Inside the tunnel, the air was thick with the scent of winter liniment and unspoken rivalries. David Qin caught sight of Son Heung-min . The last time their paths had crossed, the atmosphere between their two nations had reached a boiling point, punctuated by David's provocative celebration against the South Korean bench. Despite the history, David offered a terse nod—a professional acknowledgement. Regardless of nationalistic vitriol, Son had never personally crossed him.
Son returned the nod, his eyes masking a turbulent mix of emotions. Ever since the Asian Cup quarterfinals, the South Korean squad had been living under a barrage of public fury. Fans back home had pelted them with yeot—traditional taffy used as a biting insult. As South Korea's premier young talent, Son was the inevitable yardstick used to measure David Qin's meteoric rise.
Who is better? The question haunted the Korean media. After years in the Bundesliga, how could he be overshadowed by a seventeen-year-old? Korean netizens weren't known for their logic; if they decided you were failing, they would tear you apart. Son's father had gone as far as banning him from the internet to preserve his mental state.
Am I destined to live in his shadow forever? The thought stoked a fire in Son's chest. He had been competitive since birth; he couldn't accept this narrative. He would break the nightmare here, today. What was lost on the international stage would be reclaimed in the colors of Die Werkself. He felt a strange sense of déjà vu, as if he'd promised himself this before, but he pushed it aside and marched out into the roar of the crowd.
The BayArena, much like Wolfsburg's home ground, boasted a modest thirty-thousand capacity, but the Leverkusen faithful possessed a lung capacity that defied their numbers. The wall of sound was deafening.
"Kevin, how are we feeling today?" David asked, rubbing his ears as they fanned out across the pitch.
"Decent. You?" De Bruyne replied laconically.
"Even better than the last one," David said, rolling his neck with a touch of theatrical flair. "I think I've finally mastered the rhythm of this league."
"Careful, you're starting to sound like Nicklas," Ivan Perišić interjected with a smirk. Even from the depths of the bench, Bendtner's "Lord" persona was infectious, though his flamboyant training ground theatrics often teetered on the edge of cringe-worthy.
"I was just testing the waters. Clearly, it didn't land," David laughed, dropping the act. He briefly considered if he should adopt the "camera-ready" celebrations popularized by the likes of Bellingham in the future, but he dismissed it. He was a modest soul—mostly because the thought of a failed "cool" pose made him want to crawl into a hole.
"Guten Abend and welcome to Matchday 20 of the Bundesliga!" Derek Rae's voice carried over the airwaves. "It's a tantalizing clash at the BayArena as Bayer Leverkusen host Wolfsburg. Let's look at the home side first. Die Werkself remain largely unchanged; why fix what isn't broken? All eyes are on Son Heung-min, who found the net against China in that thrilling Asian Cup quarterfinal. Had it not been for David Qin's late heroics, the narrative of Asian football might look very different tonight."
"As for The Wolves," Stewart Robson added, "Olić has transitioned into a super-sub role due to fitness, meaning the starting XI is the settled, dangerous unit we've come to expect. No major winter signings for Hecking—he's backing the horses that brought him this far."
The whistle blew, and the match ignited. Leverkusen, still nursing the wounds of their away defeat, surged forward with predatory intent. Son danced on the wing, a blur of step-overs and sharp feints that left Vieirinha grasping at shadows. The home fans rose as one, but the veteran Brazilian Naldo lunged across to block the cut-back, forcing Son to settle for a driven cross.
Stefan Kießling, the Bundesliga's resident aerial specialist, rose to meet it. The man had outshone Lewandowski for the Golden Boot just two seasons prior, but age and a nagging hip injury had sapped his explosive power. He won the header, but the contact was glancing; Diego Benaglio gathered it comfortably.
"Nice one, Cap!" David shouted, giving a thumbs-up. He knew how much a world-class keeper stabilized the spine of a team.
"Back for the corner! Stay focused!" Luiz Gustavo barked. In Hecking's system, David was granted some creative freedom, but modern football demanded every man track back. David slotted into the left side of the box, tight on Bellarabi. Hakan Çalhanoğlu, however, whipped a low, fizzing ball toward the near post, trying to catch them sleeping.
"Wolfsburg's man-marking is impeccable," Derek Rae noted. "Arnold clears ahead of Son, and the ball finds Bas Dost at the apex of the counter!"
Dost, the hulking Dutchman, had become indispensable to Hecking's blueprint. He wasn't just a finisher; he was a human anvil. He shielded the ball from Spahić and nodded it down into the path of De Bruyne. Kevin looked left and right, saw the options, and naturally fed David on the flank. It wasn't a slight against Perišić; it was simply a matter of supreme trust.
