March 7, 2015.
The Volkswagen Arena was bathed in the pale light of a German spring as The Wolves prepared to host SC Freiburg. On paper, it was a mismatch—the high-flying title challengers against a side scrap-booking for survival. But the reality on the pitch was far grittier. Freiburg hadn't come to Lower Saxony to play the role of the victim; they were playing for their lives, determined to claw their way out of the relegation zone.
"Freiburg have spent the opening ten minutes testing the referee's patience," Derek Rae observed from the commentary gantry, his voice crisp. "The physicality is immense, and they aren't shy about using those dark arts—the little tugs, the subtle elbows. They're trying to knock Wolfsburg out of their rhythm."
"You're spot on, Derek," Stewart Robson added. "The Wolves look frustrated. They need to move the ball quicker to bypass that scrappy midfield. Dieter Hecking is already animated on the touchline."
Seizing a break in play during a set-piece, Hecking beckoned Kevin De Bruyne to the edge of his technical area. He spoke rapidly, gesturing toward the channels. The instruction was clear: stop playing into their hands. Stop the wrestling matches. Find the space.
The Wolves responded. The tempo shifted from a sluggish trot to a rhythmic, sharp-passing carousel. They began to probe, pulling the Freiburg midfield apart with triangular rotations.
"De Bruyne... looking for an opening... and there's the lofted ball! Over the top!"
Bas Dost launched himself through the air, a predatory horizontal line. His forehead met the ball with a sickening thud, sending it past the keeper.
"Goal! The deadlock is broken! A trademark diving header from the big Dutchman, but the vision from De Bruyne was simply sublime."
With the lead established, the tension bled out of the home side. Freiburg was forced to abandon their bunker and commit men forward—exactly what Wolfsburg wanted.
Christian Träsch snuffed out a Freiburg attack with a clinical sliding challenge, poking the ball toward Malanda. One touch. Two. The ball found De Bruyne, who didn't even look before fizzing a pass wide.
"The Wolves are purring now, moving the ball with terrifying precision," Rae shouted over the rising roar of the crowd. "Perišić breaks into the right side of the area... he spots David Qin at the back post!"
David Qin didn't just receive the ball; he manipulated the gravity around it. As Sascha Riether flew in with a desperate, grass-staining slide, David sold him a dummy so convincing it practically sent the defender into the front row. With a subtle shimmy, he danced past Torrejón, leaving the defender rooted to the spot, before coolly slotting the ball into the far corner.
"TOR!!!" The stadium announcer's voice was drowned out by the thunder of thirty thousand fans. David celebrated by turning toward the touchline and saluting Wölfi, the club mascot. It was the grey wolf's birthday, and David had just delivered the perfect gift.
As the match resumed, Dieter Hecking stood with his arms folded, his mind already drifting toward the horizon. This was the 24th round of the Bundesliga. Eleven games remained. He could see the shadows under his players' eyes; the fatigue was no longer a theory, it was a physical reality.
Chasing three trophies—the Bundesliga, the Europa League, and the DFB-Pokal—with a thin squad was a recipe for a catastrophic collapse.
He watched David Qin skip past a challenge. David... The kid had returned from the Asian Cup like a man possessed. His form hadn't just spiked; it had evolved. He was sharper, stronger, and seemingly immune to the injuries plaguing the rest of the locker room.
But football wasn't a solo sport. Hecking knew he had to make a cold, tactical choice. He had to sacrifice one front to save the others. The DFB-Pokal, while prestigious, lacked the weight of a league title or European glory. Better to decide now, he thought, than to hesitate and lose everything.
Suddenly, the crowd erupted again. David had effortlessly glided past Klaus on the wing before exchanging a rapid-fire one-two with De Bruyne. The Belgian threaded a needle-sharp pass to Dost.
"Bas!" David's shout cut through the noise.
Dost, remembering their training ground drills, didn't turn. He simply cushioned the ball backward into the path of the oncoming David Qin.
In one fluid motion, David coiled his body, his right leg snapping down like a whip.
CRACK.
The ball was a blur, a white-hot projectile that screamed into the top left corner of the net. Roman Bürki didn't even dive; he barely had time to blink.
"Vamos!" David roared, basking in the raw power of the strike.
Deep within his mind, the system notifications flickered. His Ronaldinho Template was fusing faster than ever. He had transitioned from mastering the "Magic Touch" to perfecting the "Precision Power Strike" and "Overhead Kick." He could feel his ceiling rising, the phantom movements of the Brazilian legend becoming his own muscle memory.
Just a bit more, he thought. Until the integration is 100%.
Not far away, Kevin De Bruyne watched his teammate celebrate. He took a few deep breaths, his eyes hardening with a quiet, fierce resolve. He had felt David's meteoric rise over the last few weeks—a pace of improvement that defied logic.
It triggered a survival instinct in the Belgian. He loved David like a brother, but he refused to be left behind. Even in the heights of his whirlwind romance with Michele, football remained his anchor.
