"We already bought one. Don't you remember? A few years back, I told you we invested in a place right by the eastern subway station," Tian Man said dismissively. "It's just that we've known the neighbors here for decades. It's close to your father's office and mine—it just feels more like home."
While the Qin family wasn't "wealthy" by mogul standards, their combined roles as a state-owned enterprise accountant and a power grid employee provided a comfortable middle-class life. Navigating the boom of Shenzhen since the 90s had allowed them to secure two properties and financial stability. In truth, if they hadn't spent so much funding David's football journey abroad, their lifestyle would have been even more lavish.
"Buy a few more," David said, smiling as he looked at the feast spread across the table. "They'll only go up in value."
"Fine, fine. I agree. Your father was actually talking about taking out a loan for another one recently," Tian Man replied, her face beaming.
A moment later, the security door creaked open. A middle-aged man in a power grid uniform and black-rimmed glasses walked in, hoisting a plastic bag from a local institution. "You wouldn't believe how popular this place has gotten. I had to wait thirty minutes just for the roast pigeon."
Qin Zhihong set the bag down and gave David's arm a firm squeeze. "You've filled out, son. You didn't embarrass the family name during the friendlies against New Zealand and Honduras last month." He laughed, a glimmer of nostalgia in his eyes. "I still remember when you were nine and nutmegged me during a kickabout. Now you're doing it to Bundesliga professionals. Does that mean your old man is basically playing at a German top-flight level?"
Zhihong joked, but his eyes were full of pride. In China, the prevailing wisdom is that academic success is the only path to a future. It isn't necessarily wrong, but sticking to your guns and letting a child pursue football—even at the cost of formal schooling—is an immense gamble. Zhihong had weathered the judgment of elders, his wife, and colleagues to let David chase his dream.
They say a son is the continuation of a father's life. When Zhihong arrived in 90s Shenzhen—a city that felt like one giant casino—his stakes weren't chips, but the dreams of his youth. He had lost that particular bet, but he viewed the experience as a treasure. He didn't want his son to live with the "what-ifs" that haunted him, so he had sent David to Germany.
David smiled back, though a trace of bittersweetness lingered. He bit his lip, resolving not to overthink the past. As he had told De Bruyne: Focus on the now. He couldn't change the fact of his reincarnation; he could only make amends through his actions in the present.
Dinner ended on a high note, though the reality of the schedule soon intruded. "I can only stay for a few days," David said apologetically. "The national team training camp starts soon."
"Seventeen years old and you're always running across the globe," Tian Man sighed, then added with a sudden, sharp grin, "If it gets to be too much, just give me a grandson to play with. I'm taking early retirement in a few years anyway."
David nearly choked on his water. He thought of the professional football world—young fathers were actually quite common, especially among the stars. Neymar had been nineteen when his seventeen-year-old girlfriend gave birth. In China, that would be a legal scandal; in football, it was Tuesday.
"I'm not thinking about that yet, Mom. Football first," David said, then added mischievously, "If you're that bored, why don't you and Dad just start a 'new save file' and have another kid?"
The couple stared at him in stunned silence. "You used to be so reserved," Tian Man nagged, hiding a blush. "Now you're all slick-tongued. I bet you've been hanging out with the wrong crowd over there. I've heard about what you footballers get up to..."
David endured thirty minutes of maternal lecturing before retreating to his bedroom, his head ringing. By the time evening rolled around, he managed to pitch his idea: inviting them to Australia for the Asian Cup. With the family's improved finances and David's growing influence, getting them time off wouldn't be an issue.
Zhihong was ecstatic. He'd regretted missing the friendlies, and the thought of seeing his son in a major tournament had him ready to pack his bags immediately. That night, he indulged in a few extra glasses of wine and became uncharacteristically talkative.
"I was born in 1976—the same year we took third in the Asian Cup," Zhihong said, his voice thick with emotion. "In 2004, I took you to the final, but we lost to Japan. I remember the 2002 World Cup too... the streets outside Shenyang's Wulihe Stadium were so packed the convenience stores ran out of beer. You were too little to go then."
He leaned in, looking at David not as a father, but as a fan. "We conceded nine goals in three games back then, but we all felt a spark. We thought, It's our first time, we're just paying our dues. We'll only get better from here. I'm telling you this so you know what you're carrying. You're carrying the expectations of millions."
David gripped his father's hand and nodded. He understood. He had been a fan himself. Being a supporter of the Chinese national team was a cycle of hope, waiting, and, more often than not, profound disappointment. They didn't just crave a win; they craved a team that wouldn't back down when things got ugly.
After a few days of rest, David headed to the training base in Shenzhen. The national team—affectionately known as the Guozu—had chosen the city to acclimatize to the summer heat they would face in Australia.
