"Hey! You—the gentleman who likes picking fights with Maradona!" Alain Perrin barked across the technical area. "Didn't you claim you'd dominate us for another twenty years? Weren't there 'special tactics' to neutralize David Qin?"
Perrin shared a certain professional DNA with Arsène Wenger. On the surface, he was a picture of Gallic elegance, but once his boundaries were crossed, he could be ruthlessly acerbic.
Cosmin Olăroiu, usually a volcano of a man, found himself utterly speechless. Back when he'd clashed with Diego in the UAE, he'd been able to hide behind a victory and fire back from a position of strength. Now? He was a man drowning on dry land.
"Sir, why did you let David score? Did you decide to stop marking him? Because if so, I really must thank you," Perrin continued, leaning into the silence with a mocking grin.
"Shut your damn mouth!" Olăroiu finally snapped, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson as he jabbed a finger toward Perrin's nose. "The match isn't over! Who says you've won?"
Perrin didn't flinch. He simply shrugged, a dismissive half-smile playing on his lips. "Then let's wait for the final whistle and see if your twenty-year reign actually begins."
While the war of words raged on the sidelines, the battle on the pitch intensified. The Saudi players were throwing everything into an equalizer, fueled by desperation. However, the Chinese defensive discipline was holding firm. Their energy levels were high, their lines were compact, and their positioning offered no obvious cracks.
"Saudi Arabia is finding it nearly impossible to progress the ball past the final third!" He Wei observed on the national broadcast. "The high press is suffocating them, forcing errors and making the Green Falcons look uncharacteristically frantic!"
"David Qin! He's putting in a shift defensively today, linking up with Zheng Zhi to pick Al-Dawsari's pocket!"
"Counter-attack!"
To the rhythmic thunder of the fans, David received a crisp pass from Zheng Zhi and immediately drove into space. Al-Muwallad hesitated. He had a sickening premonition: if he lunged in now, he was going to be embarrassed. He tried to shepherd David toward the touchline, hoping to buy time for reinforcements.
David saw through the ruse instantly. He cut inside with a sharp flick of his right boot, aiming for the heart of the Saudi defense. Simultaneously, Wu Lei—the "Ghetto Inzaghi"—sniffed out the space behind Al-Muwallad and ghosted into the channel.
David's eyes lit up. Say what you will about Wu Lei's finishing, but his movement was undoubtedly world-class. Without looking, David whipped a ball toward the left. It was a trademark "no-look" pass, executed with the nonchalance of a training ground drill.
"Oh! The signature David Qin no-look pass! He's mastered it!" He Wei shouted. "Wu Lei! How will he handle this?"
Wu Lei's close control wasn't elite, but David had served the ball into such a vacuum of space that the nearest center-back, Hawsawi, couldn't close the gap in time. Wu Lei took a moment to settle, then lashed a strike toward the near post.
Thump!
Waleed Abdullah kept Saudi Arabia alive with a desperate, sprawling save, but the danger wasn't over.
"Watch the second ball!" the Saudi defenders screamed, eyes tracking the sphere as it looped into the air. Their hearts sank as it plummeted toward the Chinese number 13.
David hadn't expected the rebound to fall so kindly. He killed it with his chest, his body contorting as if he were about to unleash a thunderous volley. The Saudi defense reacted with pure instinct; Captain Saud Kariri threw himself into the line of fire, bracing for the impact of a point-blank shot.
Kariri winced, waiting for the pain.
Clack!
He heard the soft contact, and when he opened his eyes, he realized he'd been sold a dummy. It wasn't a shot.
The fans in Brisbane gasped as the ball followed a perfect, shimmering arc—a rainbow flick over the defensive line—dropping into the left side of the box. Wu Lei stood there, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of the delivery. This wasn't how they played back in the CSL.
His subconscious took over. As the ball dropped, he swung his right foot through it.
This time, there was no miracle for Abdullah. The ball tore into the back of the net.
2-0!!!
"ABSOLUTELY CLINICAL!"
"David Qin with a flick as light as a feather to assist Wu Lei! What a finish!"
"Thirty-nine minutes in, and China doubles their lead! We are two up against Saudi Arabia!" He Wei was shouting so loud his voice cracked. He pinched his thigh hard, half-expecting to wake up in his bed. The sting of the pinch brought a wave of pure, unadulterated joy.
Inside the dressing room at halftime, Perrin didn't let a smile touch his face. He knew the "Guozu" curse: lions in the first half, sheep in the second.
"The sixty-minute mark is where the game will be won or lost," Perrin warned, his voice steel. "The Saudis will come for blood. I don't care how you do it—you hold the line! No gaps, no dropping the intensity. And more importantly, do not stop attacking!"
"Two goals is nothing in football. United can score two in three minutes; Liverpool can score three in six! Never underestimate a wounded opponent!"
David leaned against his locker, scanning the room. He had sensed a bit of complacency creeping into his teammates' eyes. Seventeen years without a win over these guys, and they were feeling cocky after forty-five minutes?
"Alright, I'm saying the ugly things now because I want you to stay sharp," Perrin added, softening his tone. "But you were brilliant out there. Execution was perfect. Let's finish the job."
"Listen to the boss," Zheng Zhi added, stepping in as the veteran anchor. "We're up 2-0 because we worked for it. Don't stop now."
"Look at what they did to me," David said, pointing to the stud marks on his leg. "I want to be able to talk trash when this is over. Let's win this for ourselves."
The second half began with a statement from the Saudi side. Nasser Al-Shamrani, the reigning Asian Footballer of the Year, was subbed on. Al-Shamrani dropped deep to collect the ball, his eyes burning with intent. He shimmied past Wu Xi, opening up a shooting lane. He wound up for the strike—
Screech!
Zheng Zhi came flying in with a ferocious, bone-rattling slide tackle. He took ball and man in one clean, violent motion. It was a captain's challenge—a message. You want to play rough? We were born in it.
Al-Shamrani rolled on the turf, clutching his leg with the dramatic flair of a mediocre theater student. The Australian referee stepped in.
"Keep the follow-through down, Captain," he warned Zheng Zhi, opting for a verbal caution.
The match ground on. Al-Shamrani found a pocket of space as Wu Xi drifted wide. The ball was zipped into his feet. He turned and unleashed a rocket.
But Wang Dalei, the man Perrin had bet his career on, took flight. With a massive, sprawling palm, he tipped the ball onto the underside of the crossbar and smothered the rebound.
"UNBELIEVABLE SAVE, DALEI!" David roared.
Wang Dalei grinned and launched a massive, side-volleyed punt toward the left flank. He knew David was waiting. Even if David wasn't a giant by German standards, the Saudi defenders averaged just 178cm.
David leaned his weight into Al-Muwallad, shrugging him off to kill the ball on his chest. Al-Dawsari rushed in to help close him down. A double-team.
David didn't panic. He began to juggle.
Right foot flick, thigh control, a soft header to himself—the ball seemed to be tethered to him by an invisible thread. Al-Muwallad and Al-Dawsari looked like children chasing a butterfly. Even when Al-Muwallad tried to grab his shirt, David spun out of the contact, the ball still dancing on his terms.
"Look at the control! It's like something out of a wuxia novel!" He Wei exclaimed. "The touchline is his stage! And now—the pass!"
Just as the defense collapsed on him, David threaded a needle to the charging Zheng Zhi.
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