From a tactical bird's-eye view, the pitch had tilted. Because of the wide, sweeping shift by The Wolves, Hamburg's entire defensive block had been forced to lurch toward the right.
That left a pocket of space on the left flank.
David Qin's eyes flickered down to the rolling ball, then snapped back up to lock onto the far post. Under the blinding glare of the stadium floodlights, he took his run-up. His arms swung for balance, his body extending to its absolute limit as power surged from his core, channeling entirely into his right foot.
Thwack! The ball took flight, tearing through a spray of loose dirt and grass clippings. It screamed toward the top right corner of the goal, carrying a vicious, internal rotation.
Jaroslav Drobný, the Hamburg keeper, didn't panic at first. His initial positioning had been solid, trending toward the far post. As a professional, he prided himself on never being beaten from that range. A "butterfingered" error was simply not in his vocabulary.
But a second later, his blood ran cold.
His confidence was ruthlessly dismantled by the ball's exaggerated trajectory. Despite a desperate, lunging leap and a frantic reach with his right glove, the sound of the ball whistling past his fingertips told him the grim reality.
The absolute top corner.
1-1!!!
The stadium held its breath for a heartbeat before erupting with the force of a volcanic eruption. The Wolfsburg faithful vented their ecstasy in a deafening, hysterical roar.
"Is he going for it?" Wolff-Christoph Fuss bellowed into his microphone. "A finesse shot! It's in! Top bins! Absolute postage stamp! David Qin has found that microscopic sliver of space between the keeper's reach and the woodwork! An inch higher and it hits the bar; an inch lower and Drobný gets a hand to it. No one expected him to pull the trigger from there! At seventeen, he is evolving at a terrifying pace, and that sharp, lethal arc is the ultimate proof! David Qin levels it for The Wolves in the 39th minute!"
At the Volkswagen Arena, David Qin celebrated with a triumphant pump of his fist, further igniting the passions of the home crowd.
"David! You did it! You actually did it!" Aaron Hunt shouted, grabbing David by the collar, while the rest of the team mobbed him, slapping his shoulders in a frenzy. This equalizer was a massive shot of adrenaline, washing away the lethargy that had set in after Hamburg's opener.
"All those hours of practice... I finally hit the perfect one!" David laughed, his voice full of fire. As the ball hit the net, his brain was flooded with dopamine—a rush that was impossible to describe.
"Tell the truth, was that a fluke?" Ivan Perišić asked, a hint of playful jealousy in his voice.
"A fluke? Not a chance. That goal was one percent luck and ninety-nine percent pure effort and talent!" David replied, skipping the humility.
Deep down, he knew there was a touch of fortune involved to hit the "dead zone" of the goal so perfectly. But in the end, did it go in? It did. Every "wonder goal" in football history has a dash of luck. Deal with it.
"Let's turn this around before the half-time whistle!" David raised a fist.
"Turn it around! Let's go!" Perišić yelled, fully backing his teammate now.
On the touchline, Dieter Hecking slowly sat back down. He had stood up so fast his vision had gone dark for a second—the joys of getting older. Once the vertigo cleared, he gripped the armrest of his seat. "He actually practiced that into reality?"
He knew David worked on his finesse shots every single day, but he hadn't taken it seriously. Young players have limited time; with such refined technical skill, how would he have the energy for anything else? Finesse shots require thousands of repetitions to build the muscle memory needed for that kind of instinctive reaction.
"Maybe it was just a bit of luck?" the assistant coach mused, smacking his lips.
"Maybe," Hecking smiled.
On the opposite bench, Bert van Marwijk rubbed his weathered face. For a fleeting second, he felt like he was looking at a young Rafael van der Vaart.
Aesthetic.
Truly talented players always play with a certain innate beauty.
"Diekmeier! Lock him down! Don't let him breathe!" Van Marwijk barked, finally digesting the emotional shock of the goal.
In a quiet corner of the VIP stands, a blonde youth in a hoodie stared blankly at the pitch, his eyes fixed on the teenager with the radiant smile.
Previously, a voice in Kevin De Bruyne's head had told him that Wolfsburg simply couldn't function without him—that he was the most important piece of the puzzle. While his professional integrity made him want the team to win, he also felt a strange comfort in being indispensable.
Now, seeing David Qin's goal, he realized the truth. He wasn't the only one who could carry the team.
From the start, he had looked down at David from a high vantage point, seeing him as a tactical protégé. Even though David had improved rapidly over the past three months, Kevin had never viewed him as a competitor—only as a friend, a teammate, and a junior.
But now? His competitive spirit, usually reserved for the elite of the world, began to fixate on the boy on the pitch. He wouldn't just hand over the keys to the kingdom. They were friends, yes, but on the field, it was war. Whoever was stronger would take the lead.
His pupils refocused, burning with a renewed sense of ambition.
Shortly after the restart, two short whistles signaled the end of the half. The Wolves headed into the tunnel with the score tied at 1-1.
"I've noticed your tactical thinking hasn't shifted yet," Hecking said in the dressing room, scrawling rapidly across the tactical board. "Stop lingering in the midfield. Use the wings to advance quickly, disrupt their defensive line, and only then look to play through the middle."
He knew it was hard to break the team's habits on short notice. But on the pitch, if you don't adapt fast enough, you get left behind. In the current Bundesliga standings, Dortmund had fallen away early, and Bayern had found their ruthless stride. If The Wolves dropped points against the lower-tier sides, catching up would be nearly impossible.
"We must take all three points today. Give me everything in the second half!" Hecking clapped his hands.
David pulled Perišić and the others aside to hammer out the finer details. Fifteen minutes later, they were back out.
Perhaps because the Hamburg manager was being overly cautious, the visitors dropped even deeper into a defensive shell, clearly aiming to leave with a single point.
Hamburg could live with a draw. Wolfsburg couldn't.
In a settled attack, there are only two real ways to break a deadlock: First, clear, rhythmic organization—using passing and moving to tear the defense apart. This relies on collective power. Second, explosive individual brilliance—using high-quality solo dribbling to shatter a dense defense at a single point.
Clearly, without De Bruyne, The Wolves couldn't rely on the first method.
"Perišić is looking sharp!" Derek Rae called out. "A clever chop to beat Ostrzolek, and he's holding off Behrami to get the pass away! Olić strikes it first time!"
"Oh, so close! Jaroslav Drobný gets down remarkably well to parry that instinctive effort!"
Drobný stood up, pumping his fists and screaming at his defenders, successfully firing up the Hamburg squad. In their eyes, a Wolfsburg without De Bruyne had already been lucky to score once. They intended to take their point back to the North with a "fortress" defense.
The pitch is a battlefield. When one side's morale surges, the other's inevitably wavers. Time began to bleed away.
"The 64th minute now, and Hecking is making his move," Wolff noted. "Bas Dost replaces Olić, and Maximilian Arnold comes on for Aaron Hunt. Two like-for-like changes. It's clear Hecking is still hunting for the win; he won't settle for a point at home."
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