The first-team training ground was a world apart from Bayern II. The grass seemed sharper, the pitch wider, and the air carried the scent of tension and expectation. Qin Ming stepped through the gates, feeling the system pulse faintly in his veins: [Fusion: 82%]. Each heartbeat carried both exhilaration and focus. He had trained for this, yet the level of intensity here far exceeded what he had imagined.
The first-team training ground of Bayern Munich was a world apart from the youth academy. The grass seemed almost sharper, greener, and more exact. Every blade felt like it had been manicured to perfection, and the pitch stretched wider than any field Qin Ming had ever played on in his life. Walking onto it, he felt the weight of history pressing down—not just from the club itself, but from every player who had stepped here before him. He could almost hear faint echoes of legendary footsteps. His system buzzed faintly at the back of his mind: [Fusion: 82%]. A reminder that he wasn't here merely to exist—he was here to dominate.
Qin Ming's boots made soft thuds against the turf as he followed the path to the changing rooms. First-team players passed him with casual acknowledgment, some offering curt nods, others barely glancing. The mixture of curiosity, doubt, and subtle dismissal hung in the air. They had seen many youths join the team, some promising, some fading, and one more Chinese boy seemed insignificant to most. But Qin Ming was different—he knew it. The system reminded him constantly: this wasn't just a game; this was a chessboard, and every movement, every glance, every touch of the ball was a calculated piece of strategy.
When the warm-up began, it was immediately apparent how far he had to go. Jogging in formation, stretching with precision, light ball touches—all were deceptively simple, yet the first-team coach's eyes missed nothing. One slight misalignment of the hips, a late step in the sprint, and a sharp whistle pierced the air. "Faster! Sharper!" the coach barked, his tone leaving no room for excuses. Qin Ming adjusted, leaning into the system's prompts. Muscles reacted with an almost unnatural precision, each movement flowing, smooth yet explosive. Fusion ticked upward to 83%, and a thrill ran through him—he could feel the template embedding deeper into his body.
As the warm-up progressed to passing and tactical drills, the intensity escalated. Veteran midfielders pressed with such force and intelligence that a single lapse could lead to loss of possession. Qin Ming's system guided him subtly: shift half a step to the left, adjust your angle of pass, lift your shoulder just slightly to feint a move. He executed instinctively, anticipating defenders' reactions before they even initiated them. One feint left a seasoned defensive midfielder stumbling; a perfectly timed pass split the defense and landed at the striker's feet. Heads turned. The whispers began. "Did you see that?" "Who's the kid?" The system pulsed: [Fusion: 84%], and Qin Ming grinned faintly under his calm exterior.
Drills transitioned into small-sided games, 5v5, each with heightened intensity. Qin Ming's movements were not just physical; they were cognitive. He anticipated the flow, predicting every defensive shift, reading the body language of his opponents, and calculating the probability of successful dribbles or passes. One moment he was the facilitator, distributing the ball with millimeter precision; the next, he exploded past defenders, performing a feint and sudden acceleration that left them flat-footed. With each successful maneuver, the system chimed encouragements: [Dribble +2, Tactical Awareness +3]. Fusion rose to 85%. The exhilaration was intoxicating.
Even the veteran players noticed. A grizzled defender, known for his tough, unflinching presence, found himself repeatedly outmaneuvered. In one fast break, Qin Ming anticipated a tackle, executed a body feint, and sprinted into open space. The defender could only watch as he threaded the ball into the striker's path. A few nods of acknowledgment and rare smiles followed, though Qin Ming remained unfazed, his focus entirely on the flow of the game. Ten Hag, arms crossed, observed silently from the sidelines. His expression betrayed little, yet there was an unmistakable flicker of recognition as he noted the young boy's intuition on the field.
By mid-session, the intensity was near its peak. Conditioning drills followed, pushing the youth to their limits: sprints, shuttle runs, sudden direction changes, jumping drills, ball control under pressure. Every step, every landing was monitored by the system, analyzing angles, force, and posture. Muscle memory synced with instinct. Each correction was internalized within seconds. When a senior player attempted to push Qin Ming off the ball physically, he absorbed, sidestepped, and countered with perfect balance, leaving both the teammate and watching veterans impressed. Fusion ticked again: [Fusion: 86%].
After nearly two hours of continuous exertion, the final drill was a 9v9 possession game with goals at either end. Here, everything converged: tactical awareness, dribbling skills, system-enhanced perception, and stamina. Qin Ming's heart raced, yet he remained calm. Every movement was calculated. Each pass, each feint, each run into space was deliberate. He intercepted passes, initiated counter-attacks, and positioned himself to create gaps. A perfectly timed through-ball split two defenders, landing at a striker's feet, and the goal was scored. His teammates exchanged looks, and the word "impressive" echoed quietly in the background. Ten Hag's expression remained neutral, but the faint nod he gave Qin Ming did not escape notice.
By the end of the session, muscles burning and sweat plastering his clothes to his skin, Qin Ming jogged to the sideline, chest heaving. He could feel every part of himself awake—the agility of his legs, the coordination of his arms, the awareness in his mind. His system displayed quietly: [Fusion: 87%]. He had made progress, but more importantly, he had proven that he could stand in this arena. The youth academy had been a playground. This was the first battlefield of true European football. And Qin Ming had begun to stake his claim.
In the quiet locker room afterward, as water dripped and players discussed the session, Qin Ming sat alone for a moment, meditating on every movement, every touch, every insight. The system suggested recovery routines, mental exercises, and tactical review. He selected them all, knowing tomorrow would demand even more. One thing was certain: surviving in Bayern's first-team environment required more than skill—it required awareness, adaptability, and a mind sharper than any defender's blade. And Qin Ming was ready.
As he lay on the locker room bench later, towel over his face, he whispered to himself, voice barely audible: "This is just the beginning. Tomorrow, I rise higher." The system pulsed once more, confirming: [Fusion: 88%]. The journey into European dominance had officially begun.