The journey back from Munich was silent, the air in the team bus heavy with the stagnant scent of defeat. A 2-1 loss to Bayern was no shame on paper, but for a squad with title aspirations, it was a bitter pill. The bonus was gone, the momentum was stalled, and the cracks in the locker room were beginning to show.
It was rumored that Kevin De Bruyne had engaged in a fierce shouting match with Dieter Hecking in the dressing room. The "Maestro" was fed up with being marooned on the wing; he wanted the center of the pitch, the "Number 10" role where he could dictate the tempo and carve open defenses with surgical precision.
Qin Ming was surprised. To him, De Bruyne always seemed like a shy, baby-faced boy. He didn't expect such a volcanic temper.
"You don't know him," Junior Malanda whispered, shrugging nonchalantly as they walked toward the training facilities. "When he was nineteen, he stood in front of the whole squad and accused them of not training hard enough. I was one of the people he yelled at. Last season, he nearly got banned for screaming at a ball boy because he thought the kid was wasting time." Malanda's eyes held a trace of lingering trauma. "On the pitch, don't mess with him. I won't be able to save you."
"Interesting," Qin Ming muttered. He didn't feel fear; he felt respect. A player who would do anything to win was exactly the kind of partner he needed. But a thought struck him. "Junior, it may not be long before Kevin and I are the ones arguing."
Malanda looked at him, confused. Qin Ming didn't elaborate. He knew that his style—the extreme, improvisational casualness of the "Samba Elf"—was the polar opposite of De Bruyne's extreme, calculating rationality. One was jazz; the other was a symphony. Whether they could coexist or if they would simply collide was a problem for the man with the white hair and the black-rimmed glasses.
As the days bled into late August, the hype surrounding Qin Ming began to cool. In the world of football, silence is the ultimate killer of relevance. If you don't play, you don't exist. Sensing the "car sales" momentum fading, the Volkswagen Group management sent a sharp directive to Dieter Hecking.
Let him play.
Hecking wasn't a man who liked being told what to do, but he had finally reached his own conclusion. He had watched Qin Ming in training for weeks now. The boy was no longer the "marketing tool" he had first suspected. He was a weapon.
"Don't use a man you suspect; don't suspect a man you use," Hecking thought, an old coaching mantra echoing in his mind. He was done worrying about the risk. If the kid was a wimp, he'd find out soon enough and ship him back to the reserves. But if he was what the scouts claimed...
August 29, 2014. Wolfsburg Training Base.
"Let's talk about Frankfurt," Hecking barked, tapping a tactical board. "Thirteenth last season, but they've started strong. They play through the flanks, looking for Seferović in the box. But the heart of their team is here." He circled a name in the midfield: Makoto Hasebe.
Qin Ming's gaze sharpened. Hasebe. The Japanese veteran was a legend in the Bundesliga. He had won the title with Wolfsburg in 2009 and led Japan to an Asian Cup. He was the "Asian Wall"—a defensive midfielder with passing skills that fans compared to Andrea Pirlo.
"Hasebe is their brain," Hecking continued. "He averages 42 successful passes a game and rarely makes a mistake. If you lose the ball in front of him, they will kill us on the counter." He turned his eyes directly to Qin Ming. "Qin, you will likely see minutes in this match. What will you do if you meet him?"
The room went quiet. The veterans looked at the seventeen-year-old.
"I'll get past him," Qin Ming said simply.
He didn't offer a long tactical explanation. He didn't promise to be "cautious." His confidence didn't come from the system alone; it came from the thousands of "Around the World" touches and the sweat-drenched midnight sprints.
Hecking adjusted his glasses, a faint, rare smile touching his lips. "I expected you to say you'd be careful, that you'd respect his experience. But that's not what young people do. I hired you for your 1-on-1 breakthroughs. If you play, do it your way." His tone suddenly turned ice-cold. "But you have to give me what I want to see. If you fail, I won't be able to give you many more chances."
"Thank you, coach," Qin Ming replied. He was done with words.
From across the room, De Bruyne watched Qin Ming. He saw a reflection of his younger self—the same stubborn belief that his vision was the right one, no matter who stood in the way.
August 30, 2014. Volkswagen Arena.
The sun was scorching, reflecting off the glass and steel of the arena. It was the first home game of the season, and the Wolfsburg faithful had turned out in droves. One hour before kickoff, the official roster was released on the website.
In China, despite the late hour and the previous "boycotts," millions of fans were glued to their screens.
"An Asian showdown? Qin Ming vs. Hasebe?"
"Hasebe is a legend. He's the captain of Japan and a Bundesliga champion. Qin Ming is still a 'Weibo King' until he touches the ball."
"I'm tired of being envious of Japanese players. Kagawa, Okazaki, Hasebe... when is it our turn?"
"I don't need a win. I just want to see Qin Ming play more than five minutes."
The camera panned across the Volkswagen Arena as the teams emerged from the tunnel. The atmosphere was electric, a cacophony of drums and chanting. As the lens swept toward the Wolfsburg bench, there he was.
No. 13. Qin Ming. He sat among the substitutes, his eyes fixed on the pitch where Makoto Hasebe was already marshaling the Frankfurt midfield. The veteran looked calm, a master of his craft.
The whistle blew, and the match began. For the first sixty minutes, it was a tactical stalemate. Wolfsburg dominated possession, but without a natural winger to stretch the play, they kept running into the "Asian Wall." Hasebe was everywhere, intercepting passes and calmly distributing the ball.
In the 65th minute, Hecking looked at his bench. He saw the frustration on De Bruyne's face in the center. He saw the exhaustion in Aaron Hunt's legs. And then, he saw the boy in the No. 13 jersey. Qin Ming wasn't nervous; he was leaning forward, his body coiled like a spring.
"Qin!" Hecking shouted over the roar of the crowd. "Get warm! You have three minutes!"
Qin Ming tore off his training bib. The "marketing mascot" label, the skepticism of the fans, the arrogance of Ten Hag—it all boiled down to this. He stepped toward the touchline. On the pitch, Hasebe noticed the substitution and adjusted his captain's armband.
The fourth official held up the board. The red number 14 for Aaron Hunt, the green number 13 for Qin Ming.
The Samba Elf was finally entering the woods.