David felt Bellarabi breathing down his neck. He shifted half a yard, using his frame to shield the ball as he cushioned it. Bellarabi lunged, confident in his recovery speed. David waited for the commit, then flicked the ball with a sharp, outside-of-the-boot touch, leaving the twenty-million-euro defender spinning in the grass.
David didn't look for the shot. He threaded a reverse ball back to the overlap where Ricardo Rodriguez was charging like a freight train. The Swiss fullback, finally back to his peak after a winter layoff, didn't even need to break stride.
"Rodriguez burns past Donati! He's at the byline... the cut-back finds David Qin at the edge of the area! Is this the moment?"
The BayArena held its breath. They had seen this movie before. Leverkusen's defense was notoriously porous, often ball-watching while dangerous runners ghosted into the "zone." David shaped for the shot, his body language screaming power. Leno, the former Golden Glove winner, panicked, knowing exactly what David could do from that pocket of space.
David didn't blast it. As Lars Bender and Jedvaj lunged to block the anticipated rocket, David's foot sliced across the ball with delicate, surgical precision.
The ball took flight, carving a wicked, dipping arc through the evening air. It bypassed Leno's desperate, fingertip reach and seemed destined for the top corner.
CLANG.
The sound of leather hitting the crossbar echoed through the stadium. The Leverkusen fans offered a silent prayer to the woodwork.
"Dammit! Again? Always the bar!" David cursed, his face a mask of frustration.
"Seems your luck stayed in Wolfsburg," Perišić teased.
"Just watch," David replied, his eyes narrowing. "I'm getting one. Don't get jealous."
Hecking had told them this would be a shootout. Leverkusen only knew how to attack; Wolfsburg intended to oblige. The resulting corner was swung in by De Bruyne toward Dost, but Bender managed to head it clear. As the ball fell outside the box, Leno's heart sank. He saw a familiar figure waiting for the gift.
Why there? Leno thought frantically. Of all the places to clear it, why his zone?
David watched the ball drop, cushioned it into his stride, and let fly. Another curler, even more vicious than the first. Leno stretched until his joints creaked, but he was rooted to the center while the ball sought the corner.
0-1!!!
The net bulged as the ball tore into the mesh. The traveling Wolfsburg fans erupted. "Beautiful!" "Kill them off!"
David let out a roar of laughter. He sprinted toward the away end, held his left arm horizontal to represent the crossbar, and delivered a mock "shoryuken" uppercut, sending his arm wobbling. The fans roared as they decoded the celebration.
"Your curlers are getting ridiculous, David," Dost said, clapping him on the back. "By the time you retire, they'll be naming that patch of grass after you."
"I'm counting on it," David grinned. He had grown up hearing about the Maldini Corridor and the Del Piero Zone. He didn't just want the stats; he wanted the legacy. He wanted to be a permanent fixture in the history of the beautiful game.
Son watched the celebration from the center circle, a cold dread settling in. David seemed miles ahead of where he had been just weeks ago. How could a human improve that fast?
"Hey! Heads up! Let's go!" Çalhanoğlu shouted, snapping his teammates out of their trance. Leverkusen were used to conceding; they had built up an immunity to the shock. They just needed to respond in kind.
On the touchline, Roger Schmidt—the former quality engineer turned coach—watched with a complicated expression. He had always thought Son was the perfect spear for his all-out attack system. But watching David Qin was a revelation. Every touch was an event. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret; he was an engineer, David was a "car salesman"—surely there was a cosmic irony there that meant they should be on the same side.
"Push up!" Schmidt commanded. Their philosophy didn't change for a goal. They would attack until the whistle or until they broke.
The pressure told in the 29th minute. Leverkusen's pace on the wings finally frayed the Wolfsburg seams. Bellarabi couldn't bypass Rodriguez, so he swept the ball to Çalhanoğlu. The Turk might have been a controversial character off the pitch, but his talent was undeniable. He didn't wait for Gustavo to close him down; he unleashed a dipping long-range effort.
Benaglio parried it, but the ball stayed live in the danger zone. Kießling battled Knoche for the header, and instead of going for goal, he directed it toward the far post.
Son arrived like a bolt of lightning, throwing himself into a sliding finish.
1-1!!!
The BayArena exploded. Leverkusen might defend like a sieve, but their attack was a jagged blade. If they could trouble Bayern, they certainly weren't afraid of The Wolves. The home win was back on the table.
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