"Zheng Zhi! Good to see you. How's the body?" David called out as he spotted the veteran at the gates.
"The CSL schedule is different from yours; we finished up in November," Zheng Zhi laughed, clapping David on the back. "You've gotten stronger. The intensity in Germany must be something else."
"It's manageable. We don't do heavy lifting mid-season, only during the winter break 'reboots,'" David replied. "And congrats on the four-in-a-row with Evergrande. Creating history, aren't you?"
Under Marcello Lippi, Evergrande had reached its zenith, winning the AFC Champions League and dominating the domestic league.
"We're not done yet," Zheng Zhi said seriously. "But enough about us. Go get a trophy of your own. Break some records over there!" He truly wanted David to succeed in the Bundesliga. If David established himself, he would be a beacon for Chinese players, lowering the barrier for the next generation.
"I'll give it everything I've got!"
As they walked, David saw many familiar faces. The atmosphere was charged. The Asian Cup was the continent's equivalent to the Euros or the Copa América—the stakes were undeniable.
"The draw wasn't kind to us," Zheng Zhi noted, a hint of worry in his voice. "Being in Pot 3 put us with Saudi Arabia, Uzbekistan, and North Korea. We should be able to fight for second in the group, but the knockouts will be a gauntlet."
"I'm hoping for South Korea," David said confidently. "Australia has the home-field advantage, and Japan... well, Japan is Japan. Their midfield is world-class with Honda, Kagawa, and Kiyotake."
David had just played against Kagawa's Dortmund, and while the Japanese star didn't feature, David knew the quality was there. "But they only have Okazaki up front. He's a runner, not necessarily a clinical finisher. If we stay disciplined defensively, I'm confident I can exploit Gotoku Sakai on the wing. I've scouted his habits from our match against Stuttgart. He's beatable."
"If you've got that much confidence, we can't back down either," Zheng Zhi said, punching the air. "Let's give them hell!"
Alain Perrin's training philosophy was pragmatic: master the basics and obsess over the details. He was a "velvet glove over an iron fist" type of manager. He didn't need to scream; his mere presence in the dressing room commanded respect.
"Details are the devil," Perrin would tell the squad. "Details decide success or failure. If you have a problem with that, tell me, and we will solve it together."
Even David didn't dare breathe too loudly around him, fearing a "grip of steel" from the Frenchman. The squad was notably devoid of the usual "old guard" from the big clubs; instead, many hungry players from smaller teams like Jiangsu Sainty had been called up. With David—the wunderkind from one of the world's top leagues—working harder than anyone, no one else dared to slack off.
By late December, the first stage of training concluded. Before flying out, they gathered at the TV station for an official send-off ceremony.
"How do I look? Does the suit work?" David asked, checking himself in the mirror. His athletic frame filled out the fabric well, but his youthful face still looked a bit out of place in formal wear.
"Looking sharp, kid. You'll have the girls swooning," Gao Lin teased, giving him a thumbs-up. "Just needs a bit more hair gel."
"Why do all you strikers love hair gel?" David muttered. "Does it help with headers or just add an inch to your height?"
The lights dimmed, and the host took the stage. "The voyage begins again! Welcome to the Night of Chinese Football!"
One by one, Perrin announced his 23-man squad. When it came to the penultimate name, the host's voice rose an octave. "The youngest player in the squad, currently lighting up the Bundesliga with Wolfsburg... a name that needs no introduction. David Qin!"
David stepped forward in his tailored suit, a brilliant smile on his face. He loved this. It felt like an ancient ritual—the sacrifice to the flags before a great campaign. He looked down at the crest on his chest before taking his place.
"And finally, our captain, Zheng Zhi! In his fourth Asian Cup appearance!"
Once the squad was assembled, Zheng Zhi held up a selfie stick for a "family photo."
"Three, two, one... Eggplant!"
Flash! Click! The moment was frozen in time. In the following interview, the host turned to David and Zheng Zhi. "David, what do you want to say to the fans back home?"
"Honestly? Before we achieve anything, promises are meaningless," David said bluntly. "We'll let the results do the talking."
"Spoken like a true Perrin disciple," the host laughed. "What's your personal goal for the tournament?"
"Score as many as I can and help the team win," David replied perfectly.
Zheng Zhi was equally poised. "We're a new team with many debutants, but we have a vitality that big tournaments crave. We are going into this with absolute confidence."
As David walked out of the studio, he felt that vitality. Perrin had purged the "slick veterans" and brought in hungry youth. They were all desperate to prove themselves. Zheng Zhi knew this would likely be his final Asian Cup. He didn't know how far they would go, but for the first time in a long time, the engine of Chinese football felt like it was actually running.
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