was brandished.
"Well done! Don't give them an inch!" Guardiola shouted from the touchline, applauding the "dark arts."
The resulting free-kick was cleared by Jérôme Boateng, who used his massive frame to shove Bas Dost aside and command the air. For a moment, it seemed Bayern's box was a "no-fly zone."
Pep went to his bench in the 60th minute: Mario Götze for Müller, and Franck Ribéry for Bernat.
"Attack as the best form of defense," Derek Rae noted. "He wants to keep the Wolves pinned back so they don't have the energy to counter."
But the momentum was shifting. Luiz Gustavo, fueled by a grudge against his former club, dispossessed Thiago in the center circle.
"Is the Barcelona hangover finally hitting them?" Stewart Robson wondered.
Gustavo fed De Bruyne, but Xabi Alonso was on him like a shadow, harrying him, making every touch a chore. De Bruyne, frustrated by the lack of lanes, was forced to recycle the ball to Malanda. The minutes were bleeding away.
Then, in the 67th minute, David Qin dropped deep to demand the ball. He realized his teammates were being marked out of the game. If a door was going to be opened, he would have to kick it down himself.
Philipp Lahm stood before him, blocking the outside line. Thiago had dropped back to double-team the inside. There was no space—or so it seemed.
David leaned his body weight to the right. Lahm shifted instinctively. He wasn't afraid of the feint; he was confident he could recover. But the ball didn't move. Lahm's brow furrowed in confusion, his internal alarm bells screaming. He looked down, but David's body was shielding the ball.
"Now!"
David's right foot lunged forward, his body contorting like a piece of pulled taffy. At the moment of contact, he executed a "Cross-Stitch" (Cruyff-flick variant)—smoothly transitioning the touch from the inside of his foot to the outside behind his standing leg.
The ball traced a supernatural trajectory. The crowd gasped as David danced past Lahm with a sequence of touches so intricate they seemed blurred.
The stadium decibel level skyrocketed. On the touchline, the seam of Guardiola's trousers gave way again—a massive tear appearing as he watched in horror. It was a move he hadn't seen executed with such flair since Ronaldinho.
David wasn't done. Thiago lunged in a panic, and David simply dinked the ball over his foot, leaving the Spaniard dead in his tracks.
"Foul him, you idiot!" Guardiola screamed.
David hit the afterburners, driving toward the Bayern box. Out of the corner of his eye, he mapped the battlefield. Benatia was retreating; Boateng was glued to Dost.
Then he saw him. Kevin De Bruyne was lunging forward, his face red with effort, hovering on the periphery of the vision.
David slowed his pace, feinting a cut inside. "He's going to shoot!" Benatia roared. Boateng abandoned his post to charge David.
"Kevin, take it!"
David squared the ball across the edge of the box. It wasn't a rocket; it was a measured invitation. De Bruyne met it in full stride. He didn't go for power; he went for the kill.
The ball hissed across the grass, a low-trajectory missile aimed at the bottom corner. Manuel Neuer saw it, his massive frame unfurling like a blooming flower. His fingertips brushed the leather.
CLACK.
The ball kissed the inside of the post and spun across the line.
3-3.
"STUNNING! The Wolves have clawed back again!" Derek Rae roared. "David Qin with the sorcery to bypass Lahm and Thiago, and De Bruyne with the clinical finish to beat the best goalkeeper in the world! The Twin Stars are burning bright tonight!"
The stadium was a riot of noise. De Bruyne, usually reserved, sprinted to the corner flag and executed a perfect, silk-smooth knee slide on the damp turf. David leaped onto his back, laughing hysterically.
"Kevin! You are an absolute legend!" David screamed.
"That turn, David... I don't think I could do that if I had three legs," De Bruyne panted, grinning.
"World's best keeper? Not against us!" David shouted, pointing toward the goal. Neuer, the picture of fury, slammed his fist into the turf. To concede three to Barcelona was one thing—to concede three to a "provincial" club like Wolfsburg was an insult to his pride.
As the noise settled, Guardiola sat back on the bench, pulling his suit jacket over his lap to hide the massive tear in his trousers. He looked at the clock. Twelve minutes plus stoppage time.
"Tell them to lock it down," Pep muttered to his assistant. "Strengthen the midfield. We take the draw."
Under the weight of the upcoming Champions League clash and the sheer tenacity of the Wolves, the great philosopher had finally compromised. He glared at David Qin, a flicker of regret crossing his mind. This is all Erik ten Hag's fault, he cursed internally.
Up in the stands, a middle-aged man in a hoodie suddenly sneezed.
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