The Volkswagen Arena had been transformed into a jubilant green ocean. Before the opening whistle, a faint tremor of anxiety had pulsed through the home support. This was Inter Milan, after all—one of the most storied names in world football. Even if, like their cousins at AC Milan, they had spent recent years languishing in a state of decay, their pedigree still carried weight. For the "small-town" faithful of Wolfsburg, unaccustomed to such elite guests, the fear was instinctual.
But as the match progressed, that fear evaporated into a realization: on paper and on grass, The Wolves were the superior side.
"Kevin, did you spot the signal?" David Qin asked, jogging toward De Bruyne after the celebrations for Perišić's goal had quieted.
"Honestly? No," De Bruyne admitted with a dry chuckle. "But I felt the run coming. I knew you'd ghost behind the line, and I had to release the ball instantly, or you'd have been stranded offside. It worked out."
"That's what I call telepathy," David said, throwing an arm around the Belgian's shoulder.
"Oi, don't leave me out of the bromance!" Perišić pushed between them, grinning. "I made the run too. If Kevin had looked the other way, I was in."
The trio shared a laugh as they strolled back to the halfway line, leaving the Inter squad in a state of collective frustration.
"My fault," Danilo D'Ambrosio muttered, raising a hand in apology to his teammates. "I got sucked in. I knew his technique was elite, but his spatial awareness... he sees things before they happen."
"Keep him in your sights," Andrea Ranocchia commanded, his voice grave. The Inter captain had joined the club in 2010; he still had nightmares about a Milan Derby where a fading Ronaldinho had turned him inside out five times in a single half. Watching David Qin's fluid hips and sudden accelerations felt like a ghost returning to haunt him.
If he's this good now, Ranocchia thought, a chill prickling his arms, what happens in five years? He felt a sudden, visceral relief that he was facing David today and not in his prime.
With the lead established, Wolfsburg did what they did best: they suffocated the game with possession. De Bruyne was flourishing in his role as the metronome, his rhythmic passing opening up gaps in the Italian block. When Mancini signaled Fredy Guarín to press higher, it left David Qin in a tantalizing one-on-one situation.
37th Minute.
Guarín's speculative long-range effort was blocked by Knoche, and the ball looped toward the center circle. De Bruyne and Xherdan Shaqiri raced for the second ball. Shaqiri, the "Alpine Messi," tried to use his low center of gravity to bulldoze the Belgian off the ball. But the brute force that usually flattened Bundesliga defenders failed him. De Bruyne held his ground, shoulder-charging the Swiss international into a stumble.
"De Bruyne is built like a tank today!" Derek Rae exclaimed. "Both these players have remarkably high body fat percentages for elite athletes—De Bruyne at 13%, Shaqiri at a staggering 16%—but it's all 'power-packing' muscle. They use that mass to dominate the physical duels."
"Quite right, Derek," Stewart Robson added. "And look at De Bruyne go! He's ignored the challenge and exploded into the final third."
De Bruyne drove forward, bypassing Gary Medel as if the Chilean were a training cone. David Qin immediately darted into the left channel, dragging D'Ambrosio with him and opening a canyon of space. Ricardo Rodriguez recognized the movement instantly, overlapping at a sprint. De Bruyne slid a weighted ball into the path of the Swiss fullback.
"The Wolves' wing-play is devastating!"
"Dammit!" Mancini hissed on the touchline, glaring at Guarín as the midfielder trotted back. The Inter defensive structure had disintegrated because of one player's lack of discipline.
Rodriguez reached the byline. Ranocchia rushed over to cover, but the fullback didn't hesitate. He whipped a vicious, low-cross into the "corridor of uncertainty."
Juan Jesus tried to intercept, but a nudge from Bas Dost unsettled him. The ball skidded off his shin toward the near post. Carrizo reacted instinctively, parrying the ball upward, but he couldn't hold it. The ball hung in the air, a gift waiting to be claimed.
Dost tried to hook it in as he fell, but Carrizo pulled off a miraculous double-save. The crowd groaned in agony—until a green blur flashed across the six-yard box.
