As the distance between the two players closed with terrifying speed, the anxiety in Eugen Polanski's heart spread like wildfire. At that exact moment, David Qin's dribbling rhythm shifted abruptly. In the middle of his stride, his center of gravity swayed laterally.
It was a move so simple it bordered on basic, yet Polanski, wound tight as a spring, reacted like a startled bird. He lunged instinctively, throwing out a foot to intercept.
A split second later, the stands nearest to the pitch erupted in a wave of gasps and cheers. David had flicked the ball outward with his left foot and exploded forward in a single, fluid motion. The movement was a blur, a visual shock to the thousands of fans watching.
"Beautiful!"
"He doesn't rely on excessive step-overs; he uses pure changes of pace and rhythm. That is the most effective way to beat a man!"
"Polanski has been left for dead!"
On the touchline, Dieter Hecking adjusted his glasses, leaning forward to catch every detail. I didn't expect him to be the one to step up while Kevin is being suffocated, he mused privately.
Beside him, the assistant coach leaned in and whispered, "I heard David took Kevin to a bar the other day. Old Mr. Scott was furious about it."
"He's young. It's understandable," Hecking replied, dismissing the topic with a relaxed wave of his hand. He wasn't about to let off-field antics distract from the brilliance unfolding on the pitch.
On the opposite bench, the portly Markus Gisdol sat with a furrowed brow. Unlike those arrogant managers who looked down on newcomers, he had explicitly warned his squad to give the Wolfsburg teenager their full attention. It was why Niklas Süle had been drifting toward the flank so often, even at the cost of leaving Ivica Olić with more breathing room. Yet, despite the precautions, the boy had broken through.
Take the shot yourself... just take the shot, Gisdol muttered under his breath. He wasn't even looking at David anymore; his eyes were fixed on Olić, who was lurking like a predator in the box. In this moment, he desperately wanted David to be selfish.
David Qin had now entered the left side of the Hoffenheim penalty area—an unwelcome guest. With a quick glance, he noted Süle closing in from behind and Ermin Bičakčić moving to cover the gap.
Step, step, step!
After a rapid adjustment of his stride, David's body tilted, and he drew back his right foot.
A low drive!
To every observer in the world, it looked like he was going for the kill. The pursuing Süle committed everything, throwing his massive frame into a desperate sliding block. The keeper, Oliver Baumann, took quick, stuttering steps to adjust his position. He stayed tall, eyes locked on David, trying to read the angle. Near post or far post? The orientation of the standing foot and the angle of the strike usually gave it away.
"Hoffenheim has covered the angles well!"
"The shot is likely to be blocked—"
Liu Jiayuan's commentary cut off abruptly as he realized the play wasn't following the script. Baumann watched in horror as David's right foot suddenly retracted its power. Instead of a strike, he used his laces to gently dink the ball upward.
It wasn't a shot. It was a pass.
Pop! The crisp sound of the contact was like music. The ball, acting like a mischievous sprite, sailed over the head of the sliding Süle and danced toward the penalty spot.
There, the Croatian veteran Ivica Olić stood waiting. Under the collective gaze of tens of thousands, he met the ball with a thunderous volley!
Bang! From the perspective of the grounded Baumann, the ball was a blur as it shrieked into the back of the net.
0–1!
"It's in! The deadlock is broken!"
"In the 35th minute, Wolfsburg's counter-attack goes from their own half to the back of the net in just thirty seconds!"
"Hoffenheim's relentless pursuit of De Bruyne has backfired. By overcommitting to stop the playmaker, they've freed up Caligiuri and left themselves dangerously thin against Olić!"
"Let's not forget, even at thirty-six, Olić is a man who once outshone Arjen Robben! He famously knocked out Manchester United with a Champions League semi-final hat-trick. If it weren't for Inter Milan's legendary defensive wall, he might have a Champions League winner's medal in his cabinet!"
On the pitch, Olić was a world away from the reserved De Bruyne. After decades in the game, he knew exactly how to celebrate. He went into a classic knee slide followed by a sharp salute. When he stood up, he pulled David Qin toward him, shouting toward the traveling fans, "Hey! Remember this kid! He's twenty years younger than me! Wasn't that some performance?!"
The Wolfsburg faithful roared their approval, the applause rolling down from the stands in waves.
"He's younger than my son, and my son isn't half the player he is!"
"Seventeen! Has God finally opened His eyes and blessed us with a true genius?"
The fans chatted excitedly, their skepticism finally melting away. David, finishing the celebration, turned to Olić with a grin. "Ivica, you're nearly twenty years older than me. Should I start calling you 'Uncle'?"
Olić, never one to pass up a bit of banter, beamed and replied, "If you want to, I certainly won't stop you."
"In your dreams!" David teased, rolling his eyes. The rest of the Wolfsburg squad erupted in laughter, enjoying the sight of the newcomer holding his own against the veteran.
A short distance away, Niklas Süle held his head in his hands, the dejection written plainly across his face.
"Don't hang your head. The game isn't over, and we haven't lost yet," Sejad Salihović said, reaching out to pull Süle up. He tugged once, but the giant defender was too heavy to move easily. Salihović let out an embarrassed huff. That was the trouble with young players—they were too easily swayed by the tide of emotion.
"We can't leave Number 13 alone anymore. Sebastian, you need to drift wider and help the defense double up on him," Gisdol commanded from the sideline. He kept his voice calm, projecting a sense of control that helped steady his players as they returned to their positions.
The match restarted from the center circle. The camera panned to a young mascot on the sidelines. Bernhard looked up at the sky. A few thin wisps of cloud drifted across the deep blue expanse, but otherwise, there was nothing. No sign of a dragon.
"David didn't score, so there's no dragon," Bernhard murmured to himself, his eyes scanning the sea of green and white for David's jersey. He began to chant under his breath: Please score, please score.
"Wolfsburg is playing with incredible composure now that they have the lead," Liu Jiayuan noted.
"With Hoffenheim forced to divert resources to the flanks to contain Caligiuri and David, De Bruyne has suddenly found the room he needs to orchestrate. I remember an expert interview in Sport Bild claiming Wolfsburg's offensive output would drop significantly this season. They even suggested re-signing Džeko to fix the 'Olić problem.' But after seeing David Qin's performance today, I think Wolfsburg can look forward to a very different, very bright future."
Liu Jiayuan kept one thought to himself: And Chinese fans can look forward to a new future as well.
Time slipped away like sand through an hourglass. With the defense tightening around him, David found it harder to get on the ball. Instead, De Bruyne began to leverage the team's forward momentum, systematically dismantling the Hoffenheim lines. From a bird's-eye view, the Hoffenheim formation looked like a compressed spring—approaching its elastic limit, ready to snap.
43rd minute. David Qin made a blistering run down the wing, dragging Polanski with him, while Ricardo Rodríguez pushed up to pin back Sebastian Rudy. A gap yawned open on the right side of the Hoffenheim defense.
De Bruyne didn't need a second invitation. A series of rapid passes saw him penetrate deep into the Hoffenheim heartland.
Bang! An unexpected "daisy-cutter" of a shot hissed through a gap in the crowded defense just as Baumann's vision was obscured by his own teammates.
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