May 23, 2015.
The RheinEnergieStadion was a pressure cooker of anticipation. All fifty thousand seats were occupied, but the traditional red and white of Cologne was drowned out by a surging tide of green and white. With Wolfsburg less than four hundred kilometers away—a mere four-hour sprint down the Autobahn—the Wolves' faithful had descended upon the city in a motorized caravan, desperate to witness history.
In the tunnel, David Qin stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his teammates. Behind them, stadium officials carefully carried a massive, gleaming silver plate. To the uninitiated, it looked like an oversized serving dish, but to any German football fan, it was the Meisterschale—the "Salad Bowl."
The original trophy, the "Victors' Cup," had vanished in the fires of World War II. When the Bundesliga was reborn, a master artisan named Elisabeth Treskow forged this silver shield, weighing 5.5 kilograms and encrusted with five large tourmalines and eleven smaller ones, totaling 175 carats of brilliant gems.
"What are those letters etched on the rim?" David asked, squinting as the light caught the silver.
"The names of every champion since the league's inception," replied Maximilian Arnold, his voice thick with reverence. "In 1981, they ran out of space, so a craftsman named Adolf Kunesch added an outer ring, expanding it to nearly sixty centimeters. It's a living history of German football."
"Wait, is that the real one?" David whispered.
"The real deal," Arnold confirmed with a grin. "The replica is over in Munich today. Since we're the favorites to clinch it, the DFL sent the genuine article to follow us."
David reached out instinctively. "I've got to get a feel for it..."
"Don't touch it!" Bas Dost, Perišić, and De Bruyne shouted in unison, their voices echoing off the concrete walls.
In the superstitious world of football, touching the trophy before the final whistle is the ultimate jinx—a silent invitation for disaster. David pulled his hand back as if the silver were red-hot.
"Alright, alright! I'm hands-off. But none of you touch it either!" David conceded.
"Not until the job is done," Perišić muttered, his eyes fixed on the tunnel's exit.
As they stepped onto the pitch, the roar of the Wolfsburg supporters hit them like a physical wall. But across the halfway line, the Billy Goats were looking uncharacteristically fierce.
David noticed the glares coming from few Cologne players. He suddenly remembered the delicate politics of the Bundesliga. Cologne, along with Leverkusen and Nuremberg, shared a long-standing, cozy relationship with Bayern Munich. Cologne was essentially Bayern's "little brother." Over the years, Bayern often played them with a soft touch to help them avoid relegation, and now, the little brother was prepared to bleed to return the favor by stopping Wolfsburg.
"This is going to be a scrap," David thought.
High in the VIP boxes, a legendary figure watched with keen eyes: Franz Beckenbauer. The "Kaiser"—the man who redefined the sweeper role and won everything a player could dream of—wasn't at the Allianz Arena today. He was here in Cologne with a mission. He wanted to speak with David Qin. Despite the recent friction and David's public barbs toward Munich, Beckenbauer believed that a boy who had spent five years in the Bayern academy must still have "Mia San Mia" in his blood. He viewed David's outbursts as mere youthful rebellion—something a legendary diplomat like himself could smooth over.
On the pitch, diplomacy was dead. Eight minutes in, Matthias Brecko lunged into a cynical side-tackle, earning an immediate yellow card. David sat on the grass, calmly adjusting his socks. A season in the Bundesliga had taught him the art of self-preservation; he had felt the contact coming and collapsed into the momentum, neutralizing the shearing force on his ankle.
"Kevin, I'm going to start tucking inside," David told De Bruyne, ignoring Brecko's taunts. "Their defensive line is static. If I draw them in, look for the overlap."
The Wolves were a force of nature. If Bayern couldn't withstand their pressure, a mid-table Cologne stood little chance. By the 30th minute, the game had shifted into a one-sided siege. Kevin De Bruyne strolled through the center circle with the casual air of a man taking a Sunday walk, but his eyes were scanning like a high-velocity radar.
With a sudden flick of his boot, the Belgian "machine" released a pass that didn't just find a gap—it created one. The ball sliced through the heart of the Cologne defense, meeting David Qin's diagonal run perfectly.
"Close him down! Close him down!" the home fans screamed.
Dominic Maroh threw himself into a desperate slide, but David didn't need a second touch to adjust. In one fluid motion, ball and player rose together, hurdling the Slovenian defender with a grace that left the crowd breathless. David landed, faced with Timo Horn, one of the league's rising goalkeepers.
David's hips swayed in a deceptive dance. Horn bit on the feint, collapsing to his left.
"David Qin! He rounds the keeper... the goal is gaping... and he taps it home!" Derek Rae's voice surged through the speakers. "The Wolves have drawn first blood in the title race! Magical. Simply David Qin!"
David sprinted to the corner flag, pressing his hand over the Wolfsburg crest. His thumb traced the embroidered 'W' as he looked up at the sea of fans. This season felt like a fever dream, and as the end of the chapter neared, he knew he might not call this club home forever—but he would never forget the roar of this crowd.
"Qin! Stay still, you'll ruin the hair!" Perišić laughed, intentionally ruffling David's carefully gelled locks.
"Ivan, sometimes I really wonder which one of us is seventeen," David sighed, trying to fix his hair for the inevitable championship photos.
While the Wolves were feasting, the giants in Munich were starving. News filtered into the Allianz Arena: Wolfsburg were 2-0 up by the 73rd minute. Bayern were leading Mainz 2-0 themselves, and Robert Lewandowski had secured a brace to effectively end the Golden Boot race, but it felt like a hollow victory. Bayern needed a Cologne miracle to snatch the title on goal difference. That miracle wasn't coming.
On the Bayern bench, Pep Guardiola stared at the grass, the gray in his beard seemingly deepening by the minute. Across the league, Mainz began a frantic comeback, with Shinji Okazaki pulling one back. Guardiola clutched his head in disbelief. It was a nightmare season; the invincible machine had stalled.
Back at the RheinEnergieStadion, the final minutes were a celebration. The Wolfsburg fans were singing in unison, their voices echoing across the Rhine.
"Cologne can't even get a touch," Stewart Robson noted. "The Wolves are playing keep-away now. And look at David Qin—he's turned the pitch into his personal stage!"
In stoppage time, David executed a double nutmeg on Osako, turning him inside out before the referee finally raised the whistle to his lips.
Tweet—Tweet—TWEET!
The Bundesliga season was over. Green flares erupted in the stands, cloaking the stadium in a misty emerald haze. The Wolfsburg bench emptied in a frantic, joyful sprint toward the center circle.
David Qin walked slowly toward the touchline, standing before the Meisterschale. He reached out and touched one of the tourmalines. It was cold, hard, and perfect.
"The 2014-15 Bundesliga season belongs to Wolfsburg!" the commentator proclaimed. "A story of redemption. A midfield maestro sold by Chelsea and a winger cast aside by Bayern have become the most lethal duo in Europe. They have toppled the Bavarian giant by three clear points!"
"Congratulations to Wolfsburg, and to every fan of The Wolves. This is your moment. The Shield has a new home!"