"Beautiful!"
"Look at that! An absolute peach of an assist!"
"A masterclass in deception—the classic look-off!"
"I wonder if there is anyone on the planet right now who can actually read what's going on inside that boy's head!"
The goal in the 47th minute sent the Wolfsburg faithful into another frenzy, their deafening cheers rolling across the stands like a tidal wave. Kevin De Bruyne celebrated with his usual "Sunday league" nonchalance, hopping into the air and vaguely waving a few fingers—a display so low-key that David Qin almost didn't feel like joining him.
At that moment, David looked up at the giant LED screen, watching the replay of his contribution. He stroked his chin with a touch of narcissism, thinking he looked exceptionally sharp.
In front of the goal, however, Loris Karius was the picture of dejection. Behind those two spectacular goals stood a goalkeeper who had served as the perfect backdrop. He could already sense the headlines and the social media buzz that would follow over the next few days. Just my luck, Karius thought, lying flat on the turf and offering a silent, sincere complaint to the heavens.
Shinji Okazaki wasn't feeling much better. Having been raised on conventional, rigid training, the idea that football could be played with such flamboyant flair had never crossed his mind. Running, pressing, covering—that was his life. He felt like a worker ant: essential, but expendable. Today, he truly understood the weight of the word "talent."
As the second half progressed, Mainz seemed to lose their spirit. Even though Kasper Hjulmand tried to inject some fire into them, a side that struggled to attack in the first place stood no chance against a tactician as seasoned as Dieter Hecking. In the 65th minute, David Qin was replaced by Maximilian Arnold.
"Young players need to manage their minutes," Hecking explained, patting David's shoulder as he reached the touchline. "The coaching staff warned me about your workload. While the opposition isn't overwhelming, let's get you into the habit of a scientific rotation."
"I understand," David replied with a knowing smile. His career was just beginning; there was no need to risk a long-term injury for a few extra minutes of glory.
Wolfsburg added a third in the 82nd minute via a long-range blast from Arnold. Mainz managed to claw one back on the counter seven minutes later, but the match ended 3-1. The Wolves' unbeaten streak remained intact.
That evening, David returned to the dormitory and checked in with the security guard before heading to a nearby Irish pub. He wasn't sure who had given the order, but any time he stepped out, it had to be logged. I'm not a child, he thought, before remembering—technically, he was a minor.
He recalled the German Youth Labor Protection Act, which strictly regulated working hours for minors. They weren't supposed to work past 8:00 PM. Even for athletes aged 16 to 18, the absolute cutoff was 11:00 PM. Furthermore, under the law, employers were only supposed to hire minors for sporting events on Saturdays and Sundays. He wondered how many times Wolfsburg had skirted those rules, or if they simply paid the fines as a cost of doing business.
Fortunately, Hecking didn't micro-manage him as long as he didn't stay out all night or indulge in heavy drinking. After all, most Bundesliga players enjoyed a post-match beer.
David arrived at the pub. Since the match had ended hours ago, only a few stray customers remained.
"A beer, please, Mr. Scott!" David sat at the bar, tilting his head toward the television.
"Sorry, lad," the elderly Scott said, polishing a glass without looking up. "The new Youth Protection Act is in full swing. No alcohol for anyone under eighteen."
"Don't try to pull a fast one on me, I know the law!" David rapped his knuckles on the table. "The law says no hard liquor for minors, but for those over sixteen, beer, wine, or sparkling wine is perfectly legal!"
"Alright, alright, stop nagging! You're loud enough to wake the dead," Scott grumbled, rubbing his ear. He took a clean glass, dipped it in ice water for a moment, and pulled a pint. "Here. But just one. Only because you scored."
"Ah!" David took a satisfied gulp. "What about the assist, Mr. Scott? That was a no-look pass. You don't see those every day." He lived a grueling life of training and strict health meals; that post-match beer was his one true indulgence.
"What assist? I didn't see any assist," Scott lied with a straight face.
"Old man, when I'm famous, I'm going to promote this pub every day until you're so busy you can't speak," David joked, tossing a macadamia nut into his mouth. After several visits, he and Scott had developed a friendly rapport.
"I actually believe that," Scott muttered. As a die-hard Wolfsburg fan, he had seen enough matches to know exactly how much talent sat at his bar. "Listen, boy. Scoring against Mainz and Freiburg is one thing. If you're really the real deal, score against Bayern. Then I'll admit you're good." A glint of mischief flashed in Scott's cloudy eyes.
"Hiccup! That kind of reverse psychology doesn't work on me, Mr. Scott." David shrugged, placed 2.50 euros on the bar, and turned to leave. "But I think I will. When I do, and you're celebrating here, try not to faint from the excitement. And tell the fans: tonight's tab is on Young Master Qin."
Scott shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. Interesting kid. He took the 2.50 euro coin and dropped it into a separate box.
Back at the dorm, David lay staring at the ceiling. For months, he had been avoiding one major reality: his family. Coming into this world so suddenly, he had been overwhelmed by the transition. It wasn't until he checked his bank account that he realized a fixed amount was being sent to the same account every quarter—money for his parents back in China.
The path of a professional footballer is incredibly expensive before you make it big. His original self's parents were middle-class workers. His talent had been discovered early; at eleven, he had joined a Bayern Munich youth program in China and stood out enough to earn a spot in Germany. But once a "Chinese prodigy" arrives in Germany, that talent often becomes unremarkable. And then... he had transmigrated.
"I'll send more back once the new salary kicks in," David sighed into the darkness.
He wasn't sure how to navigate these relationships, but he intended to do right by them. Aside from a weekly phone call to report his progress and listen to their concerns, he planned to send his surplus earnings home so they could invest in real estate. He'd wait for the winter break to visit. He'd be the best son he could be. After all, if the original David Qin had transmigrated into his old life, maybe he had a system of his own—like a "Tycoon System." He hoped the other guy was looking after his parents, too.
After a brief moment of late-night "emo" reflection, he pushed the worries aside. His primary job was still football. Whether it was to ensure his parents never had to work hard again or to fulfill his own dreams, he had to keep training. And honestly, turning a passion into a high-paying career felt pretty good.
October 30th arrived.
The DFB-Pokal, Second Round.
Wolfsburg vs. Heidenheim.
David started on the bench. Against a side from the 2. Bundesliga, the Wolves weren't expecting much trouble. David was subbed on in the 67th minute. Just three minutes later, he latched onto a pass from Bas Dost and unleashed a low drive into the far corner.
Wolfsburg cruised to a 4-0 victory, advancing comfortably to the next round.
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