The following day, at a training base in Hongdou Changbei, an internal scrimmage was in full swing.
"David, you're on the left. Same role as the club," Alain Perrin said, punctuating his words with sharp, decisive gestures.
Perrin secretly wished David Qin played in Ligue 1 so they could converse in French, but having managed Portsmouth in the past, his English was more than serviceable. David, while not from a top-tier university in his previous life, had passed his CET-4 exams; he might not catch every nuance, but he understood enough. Coupled with the universal vocabulary of football and Perrin's expressive body language, the tactical instructions were crystal clear.
"Got it, Coach!"
David scanned his teammates. In this 8-v-8 drill, the teams were roughly organized in a 4-4 shape. His side featured Ji Xiang, Yu Hai, and Wu Lei in the attacking roles, with Ren Hang and Mei Fang anchoring the back, protected by Yan Junling in goal.
Across from them sat a formidable defensive wall: Hao Junmin, Liu Binbin, Zhang Linpeng, and the captain, Zheng Zhi. Wang Dalei stood ready between the sticks for the opposing side.
Looks like Perrin wants to put me through the wringer, David thought. The opposition was stacked with veteran defenders, and as a pure attacker, the message was clear: earn your keep.
In competitive sports, respect is earned through blood and sweat, not status. You don't just walk into a starting XI because of a European pedigree; you prove you're the best man for the job. David and Perrin had talked tactics late into the previous night, so he wasn't flying blind. Besides, in an 8-v-8 setting, the game usually devolved into "Total Football"—everyone attacks, everyone defends. It was the ultimate test of chemistry and close-quarters technique.
Peep—!
The assistant coach checked his watch and blew the whistle.
Team A kicked off and immediately funneled the ball to Zheng Zhi. Before Wu Lei could even initiate the press, the captain sprayed a ball wide to Hao Junmin. Despite his lack of minutes at his club, Hao looked sharp today. With a quick shimmy and a flick, he danced past Zhang Chengdong and squared the ball for Gao Lin.
Thump! The ball screamed over the crossbar and into the stands.
"My bad... must've left my shooting boots in the locker room," Gao Lin chuckled awkwardly.
He wasn't entirely wrong. While the internet was filled with vitriol calling him "overpaid" or a "static striker," things had changed since Marcello Lippi took over Evergrande in 2012. Lippi had rebuilt him from the ground up: Run until you drop. Train while others rest. You're not just a poacher; you're the link. It had worked. Last year, his goal in the AFC Champions League final had brought China its first continental title, leaving millions of fans screaming "get in!" at their television screens.
Yan Junling restarted with a pass to Mei Fang. Having trained for three years at Strasbourg in France, Mei Fang's fundamentals were a cut above the domestic standard, and he possessed a vision that spanned the entire pitch.
Snap! A crisp, low drive along the touchline found David Qin perfectly.
"Close him down!" Zheng Zhi barked.
Zhang Linpeng reacted instantly, lunging toward David. David was momentarily surprised; the tempo was higher than he'd anticipated, and Zhang's reflexes were top-notch.
But David was faster.
With a feather-light touch from his right boot, David nudged the ball one way while spinning his body in the opposite direction—a classic turn. Zhang Linpeng's line of sight was momentarily blocked, and by the time he realized he'd been had, David had already completed the "spin-and-go," leaving the defender in his wake.
On the touchline, Perrin was beaming. Heaven sent. One moment he was fretting over a stagnant attack, and the next, a player with maximum offensive intensity had dropped into his lap.
Zheng Zhi hadn't expected the youngster to bypass the first line so easily. He moved to cover the gap, sizing David up for a sliding challenge. David's right foot flicked out like a snake's tongue.
A flick, a leap... ball and man sailed clean over Zheng Zhi's challenge. Wang Dalei moved to close the angle, but David didn't give him the chance to narrow the space. He wound up his leg and unleashed a thunderous strike toward the top left corner.
At that range, reaction time was a myth.
Boom! The ball scorched the air and ripped into the roof of the net, the white mesh bulging violently.
"Holy—! How is he that clinical?!" Wu Lei blurted out.
The rest of the squad stood frozen. Watching David on a screen was one thing, but witnessing that raw, explosive impact in person was another thing entirely.
"How did he get past me?" Zhang Linpeng muttered, still bewildered. He hadn't just lunged; he'd tried to initiate a physical battle, yet David had shrugged off the contact and moved the ball simultaneously. It was a level of fluidity he simply didn't encounter in the CSL.
"You really don't hold back, do you?" Zheng Zhi said, dusting himself off. He wasn't the jealous type; seeing a youngster play with this kind of fire only brought him joy.
"Gotta give it a hundred percent, Captain," David replied. He didn't mention he was still holding a bit in reserve—otherwise, he might have taken it past Wang Dalei as well. Still, he knew the veterans had slightly underestimated him, granting him the space to string those moves together.
Nearby, Gao Lin's eyes were sparkling. This was the version of himself he saw in his dreams. He wondered if Lippi could ever mold him into something that lethal.
"Don't even look. That's pure talent," Hao Junmin said, waving a hand in front of Gao Lin's face.
"I remember him being good as a kid, but not this elusive," Gao Lin sighed.
"You've never played in the Big Five," Hao Junmin replied quietly. Hao had spent time at Schalke 04 but struggled for minutes in a brutal Bundesliga environment. He knew exactly how steep the mountain was, and looking at David, he could see the gap between them was already a canyon. He knew his starting spot on the wing was gone, but he couldn't even feel bitter about it.
After three months in Germany, David's tactical IQ had evolved several tiers. Constant film sessions with De Bruyne had taught him to see the game in blueprints. In this 8-v-8, he felt like he had all the time in the world.
Soon, Team A began doubling up on him, desperate to kill his space. David simply became "The Eel," dropping into the midfield to facilitate play.
"David!" Ren Hang's pass zips toward him.
David saw Wu Lei darting into space out of the corner of his eye. He feigned a stop but instead stiffened his instep.
Clack! The ball struck his foot, caught an upward force, and transformed into a perfect "rainbow" lob over the defensive line.
"Ah, shame!" Perrin cried out. Wu Lei hadn't anticipated the audacity of the pass. A split-second hesitation meant he couldn't reach the ball before Zheng Zhi tracked back to snuff out the danger.
Perrin's disappointment was quickly replaced by awe at David's creativity. He remembered Wenger's advice to put in a good word for Arsenal, but looking at the boy now, he felt Arsenal might have already missed the boat. The list of "Wenger Almost Signed" stars—Yaya Touré, Di María, Drogba, Ronaldo—was legendary. David Qin looked like he was about to join that illustrious list of missed connections.
On the pitch, Wu Lei was still reeling from the missed chance. He felt a strange mix of euphoria and frustration. It was a joy to play with someone who drew defenders like magnets, but it was painful realizing he wasn't yet tuned to the same frequency.
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