While Munich was a city of art and philosophy, Wolfsburg—479 kilometers to the north—was a city of steel and pistons. In the shadow of the massive chimneys of the Volkswagen plant sits the VolkswagenArena, the heart of the city's pride and the engine of its economy.
Inside the executive suite, the air was heavy with the scent of expensive coffee and corporate tension.
"Our group's sales growth in China has flattened to single digits," Fisher, the European Director for Volkswagen, said solemnly. He adjusted his glasses, staring at the declining charts on the projector. "If we want to reverse this trend, we need a new engine. We want to use football to change the narrative."
Fisher was a pragmatist. He knew that expecting a football club to fix a multi-billion-dollar automotive slump was borderline fantasy. But they were running out of options. They had sponsored reality shows like Running Man and launched sleek new models, yet the needle hadn't budged.
"This is the cornerstone of our Asian market strategy," Fisher continued, turning to the Wolfsburg general manager, Tim Schumacher. "I don't just want a 'poster boy' to sit on the bench. I need a player who can actually perform in big games. We need a hero, not a mascot."
Schumacher looked embarrassed. "Sir, you know the current level of Chinese talent is… limited. Finding someone who meets your standards for the Bundesliga is a tall order."
"That is for you to figure out," Fisher replied, blowing a slow smoke ring. "All I want is a Chinese player who can actually step onto that pitch. My job is to give the orders; yours is to execute them."
When the mandate reached the recruitment department, it was met with immediate grumbling. The scouts were football purists; they remembered the days of Yang Chen and Shao Jiayi—players who actually possessed European-level abilities. But the current era? "Excellence" was no longer a word associated with Chinese football.
"Is the Volkswagen Group full of fools?" one scout muttered. "If we sign a player just to let him rot on the bench, the fans back in China will see right through it. It'll hurt the brand more than it helps."
Pete, a junior staffer, had been scouring the Chinese Super League databases until his eyes were sore. Suddenly, a colleague let out a sharp exclamation. "Hey, Pete! Look at this. Is this kid Chinese? He's currently with Bayern's second team. He even logged minutes in the Regionalliga last season. He's already in Germany!"
Pete jumped up and hurried over to the monitor. He scanned the profile: QinMing. The stats were respectable, the technical foundation was German-trained, and the kid had a market-friendly appearance. It was as if he were dreaming of a nap and someone had just slid a pillow under his head.
"He's already integrated," Pete noted. "At the very least, there won't be a language barrier. He's got to be a safer bet than anyone we'd pull directly out of the CSL."
He verified the data, packaged the highlights Qin Ming had aggressively emailed them, and forwarded it to the Head of Recruitment. "Let the bosses worry about the details," Pete sighed. "At least we found a name."
Munich. Three days later.
The glow of the laptop screen illuminated Qin Ming's face in the dim dormitory. A new notification appeared in his inbox.
Dear Mr. Qin Ming,
We have reviewed your information. Following discussions between our recruitment department and the coaching staff, we would like to invite you to the VfL-Center on In den Allerwiesen Street, Wolfsburg. Your trial is scheduled for July 28th at 3:30 PM.
Qin Ming let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He clenched his fist and gave a sharp, silent pump in the air. It was exactly as he had calculated. In his original timeline, history would have seen Zhang Xizhe take this spot. Now, the trajectory had shifted.
But he quickly calmed himself. An invitation is not a contract. Getting happy now is a rookie mistake.
With only three days left, Qin Ming focused on mastering the "beast" inside him—the 65% Ronaldinho fusion. He remembered Johan Cruyff's wisdom: Practicing dribbling in a cramped, cluttered living room is more effective for your touch than a wide-open pitch. In the tight confines of his room, he danced around chairs, forcing his feet to find micro-spaces.
He practiced "High-Complexity Juggling," flicking the ball off walls at awkward angles to sharpen his three-dimensional vision. He worked until the ball felt less like an object and more like a heartbeat.
As the sun set over Munich on his final night, Qin Ming packed his bags. He looked at the Bayern badge on his old kit one last time.
"The next time I see you, Ten Hag," he whispered, "it'll be from the other side of the halfway line."