"Oh! A sublime turn on the touchline followed by a clinical finish!"
"David Qin has just delivered a masterclass in goal-scoring artistry!"
"Watch every touch—he is the living embodiment of technical finesse and spatial awareness. A new Asian star is truly blossoming here at the Stade Pierre-Mauroy!"
The commentary team was electric. In the stands, even the Lille supporters cast aside their partisan leanings to offer a standing ovation. Watching the fluid movements of the teenager, many were struck by a sense of déjà vu. He reminded them of a familiar ghost—the boy who broke the record for the youngest player in Ligue 1 history back in the 2007-08 season, and its youngest goalscorer the following year.
He had also been seventeen then. He had led them to a historic league and cup double. His name was Eden Hazard. While their technical blueprints differed, that innate, unteachable spark in their play was identical.
"If only we could find another one like him," a Lille veteran sighed.
"Eden is tearing it up at Chelsea. Perhaps they'll cross paths soon."
"Was Eden even this good at seventeen?"
The Lille faithful looked at David Qin and then back at Divock Origi. The comparison was unkind; Origi seemed pedestrian, lacking that magnetic quality that etched a player into the memory. Nearby, Origi watched the young Chinese winger bathe in the adulation that should have been his. Jealousy burned in his chest like a fever.
But football rewards the cold-blooded, not the hot-headed. In the second half, Origi's desperation to score led to a string of wasted chances. In the 67th minute, Wolfsburg punished them on the counter as Ivan Perišić struck the decisive blow.
The match ended 3-1 in favor of the Wolves.
"Kevin," David asked as they walked off, "it feels like half the Belgian national team started their careers in Ligue 1. Is it just the proximity?"
"It's the French elite system," De Bruyne explained. "They gather all the top youth talent in those small towns near Paris. Have you heard of Clairefontaine?"
"Zidane, Henry, Anelka, Pogba—they're all graduates. Belgium doesn't have France's wealth, so our FA subsidizes transfer fees to get our best kids into academies in France or the Netherlands."
The football world had a saying for the Belgian model: 50% Dutch influence, 20% French, and 30% homegrown.
"Sounds like they've got it figured out," David mused. He wondered if such a blueprint could ever work back home, but he wasn't a policy expert. Besides, who could truly predict the future?
The day after the Europa League group stages concluded, the Chinese National Team took on Kyrgyzstan. David watched the international friendly from his living room. China coasted to a 4-0 victory with goals from Wu Lei and Zheng Zhi. If they could edge past Palestine in the next fixture, they had a real shot at breaking into the Asian top eight.
But David's focus was pulled back to the Bundesliga.
"Wolfsburg look heavy-legged after their midweek European exploits," Derek Rae observed. "Despite Bas Dost's early header, the Wolves have registered six shots on target in thirty minutes, only to be thwarted every time by Paderborn's Kruse!"
"Wait, look at the counter! Kruse launches it long for Kachunga!"
"The Congolese international flicks it on for Meha!"
"He's through! One-on-one!"
"Beautifully done! Meha rounds Benaglio and slots it home to equalizer in the 59th minute!"
"A classic footballing lesson for the Wolves: if you don't take your chances, you get punished."
At the Volkswagen Arena, David Qin leaned on his knees, his breath coming in thick, white plumes. He felt... off. Perhaps it was the relentless schedule, or maybe the biting cold was finally seeping into his bones. Whatever it was, his usual rhythm was gone.
Can I keep going? He glanced at the scoreboard and decided to give it ten more minutes. At this stage of the season, everyone was running on fumes, counting down the days until the winter break. If he came off now, the entire creative burden would fall on De Bruyne.
"Kevin, weight the through-balls a bit deeper," David called out.
"Got it! Watch your line," De Bruyne nodded. "Their full-backs are pushing high; I'll have Schäfer overlap to give you some breathing room."
On the touchline, Dieter Hecking's brow was furrowed. He could see his players flagging, but they were trailing Bayern by two points. Dropping points against a promoted side like Paderborn could be catastrophic for their title hopes.
Just as he was preparing a change, a roar erupted from the crowd. Paderborn, sensing weakness, tried to exploit the wings, but Maximilian Arnold was having a colossal game. A product of the Wolfsburg academy who had survived Magath's legendary "cleansing" sessions, Arnold was the ultimate utility man.
Averaging 2.5 interceptions per game, he was a brick wall in the pivot.
"Stoppelkamp tries to skin Schäfer!"
"He's held up—Arnold pounces!"
"Wolfsburg have it back!"
Arnold didn't just defend; he had a visionary's eye. He spotted De Bruyne and released him instantly. De Bruyne was already two steps ahead. Before the ball even reached his feet, he had scanned the field and whipped a wicked, curling ball that hugged the turf.
Snap! The ball bypassed the Paderborn midfield and landed perfectly in David Qin's stride.
David inhaled the freezing air, his eyes fixed on the goal. Knowing he didn't have the energy for his usual trickery, he eschewed the flair. He gave a sharp body feint and just... exploded.
Strohdiek was caught flat-footed. In that brief window of hesitation, David burst into the box and swept a low shot toward the far corner. Kruse, who had been a titan all afternoon, could only watch as the ball whistled past him.
2-1!
"Wolfsburg lead again on the break!"
"That rainbow arc from De Bruyne is becoming his signature, and David Qin made no mistake!"
"Interestingly, Qin went for a remarkably high-percentage, direct finish there. But as they say: simplicity is the ultimate sophistication. Sometimes, a raw burst of pace is more effective than a thousand step-overs!"
As the stadium shook with cheers, David remained on the turf. He was spent. That goal had drained his last reserves of energy, leaving him with that hollow, shaky feeling that comes with the onset of a fever.
Did I catch something? David wiped the sweat from his forehead and signaled to the bench.
He was replaced by Aaron Hunt. As David trudged off, Hecking ushered him straight to the tunnel, telling him to get in the warm and head home. He couldn't afford to let his star winger's condition worsen.
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