"Watching David Qin play is pure indulgence; it's as if every movement he makes is infused with an element of joy."
"That no-look pass was exquisite—shades of Ronaldinho in his prime."
"Ricardo Rodríguez collects it and pings a ball across for the advancing Luiz Gustavo."
Just as the Leverkusen defenders expected Wolfsburg to reset their build-up, the Brazilian delivered a laser-accurate long ball. There is a common saying in football that all Brazilians possess sublime technique; perhaps those who end up as defenders simply couldn't out-compete their peers for the attacking roles.
The ball spiraled through the air, dropping toward the right flank. There, Daniel Caligiuri hit full stride, killing the ball dead only to be met immediately by a wall.
Gonzalo Castro!
The German-born Spaniard had made the squad for the World Cup in Brazil, though he never saw a minute of action. Given the sheer opulence of Germany's roster, being a bench option was proof enough of his quality. He gave Caligiuri no room to breathe, sticking to him like a shadow and using his strength to disrupt his balance. Caligiuri was forced to shield the ball, managing a desperate layoff to Kevin De Bruyne.
A second later, Leverkusen's number ten charged in, looking to test De Bruyne's mettle.
Thump! The pitch-side microphones picked up the visceral sound of bone on bone. Hakan Çalhanoğlu was sent reeling, sprawling awkwardly onto the turf. De Bruyne merely wobbled. The Belgian's physical gifts were manifesting more clearly with every passing game, nearing their absolute peak. The slight Çalhanoğlu was never going to win that duel.
"De Bruyne is injecting pure steel into the Wolfsburg midfield!"
"He gives Castro no chance for an interception, launching a diagonal long ball to the opposite flank!"
"He's looking for David Qin!"
At the Volkswagen Arena, David glanced over his shoulder. Once he pinpointed the trajectory, he opened his long strides and burst forward. Ball control occupied a massive portion of his daily regimen because football, at its core, consists of four pillars: trapping, passing, dribbling, and shooting. Every complex technique is built upon them; master the basics to an extreme, and the rewards are limitless.
Snap! David's right foot softened the moment it met the ball, cushioning it as if he had applied glue to his boot. Seeing this, Giulio Donati grew visibly tense, his eyes fixed on David's feet.
A flick with the outside of the boot... then a snap back with the inside!
Following an exaggerated arc, the ball whipped around like a cow's tail—a silky "Elastico" that left Donati lunging at the space where the ball had been a heartbeat prior. He caught nothing but air. By the time he looked back, he saw only a silhouette charging toward the penalty area.
"Magnificent!"
"The 'Magician of the Pitch'... that's the nickname Wolfsburg fans have bestowed upon David Qin recently, and I find it quite fitting!"
"He always finds a different way to break through!"
"How will he finish this?"
"He cuts inside!" He Wei's voice suddenly spiked in volume.
On the pitch, having eluded Donati, David sliced diagonally toward the edge of the box. Before Tin Jedvaj could step up to block the lane, David adjusted his posture and let fly.
Thwack! A beautiful curve caressed by the inside of his right foot sent the ball whistling toward the top right corner.
Clang! —
The sharp ring of the ball meeting the crossbar drew a collective groan of despair from the tens of thousands of home fans. David gritted his teeth. Since his system had upgraded and broken down his specific attributes, he had noticed the growth rate of his other skills slowing. Consequently, he had been obsessively grinding the progress of his [Devil's Finesse]. After all, a 52% proficiency rating was far too low.
"Mine!"
Emir Spahić claimed the rebound inside the box, clearing it up-field without hesitation to end the threat.
"The quality of that finesse shot was immense; it was inches away from changing the scoreline."
"But denied by the woodwork. I imagine the Wolfsburg fans right now want to tear that goal frame down and replace it with a wider one!" He Wei joked.
The camera cut to the touchline. On the bench, Dieter Hecking's usually stoic face broke into a slight smile. "David has been asking for extra shooting drills lately. I didn't expect the results to show so quickly."
"Boss, I don't think God just gave him talent," the assistant coach mused. "It feels more like God is chasing him down, trying to force-feed him greatness."
Suddenly, a roar erupted from the stands, and both coaches looked up. Ricardo Rodríguez had sent in a cross to the far post; Bas Dost had won the initial header but failed to find the right contact, sending the ball wide of the mark.
Leverkusen's keeper, Bernd Leno—the record holder for the youngest German goalkeeper to appear in the Champions League—was not just a shot-stopper with lightning reflexes. He possessed an exceptional long-passing game. He launched a ball that spanned half the pitch, finding Son Heung-min lurking on the left wing. The South Korean controlled it with his chest and drove forward in one motion.
The sheer velocity caught Junior Malanda off guard; he was bypassed in a single stride.
"Son Heung-min, sumnida!"
"Truly the new banner-man of East Asian football! The 'New Cha Bum-kun' in Beckenbauer's words, 'Sonaldo' to his teammates!"
"He muscles past the challenging Vieirinha!"
"Sensational!"
The Korean commentator's voice was like a machine gun, pouring out his excitement in a rapid-fire torrent. Son was a bolt of lightning. When Leverkusen had bought him to replace André Schürrle, it was his raw pace they coveted. But after years of refinement, his speed was no longer just about track-style running; it was paired with seamless ball control and high-level game reading. You don't command a 10-million-euro fee otherwise.
After bypassing Vieirinha, Son reached the left side of the box in the blink of an eye. He made the exact same decision David had moments ago.
He cut inside.
However, under pressure from Naldo, he was forced into a hurried snapshot toward the near post.
Bang! This was his favorite zone. Even without full power, it was a high-quality strike.
"Brilliant, Benaglio!"
"A crucial save to tip it behind for a corner!"
"Schmidt didn't start Stefan Kießling today, so there isn't enough of a focal point to distract the Wolfsburg backline. The half-spaces aren't opening up, which is why Son had to rush that shot."
On the pitch, Son Heung-min threw his hands up in frustration. He wondered if a more daring move to beat Naldo would have yielded a better result.
From a distance, David Qin witnessed the entire sequence, acknowledging that Son's ability was indeed elite. Among the current legion of Asian stars in Europe, Son stood head and shoulders above the rest—more consistent than the recovering Shinji Kagawa, more impactful than the recently dampened Keisuke Honda, and more prolific than Shinji Okazaki.
It was no wonder people called him the New Banner-man of Asia. Most impressively, he was only twenty-two. At the same age, Kazuyoshi Miura hadn't even cracked the J-League, Hidetoshi Nakata had just found his footing at Perugia, and Park Ji-sung was still grinding away in the Netherlands.
David's eyes narrowed slightly, a flash of bold ambition crossing his face.
Soon, that banner would have his own name written on it.
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