July 28th, 9:00 AM. VfL-Center, Wolfsburg.
The morning sun reflected off the glass facade of the training center as Qin Ming arrived, kit bag slung over his shoulder. Just as he reached the entrance, a sleek car pulled into the lot. A young man with strawberry-blonde hair and a distinct, baby-faced look stepped out.
Qin Ming froze. His mind immediately went to the work of the famous Belgian cartoonist Hergé: The Adventures of Tintin. The resemblance was uncanny.
This was Kevin De Bruyne.
In 2014, De Bruyne was a man possessed. Discarded by Mourinho at Chelsea, he had moved to Wolfsburg and played as if his "Ren and Du" meridians had been shattered open. He was a surgical instrument of football, dissecting the Bundesliga with cold, analytical eyes. Perhaps the old cynical saying was true: If you have no woman in your heart, you will be a natural god of football. Following a public betrayal in his personal life, De Bruyne had funneled every ounce of his soul into the ball.
Qin Ming watched the Belgian disappear into the facility. He knew that if he could pass this trial, he wouldn't leave Wolfsburg for any other team. This was the perfect soil for his legend to grow.
The morning was a gauntlet of tests. Technical drills—passing, shooting, and tight-space dribbling—were child's play for a man with a 65% Ronaldinho fusion. The physical battery followed: explosive sprints, vertical leaps, and lung capacity. The lead tester stared at the data sheet, his eyebrows rising. "You have an incredible physique," he muttered. Even by the harsh standards of German sports science, Qin Ming's metrics were elite.
"Take thirty minutes to recover," the staffer said. "The final phase is the 11-a-side match."
Waiting in the lounge, Qin Ming met other hopefuls—players from the 2. Bundesliga and Dortmund's reserve squad. "I heard they've been ruthless," whispered Scott, a defender from Darmstadt. "Dozens have come through this week. No one has passed yet."
Qin Ming stayed quiet. He knew the rumors. To the coaches, this trial was a "carrot job"—a formality to satisfy the Volkswagen Group's desire for a Chinese marketing tool. They expected him to be a mascot they could hide on the bench.
"That Chinese kid—yes, you. Go in for number seven," Dieter Hecking's voice cut through the air like a blade. The Wolfsburg manager didn't even look him in the eye. "Maximilian, move to the right. Kevin... get back to the center. Play where you belong."
As Qin Ming stepped over the touchline, his heart hammered. This was his first real match since the "Teng Hai" era began in Munich. He cursed Ten Hag one last time—the man who wouldn't even let him eat in the canteen—and felt the bitterness wash away his nerves, leaving only a cold, focused hunger.
But for the first three minutes, Qin Ming was a ghost.
Team A was obsessed with the right side, trying to force a breakthrough through Maximilian Arnold. They played as if the left side of the pitch didn't exist. They didn't trust the "marketing tool."
In the center of the park, Kevin De Bruyne scanned the field. He saw the cluster of bodies on the right—a stagnant mess of failed passes. Then, he looked left. He saw a lonely figure standing in the shadows of the sideline.
De Bruyne felt a sudden pang of empathy. He remembered his own early days—the "weird kid" nobody trusted. Maybe it was tactical frustration, or maybe it was a kindred spirit recognizing another, but De Bruyne didn't hesitate.
Bang!
With a clinical snap of his right boot, De Bruyne sent a laser-focused diagonal ball slicing across the turf. It bypassed three defenders, cutting through Team B's shape like a hot knife through butter.
The ball hissed toward the left wing. Team B hadn't even bothered to mark Qin Ming; to them, he was an invisible man.
Qin Ming didn't hesitate. He reached out with the outside of his right foot—a touch so soft it seemed to suck the momentum right out of the ball—and in the same heartbeat, he exploded. The 65% fusion ignited. To the onlookers, it looked like he had been shot out of a cannon.