David Qin.
He didn't wait for the ball to land. With a scissors-kick motion, he met the ball mid-air. Carrizo tried to scramble back, his fingers grazing the leather, but the power was too much. The ball rippled the net.
2-0!!!
"He's got it! David Qin on the rebound!" Rae bellowed. "Clinical, opportunistic, and simply faster than anyone else in the box!"
"Incredible," Robson remarked. "That's his seventh goal in the Europa League this season. He's now just one behind Alan of Red Bull Salzburg and Vietto of Villarreal. With those two out of the competition, David Qin is effectively sitting at the top of the live scoring charts!"
"Think about that, Stewart," Rae said, his voice brimming with genuine awe. "A few months ago, we were celebrating the first goal by a Chinese player in the Europa League main draw. Now? He's hunting the Golden Boot."
The first half drew to a close with the scoreline reading 2-0. As the players headed down the tunnel, the traveling Inter fans tried to rally their broken side. "Forza Inter!" they chanted, their voices a defiant roar against the darkening German sky.
David Qin paused, looking at the block of blue and black in the stands. There was something hauntingly beautiful about the loyalty of a fallen giant's fans. They knew the financial crisis loomed; they knew the summer transfer window offered little hope. But they stood there, tethered to the glory of 2010, waiting for the dawn.
Back in the locker room, Hecking was blunt. "Inter are weaker than I expected. But look at those fans. Don't underestimate a club with that much history. Remember the Miracle of Istanbul? Three goals up isn't a victory; it's a lead. The victory only counts when the whistle blows. Do not give them an away goal."
The second half began with a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Mancini, a man of contradictions—capable of inspiring speeches but prone to brooding silences—had spent the interval adjusting his silk tie, a gesture Derek Rae noted was often a sign of a tactical brainstorm.
"Mancini is fixing the hair and the tie!" Rae noted. "He's found something."
For several minutes, nothing changed. Wolfsburg controlled the rhythm. But Hecking sensed a trap. Inter were backing off, luring The Wolves into a high press.
"Watch the transition!" De Bruyne shouted, but his warning was drowned out by the crowd.
Ranocchia intercepted a pass intended for Perišić and immediately launched a vertical ball. Inter's counter-attack was a masterpiece of Italian efficiency. Guarín flicked it on to Shaqiri. The "Alpine Messi" swivelled, leaving Luiz Gustavo in his wake, and threaded a needle-eyed pass between the Wolfsburg center-backs.
"Mauro Icardi! He's through!"
Icardi wasn't the fastest, but his movement was predatory. He timed his run to perfection, leaving Naldo and Knoche chasing shadows. Facing Benaglio, he didn't blink. A sharp, powerful strike flew past the keeper's outstretched hand.
2-1.
56th minute. Inter had their lifeline.
Icardi celebrated by stuffing the ball under his shirt and blowing a kiss to the camera—a tribute to his unborn child and his wife, Wanda.
"Argentina's most devoted soul," David Qin muttered, a wry smile on his face. He remembered the future headlines from his previous life—the scandals, the drama, the "cheater getting cheated on" sagas that would eventually define Icardi's career. The man had even signed over his entire income until 2050 to Wanda. A romantic or a fool? David wondered. Better to be like Achraf Hakimi and put everything in your mother's name.
"Focus!" Benaglio screamed from the goal. "Keep the lines tight!"
David shook the gossip from his head. The intensity had dropped for five minutes, and a side like Inter had punished them instantly. The Wolves couldn't afford to sit back. They needed a cushion for the trip to the San Siro.
Mancini, sensing the shift, made his move. He didn't want to risk a third. He pulled off the erratic Guarín and sent on the veteran Nemanja Vidić. The former Manchester United captain, now 35 and struggling for pace against younger center-backs, was deployed as an auxiliary defensive midfielder to shadow De Bruyne.
"Vidić is on," Rae observed. "Mancini is closing the shop. He's seen enough. He has the away goal; he wants to take this result back to Milan."
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