"Hahaha!"
Standing nearby, Gao Lin doubled over in laughter before clicking his tongue in wonder, his heart a swirling vortex of emotions. His pass had been a bit too heavy, yet that very flaw had birthed a legendary moment. It reminded him of Busquets' "century assist" to Messi—casual, almost accidental, yet world-defining. This one wasn't far off.
The scrawny kid who once praised Gao Lin's "cool shooting" had evolved into this monster. It was beyond imagination. From his vantage point, Gao Lin had seen it clearly: a fluidity so ethereal it felt like the ball was physically tethered to David's boot.
Zheng Zhi lunged forward and pulled David into a crushing embrace, squeezing the wind out of him. It was a visceral release of the crushing guilt the captain had been harboring.
"Zheng-ge, don't overthink it," David joked, gasping for air as he tried to lighten the mood. "You've still got to do the dirty work for me back there."
"You've got it!" Zheng Zhi slapped David on the back, his eyes clearing. "You just keep charging ahead, kid. I'll be the one holding the fort."
As the Chinese players trotted back to their half, laughing and trading quips, the Iraqi morale took a visible hit. Even the most iron-willed warriors feel the sting of despair after being dismantled by a solo run of that magnitude.
"Boom-boom-boom-boom! China Victory!"
"Boom-boom-boom-boom! China Victory!"
The Newcastle stands shook. The fans, witnessing the equalizer, unleashed a roar that felt like it could tear the roof off the stadium. On the touchline, Alain Perrin stood frozen for several minutes, a faint, lingering smile on his face before he finally took his seat.
Art.
To a Frenchman, the allure of art is irresistible, and in the world of football, that magnetism is magnified. It was why Arsène Wenger's "Beautiful Game" had once conquered the bruisers of the Premier League. Today, Perrin had witnessed a different kind of masterpiece. Not the clockwork synchronization of a team, but the raw, electric tension of an individual turning the pitch into a private stage.
"Simply mesmerizing..." Perrin whispered to himself.
In the opposing technical area, Iraq's manager, Radhi Shenaishil, rubbed his bald head and looked toward the dark mouth of the tunnel with a silent sigh. The loss of Younis Mahmoud was a gaping wound. Now, with David Qin going on a one-man crusade, could his young squad—averaging barely twenty-three years of age—hold their nerve? He didn't like the odds.
Why wasn't it him who got injured? Shenaishil thought bitterly. He gestured frantically for his players to slow the tempo. They couldn't afford to concede again before the break.
With the first half winding down, China pressed their advantage. David, buoyed by the goal, moved into a higher gear. Football is a game of momentum; when a player executes a breakthrough like that, confidence becomes a razor-edged weapon.
"A flick of the tail into a sudden cut inside!" He Wei's voice rose in anticipation. "The curling effort... oh, it's agonizingly close! Just whistling past the far post!"
"The referee blows the whistle. That's the end of the first half!"
He Wei sounded genuinely disappointed. Had there been five more minutes, the scoreboard likely would have changed. The interval gave Iraq a lifeline to regroup, but the momentum was firmly draped in Chinese red.
As the players filed off, the Iraqi defenders couldn't help but stare at David's receding back. Before the match, they had debated whether facing the UAE or China was the tougher task. Their answer then had been the UAE. Now? They would have fought the Emirates twice over rather than face David Qin again. Knowing he's going to beat you and being unable to stop it is a special kind of psychological torture.
In the tunnel, Perrin walked side-by-side with David. "Qin, that was a perfect breakthrough. A vital goal. To be honest, I didn't even see how you got into the box."
"It'll be harder to pull off a second time," David admitted, rinsing his mouth and spitting. "They'll have a shadow on me all through the second half."
"Leave that to me," Perrin said confidently. "If my players are giving me this much, I won't let them down from the bench."
Inside the dressing room, Perrin pulled out the tactical board. "Iraq's approach is one-dimensional: long balls over the top, hunting for the second ball. It's the Saudi style. We stay compact, we guard against the counter and the cross. On the attack, we push our pivots higher. David, I want you to rotate more—less holding, more quick passing. We'll target the channels and the right flank."
The locker room fell into a focused silence. David leaned against his locker, closing his eyes to let his brain go dark for a few precious minutes.
"We didn't expect to be in the final four when we started," Zheng Zhi said as they gathered in a circle, their hands stacked in the center. "But we're here because we belong here. Don't let the fans down. Don't let yourselves down. Let's leave it all on the pitch!"
The second half began with a ferocity that bordered on the desperate. Within ten minutes, three yellow cards were brandished.
"Kayafi for Iraq, Zhang Chengdong and Sun Ke for China—all in the book!" He Wei noted. "The referee is tightening the leash. He knows if he doesn't, this match will spiral out of control."
