The headlines in China were electric: "Chinese Youngster Qin Ming Joins Wolfsburg!" The media touted his Bayern pedigree and whispered rumors of Guardiola giving him private midnight lessons on the Juego de Posición. Over 44 million fans tuned into CCTV to see the boy who would follow in the footsteps of Yang Chen and Shao Jiayi.
But beneath the hype, the atmosphere was sour. Volkswagen had bought massive amounts of traffic to promote the new Passat alongside the signing, and the fans smelled a "car salesman" move.
The internet comments were a battlefield of cynicism:
"Another 'marketing model' player? He should have stayed at Bayern II for two more years."
"Competing with De Bruyne and Perisic? I can already see him rotting on the bench."
"That trial video was staged. The defenders looked like they were paid to stand still. Terrible acting!"
Qin Ming, now wearing the green-and-white No. 13 jersey, looked at himself in the mirror. He caught his reflection and smirked. "I'm actually pretty handsome."
He wasn't bothered by the noise. He understood the trauma of Chinese fans—they had been disappointed too many times. Besides, he hadn't traveled through time and secured an Elite Maverick System just to be a "model." He was here to be a legend.
While the first team traveled to England for friendly matches, Qin Ming stayed behind at the training base to finalize his registration. He wasn't alone, however. He had a training partner: Nicklas Bendtner.
The "Lord" himself.
Bendtner was a phenomenon of ego. At sixteen, he had criticized Henry; at twenty-one, he challenged Ibrahimović; at twenty-four, he had the audacity to ask for Juventus's legendary No. 10 jersey. He was a man whose confidence was so high it bordered on a medical condition.
"Let me tell you, kid," Bendtner said, leaning against a goalpost while Qin Ming practiced. "When I was your age, I hated studying. I used to hide in the girls' bathroom to skip class. I remember there were people in there…" He trailed off with a proud, inexplicable grin.
Qin Ming was speechless. He couldn't understand how a man could recount such an embarrassing experience with the tone of a war hero.
"Talented players like me don't do regular basic training," Bendtner chattered on. "It wears out the spirit. No matter how hard you try, you'll never reach my level."
Qin Ming ignored him, focusing on his drills. He thought of the famous commentary meme: "CTMD Benteke." He felt like changing the "grams" to "nanometers" for Bendtner. He just didn't want the "Emperor's" low IQ to be contagious.
Once Bendtner finally wandered off, Qin Ming dove into his specific training plan. To integrate the Ronaldinho template, he didn't just need the stats; he needed the feel. He added "Around the World" flicks, leg crosses, and intricate juggling using his chest, shoulders, and forehead.
There was an old saying: "If Ronaldinho had trained seriously, he wouldn't have been Ronaldinho." The idea was that discipline kills the "free spirit." Qin Ming had considered imitating the Brazilian's nightclub lifestyle to find that spark, but he quickly realized the truth.
What made Ronaldinho unique wasn't the partying—it was Happiness.
Ronaldinho played as if win or lose, succeed or fail, the only thing that mattered was the joy of the moment. Qin Ming decided he wouldn't live like others. He was his own man. He would keep the discipline of a professional but play with the heart of a child.
While he trained in solitude, the news from the friendly matches was grim. Wolfsburg drew 3-3 with Cardiff City and was absolutely demolished 1-5 by Atletico Madrid. Mandžukić, Koke, and García tore them apart. Wolfsburg's only goal was a gift—an own goal by Griezmann.
When the team returned, Dieter Hecking was seen chain-smoking while rewatching the game tapes. Wolfsburg's greatest weapon had always been the high-impact left wing formed by Ricardo Rodríguez and Ivan Perišić. But with Perišić out until late September with a torn knee ligament, the "Wolves" had lost their teeth.
Hecking looked out the window at the training pitch, where the No. 13 was still juggling in the twilight. He needed a miracle. He needed a spark.
And the Samba Elf was just getting started.