"Central Broadcasting Television! Central Broadcasting Television!"
"We are live for the opening round of Group B in the 16th AFC Asian Cup!"
"It's China versus Saudi Arabia!"
"Let's look at the starting lineups. In red, Alain Perrin has deployed a 4-2-3-1. In goal, he's gone with Wang Dalei—a decision that has sparked fierce debate back home, much like his choice to leave out veterans like Feng Xiaoting and Yu Dabao in favor of a youth-led revolution centered around David Qin."
"This is more than a match; it's a gamble. Perrin is betting his professional reputation and his understanding of the modern game against public opinion. This is his moment of truth."
"Across from them, Cosmin Olăroiu lines up the Green Falcons in a 4-4-2. Recent scouts show Saudi Arabia thrives on central positional play and a suffocating interior defense. Even the South Koreans struggled to break them down through the middle, only finding joy on the counter. Perhaps that is why Perrin has opted for a double-pivot today—to weather the storm."
"The referee blows the whistle, and we are underway!"
Brisbane Stadium was a cauldron. The chants of the Chinese supporters rose in rhythmic waves, echoing into every corner of the arena. The ball moved through a series of crisp, confident passes before finding its way to the feet of David Qin.
Perrin's game plan was clinical. Saudi Arabia's right flank was their sword, but their left was a glass shield. He didn't want his team sitting back; he wanted David to pin the Saudis back by incinerating their strongest side.
"Press him! Get up!" Saudi captain Saud Kariri barked orders. Salem Al-Dawsari didn't hesitate, lunging toward David.
Olăroiu's defensive strategy was primitive but effective. He'd only had the job for two weeks—there was no time for tactical nuance. He wanted a forest of muscle to swallow David Qin whole.
David saw Al-Dawsari approaching and dropped his center of gravity. I spend my weekends dealing with 190cm German giants, he thought. You think I'm going to fold for you? He remembered Al-Dawsari from his past life—the future captain and talisman of this squad.
Thump!
The sound of clashing muscle was picked up clearly by the pitch-side microphones. Al-Dawsari felt like he'd sprinted into a brick wall. The feedback from the collision left him reeling, his balance shattered. David didn't waste a heartbeat, pushing the ball into space and accelerating away.
"Incredible! David Qin, who sometimes looks physically lean in the Bundesliga, looks like a titan on the Asian stage!" He Wei's voice crackled with excitement. "He's clearly a level above. Just look at the frame on him—he's significantly more robust than Al-Dawsari!"
Fahad Al-Muwallad sprinted to close the gap. Instead of forcing a solo run, David clipped a tidy ball into the center. The moment it left his boot, Kariri and the center-back Hawsawi converged like a closing trap. Any slower, and the move would have died.
"Great ball!" Zheng Zhi thought, impressed. David's vision had sharpened; he was no longer just a dribbler, but a playmaker.
Perrin hadn't paired Zheng Zhi and Wu Xi just to park the bus. He wanted the ball to move. Zheng Zhi pushed into the left channel and, before Kariri could close him down, slipped a needle-threading through-ball into the box.
Yu Hai—once dubbed the "Chinese Robben" before three major knee surgeries stole his lightning pace—met the ball. He had reinvented himself into a gritty, industrious forward in the mold of Ivica Olić. He held off Osama Hawsawi just long enough to lay the ball back toward the edge of the area.
Wu Lei was already there. He met the ball at full tilt, lashing a strike toward the near post. Crack! The connection wasn't quite pure, and the ball whistled wide of the frame.
Despite the miss, the stadium erupted. The threat was real.
"China! JIA YOU! China! JIA YOU!"
"My fault," Wu Lei muttered, scratching his head. "I was a half-beat late on the run. Had to rush the shot."
"Don't sweat it," David replied, rolling his neck. "Keep doing that. The space is there."
Al-Muwallad, standing nearby, felt a chill. He had seen David's highlights on loop for a week. Every time David touched the ball, Al-Muwallad's mind raced with nightmare scenarios. Is he going to use the Elastico? Is he going for the rainbow flick? The psychological pressure was stifling. He took a deep breath, his eyes hardening with a desperate, dark resolve.
"Saudi Arabia is trying to kill the tempo!" He Wei observed. "Under their previous manager, Lopez Caro, they were all about speed and power. Why they changed managers right before the tournament is anyone's guess."
"Here comes Al-Dawsari... trying to catch Mei Fang out with a change of pace! Well played, Mei Fang! He might not be the most flashy going forward, but his positioning is impeccable."
Mei Fang shielded the ball out for a throw-in. He looked left and right before hurling it down the line. David Qin received it with Al-Muwallad draped over his back. As the ball arrived, David used a deft flick of his right boot to lift the ball over both their heads—a perfect rainbow flick in stride.
Al-Muwallad watched the ball sail over him. He knew he was beaten. In a moment of pure cynicism, he lunged out, grabbing David's jersey with both hands while "stumbling" forward to stomp his studs directly onto David's calf.