"Look at this fifty-fifty! Zheng Zhi!"
In a crunching challenge, neither man yielded. When studs meet, the one who hesitates is the one who breaks. Zheng Zhi flew into the tackle against Yasin. THUD. The ball was squeezed between two opposing forces and rocketed into the stands. Both men hit the deck hard. David looked over anxiously, but Zheng Zhi just rubbed his shin and flashed a grin.
By the 60th minute, China's old nemesis reared its head: stamina. A month of high-intensity tournament football was finally draining the tank. Iraq was in no better shape; their path to the semis had been a gauntlet of extra time and penalties. Without Younis, their attack was toothless.
In the 69th minute, Perrin moved first. Yu Hai out, Wu Lei in. He was looking for Wu Lei's ghosting runs to kill the game. Iraq responded by bringing on Adnan—a towering midfielder from Udinese. He was there for one reason: to bully David Qin.
"The game has reached a fever pitch!" He Wei shouted. "Stamina is cratering, and mistakes are creeping in. Adnan is sticking to David like glue, but China is holding firm."
The 80th minute. Sun Ke burned Ismail on the right and whipped in a cross. Gao Lin rose, meeting it perfectly, but he went for power over precision. The ball cleared the crossbar. Perrin stomped the turf in frustration. How does he miss the easy ones?
Iraq countered immediately. Adnan used his frame to shield David and headed a long ball into the path of Meram. He was through on goal! At the last possible second, Zhang Linpeng flew in with a desperate recovery slide, poking the ball out for a throw-in.
The stadium was a cacophony of nerves. Everyone felt it—a goal was coming.
Suddenly, the Newcastle Stadium fell silent, then erupted. David Qin, operating on the edge of the box, executed a sudden change of pace and nutmegged Adnan. He didn't give the big man a chance to recover, digging his studs into the turf and exploding away.
"Beautiful! He's away!"
David ignored the closing defenders, his eyes darting across the horizon. As Wu Lei made a diagonal dart into the right channel, David executed a perfect No-Look Pass. This was the fruit of his training with Kevin De Bruyne—keeping his vision wide, eyes never locked on the ball.
The ball rolled perfectly into Wu Lei's path.
"STRIKE IT!" the fans screamed.
Wu Lei took the shot from a tight angle, but it slammed directly into the keeper's chest.
"Shit!" Perrin cursed. He knew Wu Lei's finishing was his Achilles' heel, but to miss a chance that clinical was agonizing. Wu Lei looked like he wanted to swallow his own tongue in shame.
"No time for that! Corner! Get in there!" Zheng Zhi roared.
A corner. David rarely involved himself in the aerial duels, and Iraq knew it. They didn't mark him tightly in the box. But Perrin had drilled a specific set-piece routine for this exact scenario.
"The players are jostling for space!" He Wei shouted. "The referee has to pause the game to calm them down. Iraq is keeping an eye on David, but they aren't draped over him."
The whistle blew. Zhang Chengdong didn't aim for the tall timber in the middle. He drove a low, hard ball toward the edge of the area.
Finding who?
Number 13.
David had intentionally lingered, baiting Kasim into a false sense of security with a heavy first touch. Kasim bit. He lunged for the "mistake."
In that split second, David ignited.
As the sea breeze from the Pacific coast caught the hem of his red jersey, David flicked the ball up and bypassed Kasim with a staggering burst of acceleration. The stadium gasped.
Ismail lunged across to cover, his tackle fierce and uncompromising. David's feet were a blur. He touched the ball past the sliding leg—if Ismail had connected with the man, it would have been a red card and a penalty. He pulled his leg back at the last millisecond.
Now on the right side of the six-yard box, the angle was impossibly narrow. David didn't care. He swung his right leg with everything he had.
BOOM.
The contact was pure. His core strength channeled entirely into the instep. Hameed, the Iraqi keeper, threw his hands up instinctively, but the ball was a cannonball. It shrieked between his palms and tore into the roof of the net.
2-1!!!
The net bulged, and the world went mad.
"OH—!" He Wei's voice broke into a jagged scream. "THE FLICK! THE VOLLEY! IT'S IN!"
"A brace! He has snatched the lead back with his bare hands! David Qin has placed a massive weight on China's side of the scales!"
Down on the pitch, David ripped his jersey off again, swinging it over his head in a wild arc, surrendering to the primal ecstasy of the late winner.
"DAVID QIN! DAVID QIN!"
The fans leaned over the railings, reaching out for their hero. For years, they had watched him shine in the Bundesliga, dreaming of the day he would wear the national red. Now, here he was, delivering them from the brink. He had scored this goal for the boy, the man, and the elder in every fan.
David looked at the sea of red, at the flags painted on weeping faces, and blew a kiss to the stands.
The third-place trophy was within their grasp.
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