While the gears of the German Cup began to grind, a different kind of storm was brewing in Munich. Pep Guardiola, fresh from a grueling meeting with the Bayern board, stared at his computer screen in disbelief.
"He's gone? Already?"
Bayern had pocketed a tidy sum for a youth player, but did the biggest club in Germany really need a few million euros more than a generational talent? Guardiola called Erik ten Hag immediately. When the second-team coach confirmed the news with a dismissive shrug, Guardiola felt a sudden, hollow darkness in his chest.
He didn't know why, but he felt as though Bayern had just thrown away a diamond thinking it was glass. He hadn't felt this unsettled even when Toni Kroos left for Madrid.
"Erik," Guardiola sighed, his voice heavy. "If there are personnel changes in the second team from now on... tell me first."
He couldn't blame Ten Hag; the man had done his job, and the board had been seduced by the "marketing value" of the deal. Because Qin Ming was still on an old youth training agreement, the Volkswagen Legal Group—arguably the most efficient legal team in Europe—had found a loophole with surgical ease.
"Don't worry, Pep," Ten Hag chuckled over the phone, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Qin is just an ordinary player. Selling him for over a million is the deal of the century. Trust me, by the end of the season, his 'commercial value' will dry up and he'll be headed back to the CSL."
Guardiola hung up in silence. He looked at his transfer list: Lewandowski, Xabi Alonso, Benatia. Big names. But his eyes wandered to a new youngster, SinanKurt. People called him the next Marco Reus. Guardiola tried to force himself to focus on Kurt, but the memory of that "Samba rhythm" on the public pitch wouldn't leave him.
August 18, 2014. Merck-Stadion am Böllenfalltor.
The first round of the DFB-Pokal (German Cup) was underway. Wolfsburg was away against Darmstadt 98, a gritty 2. Bundesliga side. Because CCTV hadn't secured the broadcast rights, millions of Chinese fans were crowded into low-quality "Happy Beans" live-streaming rooms, their screens blurry but their hearts racing.
"Good evening, brothers and sisters!" the host shouted over the grainy footage. "The roster is out! Qin Ming is on the bench! Will we see the 'King of Weibo' finally touch the grass, or is he just there to help Volkswagen sell Passats?"
The comment section flashed like a blizzard:
"Volkswagen really went all out. They even got him a seat on the bus!"
"If Wolfsburg loses to a second-division team, Qin Ming is going to be called a jinx for the rest of his life."
"I bet all my Happy Beans on a 3-0 win. Don't let me down, Wolves!"
But as the minutes ticked by, the jokes turned to groans. Darmstadt wasn't playing football; they were parking a fleet of buses. Every time the ball reached the backcourt, they hoofed it into the stands. They hacked at De Bruyne until his white socks turned black with mud and grass stains.
"No way... is this really going to a draw?" the host wailed.
On the bench, Qin Ming sat with his arms crossed. He watched as Dieter Hecking burned through all his substitutions in regulation time, trying to find a spark. Hecking was a "relegation specialist"—he didn't take risks with unproven teenagers during a crisis.
"Qin, you think we're going to lose?" JuniorMalanda whispered nervously from the seat beside him.
The two had become fast friends over the last ten days. Malanda, who had been "humiliated" by Qin Ming multiple times in 1v1 drills, was perhaps the only person in the stadium who truly understood the boy's terrifying rate of growth.
"I don't know," Qin Ming shook his head. "I hope we pull through."
"The boss should have put you in," Malanda muttered, glancing cautiously at Hecking. "Our left side is dead. They're just stacking the center because we have no threat on the wing."
In Malanda's heart, a conviction was forming: Qin Ming is a big shot in the making. I need to stick close to him. He saw in Qin Ming a raw, internal talent that reminded him of De Bruyne.
The whistle blew. 120 minutes of grueling, ugly football had ended. 0-0.
"Overtime is over! The score is still deadlocked!" the streamer screamed. "Is Wolfsburg—the Bundesliga giants—really about to be knocked out in the first round? Is Qin Ming a mascot or a curse?"
Qin Ming stood up, his green-and-white No. 13 jersey pristine and uncreased. He hadn't played a single second. He could only watch as his teammates, exhausted and covered in grime, lined up for the ultimate lottery.
The Penalty Shootout.