As the distance between the two closed, the anxiety in Tobias Strobl's heart spread like wildfire. He had seen the tape of the Frankfurt game, but feeling the "Samba" rhythm in person was a different ordeal entirely.
Qin Ming's pace didn't just increase; it fluctuated. As he approached the edge of the area, his center of gravity shifted violently to the left while his right foot remained hovered over the ball. It was a simple twitch, but to Strobl—already a frightened bird after being outpaced—it was the trigger. He lunged, stretching out a desperate boot to intercept.
Exclamations erupted from the Rhein-Neckar stands.
Qin Ming hadn't gone left. With a flick of his ankle that was almost too fast for the human eye to track, he pushed the ball outward with his left foot and exploded forward. It was a change of rhythm so sudden it had a physical impact on the spectators.
"Pretty!" Liu Jiayuan shouted into his headset. "No flashy step-overs, just pure mastery of tempo. Strobl has been thoroughly cleaned!"
On the touchline, Dieter Hecking adjusted his glasses. A rare glimmer of pride warmed his chest. When Kevin was choked out by the swarm, I didn't expect the kid to be the one to break the siege, he thought.
Next to him, the assistant coach leaned in. "I heard Qin took Kevin to that Irish pub a few days ago. Old man Scott was furious about the 'underage' drinking."
Hecking didn't take his eyes off the pitch. "He's seventeen. He just won us a goal. I think I can find it in my heart to forgive a Pilsner."
On the opposite bench, Markus Gisdol—the chubby, pragmatic mastermind of Hoffenheim—scowled. He had warned his defenders. He had told them the No. 13 was a "Maverick." That was why Niklas Süle had been drifting so wide. But the wall had been breached anyway.
"Do it yourself, kid," Gisdol muttered, his eyes not on Qin Ming, but on the Croatian tiger, Ivica Olić, who was lurking like a ghost in the penalty area. At that moment, the Hoffenheim coach was praying for Qin Ming to be selfish.
Qin Ming drove into the left side of the box. He saw Süle charging back like a runaway train and Ermin Bičakčić sliding in to provide backup. The angle was narrowing. The crowd held its breath.
Step, step, step.
Qin Ming adjusted his stride, tilted his body, and swung his right leg with the unmistakable shape of a power-shot.
Push!
Süle didn't hesitate. He threw his massive frame into a sliding block, eyes shut, bracing for the impact of the ball. In goal, Oliver Baumann took tiny, rapid steps, bracing for a blast to the far corner.
But the "Bang" never came.
To Baumann's horror, Qin Ming's foot didn't strike through the ball. At the last micro-second, his ankle retracted inward. He used the outside of his boot to gently, almost lovingly, pick the ball up into the air.
Snap! The ball turned into a naughty elf, soaring over the sliding Süle's head and dropping with pinpoint accuracy onto the penalty spot.
There, Ivica Olić was waiting. The 36-year-old veteran didn't need an invitation. He met the falling ball with a thunderous volley before it could even touch the grass.
0-1!!!
"The goal is in!" Liu Jiayuan's voice was distorted with joy. "35 minutes in, and a Wolfsburg counter-attack that started in their own half took only 30 seconds to find the net! Hoffenheim's obsession with De Bruyne left the wings exposed, and Qin Ming just exploited it with the wisdom of a veteran!"
On the pitch, Olić didn't just celebrate; he performed a masterclass. He performed a long, graceful slide toward the corner flag and gave a military salute. But as he stood up, he didn't bask in the glory alone. He grabbed Qin Ming by the jersey and dragged him toward the away stands.
"Hey! Remember this kid!" Olić roared at the fans, his voice booming. "He's twenty years younger than me! Did you see that pass? That wasn't a teenager; that was a magician!"
The Wolfsburg fans responded with a wall of rhythmic applause.
"He's younger than my son, and my son can't even find his socks!" one fan screamed.
"Qin Ming! Give yourself a German name, yours is too hard to chant while I'm drinking!"
Qin Ming laughed, breathless and exhilarated. He looked at Olić. "Ivica, you're old enough to be my uncle. Should I start calling you 'Onkel' now?"
Olić grinned, shamelessly wiping sweat from his forehead. "If it gets me more of those passes, you can call me Grandpa for all I care."
Not far away, Niklas Süle sat on the grass, his massive head in his hands. The frustration of being "scooped" over was written in every line of his posture.
"Get up, Niklas," Sejad Salihović said, trying to haul the giant up. "The game isn't over. We've got time."
But Gisdol knew the momentum had shifted. He called Sebastian Rudy over to the touchline. "Move to the wing. Help Strobl. We cannot let the No. 13 breathe."
The game restarted, but the dynamic had changed. Hoffenheim was like a squeezed spring, forced to stretch their defensive resources thin to cover both flanks and the rejuvenated De Bruyne. And a spring can only be squeezed so far before it snaps.
43rd Minute.
Qin Ming made a vertical sprint along the sideline, dragging Strobl with him. Simultaneously, Ricardo Rodríguez pushed up to pin Rudy back. A vacuum of space opened in the right half-space of Hoffenheim's defense.
De Bruyne didn't need a second invitation. He surged into the hinterland, his vision clear for the first time in thirty minutes.
Bang! An unexpected, low-driven strike emerged from a thicket of legs. Oliver Baumann's sight was blocked by his own defenders. By the time he saw the ball, it was already hissing toward the bottom corner.
On the sidelines, a small boy named Bernhard looked up at the blue sky. The clouds were thin, and the sun was bright, but there was no dragon.
"Qin didn't score yet," the caddy whispered to himself, his eyes following the green-and-white No. 13. "Come on, Dragon. Fly."
The half was coming to a close, but the Maverick was just finding his wings.
Author's Note:
The chemistry between the veteran Olic and the young Qin Ming is starting to sizzle! Who said an old dog can't learn new tricks? If you're enjoying the Samba in the Bundesliga, don't forget to drop your Power Stones! Let's get Qin Ming his first starting goal in the second half!