"Dammit!" David hit the turf, a sharp, searing pain shooting up his leg. SG (Soft Ground) studs are weapons; a direct scrape can leave a player needing dozens of stitches.
The stadium turned into a hornets' nest. A chorus of vitriol rained down on Al-Muwallad. On the pitch, players from both sides swarmed the referee, shoving and shouting.
"Are you playing football or hunting legs? That's a red!"
"He fell! It wasn't intentional, just bad luck!"
On the touchline, the benches were in chaos. Perrin was inches from Olăroiu's face. "No wonder Al-Ain sacked you! Teaching your players to act like butchers... have you no shame?"
"Who are you to lecture me?" Olăroiu roared back. He was a man known for his temper—he'd once gotten into a fistfight with Diego Maradona during his time in the UAE.
David sat up, peeling back his sock to reveal several bloody gouges on the back of his calf. The bone was fine, the tendon intact. If the pain had been duller, he'd be worried, but the sharp sting suggested it was superficial.
"Sir, this is the first and the last time," the referee said, brandishing a yellow card at Al-Muwallad. "That was dangerous. Consider this your final warning."
"Waste of a foul," Olăroiu muttered to himself. He had hoped to take David Qin out of the game entirely. Instead, his primary defender was now walking a tightrope.
Perrin, sensing the advantage, signaled to his right side. "They're obsessed with David now. Ji Xiang, Zhang Chengdong—push! Find the gaps while they're distracted."
The match resumed. David, despite the blood on his leg, remained a persistent ghost in the Saudi defense. The Green Falcons began to over-commit their resources to his side of the pitch.
"Here!"
David exchanged a series of rapid one-twos with Zheng Zhi before drifting inside. He didn't wait to be swamped; he laid the ball back to Wu Xi. By moving constantly, he was shattering the Saudi man-marking system.
When Kariri saw David suddenly change direction, darting into the vacuum behind Al-Muwallad, he screamed a warning. But a star player's gravity is impossible to ignore. Every Saudi eye followed David's run.
Wu Xi didn't hesitate. He launched a raking diagonal long ball toward the right wing. Ji Xiang chased it down, but his first touch was heavy, allowing the defense to recover.
"Overlapping!" Zhang Chengdong screamed. Ji Xiang didn't look, he just played the ball into the path of the overlapping run.
"Zhang Chengdong beats Al-Shahrani!" He Wei shouted. "He's at the byline... the cross comes in to the near post!"
"WU LEI! DIVING HEADER! Oh, so close! Denied by Abdullah!"
The stadium groaned. The ball was headed out of the box by Osama, but Zheng Zhi collected the second ball. Seeing no lane to shoot, he clipped it out to David on the left.
Al-Muwallad charged. David waited until the last possible microsecond before a sudden drag-back left the defender lunging at thin air.
Did Al-Muwallad dare to foul again? No. With a yellow card hanging over him, his movements were stifled and timid.
Space opened up. In the Bundesliga, David would have had a fraction of a second before a second defender arrived. Here, there was a vacuum.
David took one purposeful stride, opening his body. His right arm swung out for balance, and his right leg whipped through the ball.
The Saudi defenders realized a heartbeat too late. The number 13 was shooting. And he was well within his range.
"Block it!" "Watch out!"
Thwack!
David's foot caught the middle of the ball with a violent, slicing motion. A razor-sharp arc cut through the humid air, the ball screaming toward the top left corner of the goal.
Waleed Abdullah, the 196cm giant in the Saudi goal, stretched his massive frame to the limit. He flew through the air, his fingers clawing at the sky. He felt the wind of the ball pass his fingertips, and in that instant, his heart went cold.
Swish!
The sound of the ball spinning against the mesh was the only sound the Saudi players heard.
1-0!!!
"BEAUTIFUL!"
"IT'S IN! AGAINST THE TEAM WE HAVEN'T BEATEN IN EIGHTEEN YEARS, DAVID QIN HAS GIVEN US THE LEAD WITH A STUNNING CURLER!"
"Look at the fans! They've had so much pain and so little joy... let this be the turning point!"
He Wei's voice was trembling. More than ten thousand fans erupted into a roar that shook the foundations of the stadium.
"DAVID QIN, YOU BEAUTY!" "CRUSH THEM!"
David felt his emotions magnify a hundredfold. He sprinted to the corner flag, dropping into a long, smooth knee-slide on the wet turf.
His first competitive goal for his country. The start of the story.
"What a strike, David! I've seen some goals, but that arc... magic!" Zheng Zhi shouted, pounding David's back. For the first time in years, the weight on the captain's shoulders felt lighter. Hope was a powerful drug.
"We're up!" Wu Lei laughed, hauling David into a hug. One second he was in the depths of despair over his missed header; the next, he was in heaven.
"Let's put a few more past them," David spat, glancing toward the Saudi bench. He hadn't forgotten the stud marks on his leg. "Let's make them the ones who have to sit there with a calculator at the end of the group stage!"
Zheng Zhi grinned, though the memory was bitter. "I like the sound of that. Let's make them do the math for once."
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