The scoreboard at the Volkswagen Arena ticked into the 70th minute, the air thick with the scent of cut grass and the electric hum of a lead held by a single, fragile goal.
Kevin De Bruyne trotted back toward the center circle, his pale eyes tracking the movement of the green-and-white No. 13. A realization was crystallizing in the Belgian's analytical mind. I can give him the ball more, he thought. De Bruyne's own style was built on lethal, surgical efficiency; he didn't need to hog the ball to be a threat. One touch was often enough to split a defense. What he needed was a chaos factor—someone who could draw three defenders and hold the ball long enough for the Maestro to find the "kill zone."
Not far away, Makoto Hasebe wiped the sweat from his forehead, his brow furrowed in a rare display of regret. He had been a fool. Like the cynical fans on the internet, he had dismissed Qin Ming as a commercial gimmick. But the sting of that assist still burned.
"Twenty-five minutes left!" Hasebe shouted, clapping his hands to rally the Frankfurt defense. "We still have a chance! Wake up!" As the icon of Japanese football, Hasebe's mental fortitude was a fortress. A one-goal deficit wasn't a defeat; it was a challenge.
Beep! The game restarted with a frantic energy. Frankfurt, realizing that a 2-1 loss yielded the same zero points as a 3-1 loss, abandoned their "Asian Wall" and threw their weight forward. They were no longer playing for a draw; they were hunting for blood.
On the sidelines, Dieter Hecking stood with his arms crossed. For the first time all afternoon, the tension in his jaw had relaxed. He hadn't been wrong about the kid. Qin Ming had the "it" factor—the rare ability to turn a stagnant game into a spectacle. Of course, he saw the flaws: the Samba-style dallying, the occasional "sticky" touch that slowed the transition. But Hecking was a realist. There were no perfect players. His job was to harness the fire without letting it burn the house down.
The 78th minute saw Frankfurt roll the dice, bringing on Timothy Chandler to invigorate the wing. Hecking responded instantly, shouting for Vieirinha to drop back. The Portuguese winger, born a defender, locked down the flank with the tenacity of a bulldog. Frankfurt's attacks hit the Wolfsburg line like waves against a cliff—constant, but ineffective.
By the 85th minute, the game had reached a fever pitch. Seferović won a long ball, nodding it back to Takashi Inui. Under a heavy challenge from Junior Malanda, Inui's touch failed him, the ball squorting three meters away. Hasebe Makoto, arriving like a freight train, didn't hesitate.
Bang! The Japanese captain's long-range blast was powerful, but the distance was too great. Max Grün tracked it all the way, leaping to pluck the ball out of the air.
"Back! Get back!" Hasebe roared, his defensive instincts screaming of a coming storm.
Grün didn't wait. He sprinted to the edge of the area and launched a massive, spinning throw toward the left wing. The ball hung in the spotlight-glare, flying toward the No. 13.
"It's too high!" Liu Jiayuan's voice was a machine gun of commentary. "Ian Ignjovski is closing in! If Qin Ming misses the trap, Frankfurt is right back in the throat of the defense! How does he handle this?"
Ignjovski was pouncing like a tiger, his eyes fixed on the ball. He had it all planned out: the moment the kid struggled to bring the high ball down, he would steal it and become the hero of Frankfurt. He would erase the shame of being "broken" by the Elastico earlier.
Qin Ming didn't even look at Ignjovski. He stepped forward to meet the plummeting ball. Instead of trying to kill the pace with his foot or cushion it with his chest, he performed a slight, rhythmic shrug of his shoulders.
Wow!!!
The crowd gasped in unison. The ball didn't stop; it redirected. With an imaginative "Shoulder Pass" that defied the rigid logic of German football, Qin Ming had bounced the ball perfectly into the path of a surging De Bruyne.
"Imagination without constraints!" Liu Jiayuan screamed. "The shoulder! He's used his shoulder to ignite the counter!"
De Bruyne took one touch to settle. He looked up and saw a sprawling, empty hinterland behind the Frankfurt defense.
Bang! A graceful, 50-yard arc sliced through the evening air. It was a pass of such exquisite precision that it felt like destiny. At the end of that arc was Nicklas Bendtner.
The "Lord" was in his element. For all his arrogance, Bendtner possessed the raw physical tools of a top-tier striker. At 193cm, he covered the ground with surprising grace—a remnant of his days being deployed as a winger by Arsène Wenger. He reached the ball well ahead of the scrambling defenders, staring down the lone goalkeeper.
The Volkswagen Arena was on its feet. This was the dagger.
Bendtner slowed down, his posture turning "pretentious." Instead of a clinical finish, he chose a delicate, high-arching lob. He even stopped running before the ball reached the goal, his arms spreading as if to embrace the adulation of the crowd.
Clang!!!
The sound of leather hitting the crossbar echoed like a gunshot. The ball bounced straight into the arms of a stunned Kevin Trapp.
"CTMD BENDTNER!!!"
Liu Jiayuan nearly swore on live television. "He's wasted a god-given opportunity! Is he trying to be Balotelli? The shoulder pass from Qin Ming, the masterclass ball from De Bruyne—it was all perfect until the Emperor decided to show off!"
The stadium erupted in a chorus of boos. The "Confidently Emperor" had just turned a masterpiece into a tragedy. Bendtner stood frozen, the "three-bedroom apartment" he was trying to squeeze out of his embarrassment becoming a mansion of shame.
"What are you doing?!"
The voice was a jagged blade of ice. Kevin De Bruyne had sprinted sixty meters, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson. "There were better options! You are being irresponsible to the team! To us!"
Bendtner snapped out of his daze, his ego flaring up like a wounded animal. "I missed a shot! So what? We're ahead! Even if I don't score, we still win!" He waved his hands dismissively, his face contorted in a mask of defensive pride.
Qin Ming arrived a second later, his fists clenched tight. He could tolerate many things—arrogance, quirkiness, even lack of skill. But he could not tolerate a lack of respect for the game. Bendtner hadn't just missed; he had played with the effort of his teammates.
"Let me talk! LET ME TALK!" De Bruyne was shouting now, trying to push past Malanda who was desperately holding him back.
Qin Ming stepped between them, his hand on De Bruyne's chest. "Kevin, stop. Not now. We have five minutes left. We settle this in the locker room."
The "Samba Elf" was no longer smiling. He looked at Bendtner—not with anger, but with pure, cold disgust. He realized then that in the high-stakes world of the Bundesliga, the greatest enemy isn't always the veteran defender like Hasebe. Sometimes, it's the teammate who thinks the game is beneath him.
The final whistle was approaching, and the air in Wolfsburg was no longer sweet. It was electric with the scent of a brewing storm.