As the first half drew to a close under the disappointed gaze of the Westfalenstadion faithful, the match paused for breath.
In the broadcast studio, Stewart Robson adjusted his headset, taking a moment to reflect. "While the players catch their breath, let's talk about the decline of the Black and Yellows," he said, his voice carrying a scholarly weight. "At their peak, Dortmund were masters of the tempo. Even when they didn't have the ball, they controlled the game through cold, calculated organization."
"How did it come to this? To me, it's a trinity of misfortune: poor recruitment, a relentless injury crisis, and a lack of tactical evolution. Their new signings haven't filled the void left by Lewandowski or Götze; the core of the team is perpetually in the treatment room; and Klopp seems to have hit a wall. Since Guardiola arrived at Bayern, the Bundesliga has been swept by a tactical revolution, yet Klopp remains unmoved, clinging to the same high-octane heavy metal football that opponents have finally learned to decipher."
Stewart Robson paused, letting the gravity of the observation settle. "Football history is a mirror of life itself; no empire lasts forever. Whether it's the 1999 Treble-winning United or the five-trophy Barcelona, time eventually erodes the sharpest edges. Dortmund, too, has slipped from the heights into the mire."
As the analysis concluded, the second half ignited. Klopp's halftime "adrenaline shot" seemed to find its mark, as Dortmund played ten minutes of inspired football. Wolfsburg, perhaps lulled by their two-goal cushion, grew complacent.
The punishment was swift. Marcel Schmelzer intercepted a loose pass from Perišić and launched a searching ball that spanned half the pitch. Ciro Immobile rose high, out-muscling Naldo to provide a flick-on.
In an instant, Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang transformed into a bolt of black lightning. His acceleration was harrowing. He poked the ball ten yards ahead, leaving Robin Knoche clutching at shadows as he surged past. Faced with the rushing Benaglio, Aubameyang found a gear that shouldn't exist—a secondary explosion of speed to round the keeper and slot the ball into the yawning net.
The Westfalenstadion erupted into a frenzied roar. Hope, raw and desperate, flooded the stands. Aubameyang pumped his arms, demanding more noise, while Immobile snatched the ball from the net, ushering his teammates back to the center circle. They weren't just looking for an equalizer; they wanted blood.
The Wolves, however, remained unfazed. "Did we miss the offside line?" Benaglio called out, dusting himself off.
"No," Knoche replied, shaking his head. "He started from deep. It was pure, unadulterated pace. He just ran past us."
"I'll pull back and limit my overlaps," Ricardo Rodríguez decided. He knew if they kept letting Dortmund's track stars run wild, they'd be pinned in their own box all night.
Suddenly, Malanda's voice cut through the din. "David! David! The Boss wants you to swap with Ivan! Get over to the left and start driving at them!"
"On it!" David replied. He'd already reached the same conclusion; with Rodríguez dropping deeper to defend, the left wing needed a new focal point.
The swap changed the complexion of the game instantly. While Perišić relied on a direct, physical sprint, David Qin was a creature of guile and micro-movements. Lukas Piszczek, who had just spent sixty minutes adjusting to the Croatian's rhythm, was suddenly forced to recalibrate for a completely different beast.
"David Qin skips past his man on the flank!" Derek Rae shouted into his mic.
"The Elastico again! It's the old favorite, but it works every single time! Piszczek tries to recover, but David's stopped on a dime—he's turned him inside out!"
On the pitch, the Polish veteran felt his head spinning. Defending Perišić was a straight-line race; defending David was like trying to catch a ghost in a hall of mirrors. Two feints later, Piszczek was out of the equation.
Seeing a yard of space, David hit the afterburners toward the byline. Before Subotić could slide across to cover, David unleashed a cheeky rabona cross. Thwack!
The ball whipped into the box, and Bas Dost's massive frame met it perfectly. The Dutchman's header was a pile-driver. Weidenfeller's left arm shot up by pure reflex, parrying the shot away to the relief of the home fans—but that relief lasted exactly one second.
The ball spiraled directly toward the left side of the six-yard box. There, David Qin was waiting. He hadn't stopped after the cross; he had followed the play. Facing the ultimate "tap-in," he joyfully poked the ball home.
1-3!
"He's followed it up! A poacher's finish!"
"You could call it luck, Stewart, but as the saying goes, luck is just a dividend of sweat. If David had stopped running after that rabona, he wouldn't have been there to collect the spoils."
"Exactly. Fortune favors the bold—and the hardworking!"
The cameras caught David's radiant grin, his white teeth flashing as he celebrated. It was a clean, refreshing image broadcast to millions. In that moment, thousands of neutral fans fell in love with the creative spark from the East.
Back in China, the fans were ecstatic. Dortmund might be in the basement, but their pedigree was undeniable. Seeing David Qin dismantle the "Great Yellow Wall" was a dream come true, and it only heightened the feverish anticipation for the upcoming Asian Cup.
"To grow this much in half a season..." Dieter Hecking murmured on the sideline, a sense of profound regret washing over him. He remembered his initial prejudice—how he'd dismissed David as a "marketing signing" and hesitated to start him despite his brilliance in training.
"If I hadn't given him the chance... no, that's not right. Gold always finds a way to shine," Hecking realized, glancing toward the opposite dugout.
Jürgen Klopp sat motionless. Years of elite management told him the game was over. That third goal had snapped the last cord of Dortmund's resolve. He watched David Qin, and his mind drifted toward the offers sitting on his desk from the Premier League.
What if I could take him with me? The thought filled him with a sudden, sharp motivation. Who wouldn't want a player like that in their arsenal?
David, of course, was blissfully unaware. Had he known, he would have declined in a heartbeat. He had no desire to be a "workhorse" in Klopp's system, where players were often treated as high-grade consumables. David lived for the thrill of the break, the joy of the dribble; the grueling physical demands of the Gegenpress held zero appeal.
In the 69th minute, the board went up. David was replaced by Maximilian Arnold. As he reached the touchline, he felt Klopp's eyes on him.
What's he looking at? David thought. Does he want to talk tactics like Pep, or is he just trying to figure out how I move?
Ultimately, no words were exchanged. David took his seat on the bench as the match wound down to its inevitable conclusion. The duel between second and second-from-bottom was over.
"The final whistle blows! Wolfsburg take the points with a clinical 3-1 victory," Derek Rae concluded. "Dortmund remain mired in the relegation zone, but look at the stands—hardly a soul has left. The Yellow Wall stands by its team, even in their darkest hour."
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