"Kevin, what are we eating this morning? It won't be Italian noodles again, will it?"
Early the next morning, David Qin walked out of his bedroom, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he spotted Kevin De Bruyne already busy in the kitchen.
To be fair, Dieter Hecking's plan to have them room together was originally a tactical move—a way to prevent David from overtraining in secret or sneaking out for a late night on the town. Instead, David had simply become a professional "couch surfer," happily mooching off the Belgian's cooking.
"Chicken pesto pasta," De Bruyne replied, snapping a handful of dried spaghetti in half before dropping it into the boiling pot.
If an Italian saw you do that, you'd lose your entire Mediterranean fan base in a heartbeat, David thought, mourning the missed opportunity to record the "blasphemy" on his phone.
Shortly after, De Bruyne set two steaming plates on the table, and they ate in companionable silence.
"You've got a real knack for this, Kevin. You're almost as good as I am," David teased, sucking back a large mouthful and offering a thumb's up.
De Bruyne had a penchant for spice, which suited David perfectly. Having grown up on the fiery, numbing heat of Sichuan cuisine, the garlic chili paste De Bruyne used felt mild and welcoming.
"Ever since I was kicked out by my host family as a kid, I've had to fend for myself," De Bruyne said matter-of-factly.
"Next time, I'll show you my skills. How about some Saozi noodles?"
David considered it. He wouldn't use standard wheat or instant noodles; he'd have to use pasta. The reason was purely professional: pasta is typically made from durum wheat, which offers higher protein, complex carbohydrates, dietary fiber, and B vitamins. More importantly, it has a low Glycemic Index (GI), meaning it provides sustained energy and a longer feeling of fullness. In the world of pro football, it's the elite carbohydrate of choice.
"Sure. Just make sure you use plenty of chili," De Bruyne replied, looking genuinely curious. He often scrolled through videos of Chinese street food online, but the complex techniques seemed more difficult than delivering a curling, grass-cutting through-ball.
"Actually, you have muscle inflammation. You should be eating clean and bland until you're recovered, or you'll be sidelined until December," David said, shooting down the spicy idea.
He knew exactly how exhausting the last match had been. Without a creative hub in the midfield, the wingers had been forced into an endless cycle of shuttle sprints. While David wanted to carry the team, he needed time to adapt to that burden.
"I actually feel nearly a hundred percent. I'm heading back to Belgium the day after tomorrow for a check-up. I should be back for the next match," De Bruyne said, checking his phone.
With the mid-November international break looming, De Bruyne's physical condition meant he wouldn't be joining the national squad, giving him the perfect window for recovery. Wolfsburg's next opponent was Schalke 04—a top-tier Bundesliga side that featured Klaas-Jan Huntelaar, one of the famous "Four Sticks" of Dutch football.
"It'll be better if you're there..." David mused, thinking of Schalke's right-back, Atsuto Uchida. The Japanese international's consistent performances had seen his Transfermarkt value surge to 10 million euros.
"Kevin, I saw the new Transfermarkt top twenty list. To be honest, I think it's a bit... off," David muttered.
The list was topped by Messi and Ronaldo at 120 million euros each, followed by the likes of Bale, Neymar, Di María, and Iniesta. But Zenit's Hulk was sitting at 48 million euros. Even if he's 'The Hulk,' is he really worth that much? On second thought, David realized that in the current market, maybe he was.
"Your value is set at 25.5 million euros," De Bruyne said, putting down his fork. "Some people think that's high for a teenager, but after living with you, I think it's low. Your ceiling is much higher."
"Please. Manchester United just paid 31.5 million pounds for Luke Shaw, breaking the world record for a teenager," David grumbled between bites.
"The 'England Tax' is real, and the algorithm always favors certain nationalities. Don't let it get to your head," De Bruyne said, misinterpreting David's grumbling as insecurity.
"I'm off!" David wiped his mouth, grabbed his suitcase, and headed for the door.
He had received a call from Alain Perrin for this international break. China had two formidable friendly opponents: New Zealand and Honduras, both of whom had reached the World Cup knockout stages in the past. With the Asian Cup fast approaching, David needed time to mesh with the national squad. He couldn't just drop in on match day and expect results.
Dieter Hecking had no reason to block the call-up. In fact, Hecking had already decided to tactically concede the next Europa League match.
Why? Because Everton had been held to draws in their last two outings. Wolfsburg sat comfortably at the top of the group with 10 points (3 wins, 1 draw), while Everton trailed with 6. That four-point cushion allowed The Wolves to rotate their squad heavily during a congested fixture list of three games in eight days. It was better to focus on the league and then secure the top spot against Lille in December.
With a clear conscience, David boarded his flight. He had called his parents to invite them to the matches, but end-of-year audits at their company meant they couldn't make it. It's fine, David thought. They can come for the Asian Cup.
He felt a strange knot of tension in his chest during the flight. Before his reincarnation, he was a child of the 90s. He had witnessed the peak of Chinese football in elementary school, when the whole school was given a holiday to watch the World Cup. Shao Jiayi hitting the post had been the greatest heartbreak of his childhood. Perhaps that was when the seed of football was planted, though he lacked the talent back then.
Now, he was about to become one of them. The feeling was indescribably complex.
But soon, exhaustion took over. Because there were no direct flights from Wolfsburg, he had to trek to Munich International and endure a twelve-hour flight to Shanghai Pudong.
By the time his feet hit the tarmac, he was dizzy. Even a business-class seat couldn't fully negate the toll of long-haul travel. He suddenly understood why the ultra-wealthy bought private jets.
Suddenly, David felt a prickle on the back of his neck—the sensation of being watched, much like he felt on the pitch. He turned around and blinked in shock.
"What on earth...?"
The terminal was a sea of green and white. Hundreds of fans were clad in Wolfsburg's Number 13 jersey. He hadn't even booked an airport pickup service.
"David Qin! Can I get an autograph? I've been a Wolfsburg fan for years!"
"David! Over here! A photo, please!"
"Stop pushing! Watch out for the kid!"
David reached out to steady a fan who was nearly knocked over in the surge. To be honest, he had underestimated his own fame back home.
Seven goals in eleven Bundesliga matches was an insane statistic. Add the fact that he was only seventeen, and his popularity had gone parabolic over the last three months. Since he had been spotted at the Munich airport, news of his flight had leaked, and fans from all over the Shanghai area had descended upon Pudong like a tidal wave.
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