Competition between friends isn't about winning or losing, Kevin realized. It's about making sure we both reach the summit.
"Let's go together, then," he muttered to himself, a small smirk playing on his lips.
The match ended in a dominant 3-0 victory for The Wolves.
Back in the locker room, David checked his phone. It had become a habit to track Bayern Munich's results, and the headline atop the sports app was as predictable as it was demoralizing:
Werder Bremen 0-4 Bayern Munich: Lewandowski at the Double, Müller Orchestrates Rout as Giants Charge Toward Third Consecutive Title.
David sighed. It was the "new normal." Before the season, pundits claimed Bayern's dominance would wane. They were wrong. Dortmund had fallen off a cliff, transitioning from title contenders to relegation scrappers, leaving only Wolfsburg to chase the Bavarian ghost.
A column by Clifford Payne in Bild caught his eye:
"In the last three seasons, Bayern have lost only five league matches. With a squad this deep, the title is their birthright. Wolfsburg are valiant pursuers, but their lack of depth will likely see them fade in the final straight. However, do not expect Bayern to shatter the record by winning the league in 27 rounds again. The Wolves will at least force them to wait until Round 30."
David tossed the phone aside and began juggling a ball in the cramped space of the dressing room. He wasn't interested in "valiant pursuits." He wanted the shield.
The following day, David met with Jonathan Barnett. In the presence of Wolfsburg's legal team, he officially signed his representation contract.
Barnett was already moving at light speed. With Gareth Bale struggling to emerge from Cristiano Ronaldo's shadow at Real Madrid, the veteran agent had decided to pivot his resources toward David. He saw David not just as a player, but as a global brand in waiting.
"First priority: the boots," Barnett had told him. "You're a swordsman, David. You need the best blade."
The giants—Adidas, Nike, Puma—were already circling with massive endorsement offers. For a top-tier player, boot deals were the backbone of their empire.
But while Barnett handled the business, David's focus was purely on the tactical board in the meeting room. Their next opponent wasn't a relegation-threatened German side. It was a giant of the San Siro.
"International Milan," Dieter Hecking said, tapping the board. "They're struggling in Serie A, sitting mid-table, but don't let the standings fool you. Look at the names: Guarín, Shaqiri, Vidić, Icardi, Kovačić. That is a squad built for the Champions League."
Hecking paced the room. "Roberto Mancini is at the helm. He's won the Premier League and Serie A. He knows how to navigate high-pressure knockout football."
Hecking pointed to the Inter midfield. "They play a triple-pivot—three holding midfielders. It's a wall. They won't press us high; they'll shift their lines to stifle Kevin and David, looking to catch us on the break. But," he paused, "there is a gap between their midfield and their back four. If we can win the ball high, we can exploit it."
David's eyes narrowed as he studied the footage of Fredy Guarín and Danilo D'Ambrosio. Guarín was a powerhouse, a bull of a midfielder who played with his heart on his sleeve, but he was reckless. He was a "one-strike" tackler—if he missed, he was out of the play. D'Ambrosio was the opposite: limited technically but possessed of a terrifyingly professional focus.
"And then there's the attack," Hecking continued. "Icardi and Palacio. Mauro Icardi is a pure predator. Don't let him turn in the box. Palacio is the ghost—he'll drop deep, pull you out of position, and feed Icardi. Naldo, Klose, you have to talk to each other. Don't lose him."
Milan, Italy.
The atmosphere at Inter's training ground was somber.
"Wolfsburg is the form team in Germany," Roberto Mancini said, his voice calm but stern. "We are out of the race for the Scudetto. We might even miss out on Europe entirely next year. That is the reality."
He tapped the table. "But the winner of the Europa League goes directly to the Champions League. This is our only path back to the top. We win, or we disappear."
Mancini glanced toward the corner of the room, where a blonde-haired striker sat. "Mauro, you're staying at the training dorms until the first leg is over."
Mauro Icardi nodded silently. The young striker was the center of a media firestorm. His marriage to Wanda Nara—the former wife of his ex-teammate Maxi López—had turned his life into a soap opera. The "Wanda Derby" had left him looking drained on the pitch, while López had recently scored a stoppage-time winner against Torino on his son's birthday. The tabloids were calling it "divine retribution."
Mancini knew he couldn't afford a "tired" Icardi. He needed the man who could destroy defenses, not the man being destroyed by the paparazzi.
"David Qin," Mancini said, turning the projector to David's highlights. "His dribbling is unlike anything in the Bundesliga. He creates chaos. If he gets isolated against our fullbacks, we are in trouble. And De Bruyne... his vision is surgical. We must compress the space between our lines. We play narrow. We make it a cage."
Mancini's face was a mask of concentration. He knew his reputation in Europe was shaky—his failure to take Inter or Man City deep into the Champions League haunted him. He was often criticized for being too rigid, for making substitutions as if he were playing a video game rather than managing a real match.
This wasn't just a game for the players. It was a battle for relevance. The Wolves were hungry, but the Nerazzurri were desperate. And in football, desperation is a dangerous weapon.
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