But the unexpected happened: Ki Sung-yueng didn't trap the ball. With a single, slick touch, he cushioned it laterally into space.
Thump!
Son Heung-min finally found his opening. He set the ball half a yard in front of his stride and, before Ren Hang could close the gap, unleashed a thunderous, venomous strike. Wang Dalei reacted instantly, his fingertips brushing the leather, but the sheer velocity of the shot carried it off the deflection and into the side netting.
2-2!
The Taegeuk Warriors had clawed their way back from the brink in the dying embers of the match. Their morale surged to an atmospheric high. Son Heung-min sprinted toward the stands, arms outstretched, soaking in the rapturous delirium of the Korean supporters. He had watched David Qin steal the spotlight time and time again; he had told himself to stay composed, but no young star is immune to the sting of being outshone. Now, with one clinical strike, he had reasserted his dominance.
The equalizer felt like a death knell for China. If they could just drag this into extra time, the Koreans—with their superior fitness and relentless "zombie" stamina—would surely grind the Chinese team into the dirt.
"Beautifully done!" Ki Sung-yueng roared, pounding Son on the back. The weight on the captain's shoulders had been immense. He refused to let his legacy be defined by a loss to China—especially not after David Qin's mocking back-heel earlier. His pride wouldn't allow it.
"One more! Let's end this now!" Park Joo-ho hissed, his eyes burning with a mix of exhaustion and spite. "Letting these guys take us to extra time is as good as a defeat!"
Nearby, David Qin spat on the grass, his expression darkening. "Damn it. We let one slip."
He knew exactly what the Koreans were thinking. If this match went past the ninety-minute mark, a miracle would be their only hope. He could feel the hollow ache in his lungs and the leaden weight in his quads. From the left wing to the right, sprint after sprint—he was running on fumes.
He glanced at Zheng Zhi, who was doubled over with his hands on his knees. They were both at the breaking point, and Perrin had only one substitution left.
"We are not going to extra time," David muttered, slapping his own cheeks to force a jolt of adrenaline through his system. He looked at the scoreboard: 86:42.
"Zheng-ge," David panted, nudging the captain. "If they keep pushing high for the winner, I'm going for one last break. I know Kim Young-gwon. He gets aggressive when they attack and leaves a canyon of space behind him. Find me with the long ball. Wu Lei, you run with me—draw the heat away."
"Understood," Zheng Zhi wheezed, rubbing his thigh. "I'll find the window for the lofted ball. Just make the run."
The battle in the stands mirrored the carnage on the pitch. Red and white clashed in a symphony of drums and chants. But as the clock ticked, the fatigue became a palpable enemy. Passes went astray; touches grew heavy.
Stielike stood on the touchline, debating whether to settle for extra time. But he remembered the group stages—how his men had bled for ninety minutes against Australia while China had cruised past North Korea. He didn't want to test their reserves. He wanted the kill now.
"Push up!" Stielike commanded, pointing toward the Chinese goal.
The fourth official raised the LED board: 5 Minutes of Stoppage Time.
"It's a tactical stalemate on the benches!" Derek Rae's voice surged over the broadcast. "Neither manager wants to use their final sub in case we go the full 120 minutes!"
"Here's Son Heung-min! He's skipped past Jiang Zhipeng! His second touch is heavy, but he digs out a cross—Han Kook-young with the header!"
"Wang Dalei!"
"Sensational!"
Harassed by Zhang Linpeng, Han couldn't generate the power needed. Wang Dalei plucked the ball out of the air like a ripened fruit.
"Move! Get forward!" Wang screamed, waiting for the Korean retreat before bowling a quick ball to Zhang Chengdong. The Koreans, realizing they'd been baited, swarmed forward again. In this state of exhaustion, a turnover in the final third was a guaranteed death sentence.
Zhang Chengdong's legs felt like jelly, but he gritted his teeth. At this stage, you don't play with muscles; you play with your soul. He bypassed Lee Keun-ho and found Cai Huikang.
"Watch your back!" Zhang yelled as Cha Du-ri closed in like a freight train.
Cai took two steps forward to shield the ball, holding off the veteran before laying it back to Zheng Zhi. Everyone expected the cross-field switch to the left. Everyone except Son Heung-min, who spotted a ghost-like figure drifting into a pocket of space.
"Behind you!" Son's raspy warning was swallowed by the roar of the crowd.
Thwack!
Zheng Zhi summoned every last ounce of strength, his right boot connecting cleanly with the underside of the ball.
"The long ball over the top!" Derek Rae shouted. "Is there one last twist in the tale? It's David Qin! He's timed it perfectly! He's into the space on the right!"
"Is he onside? The flag stays down! This is it!"
Thirty thousand people surged to their feet. Stielike felt a cold hand clutch his heart; Perrin was nearly tearing his hair out.
On the pitch, David Qin felt like he was running through chest-deep water. But the frantic drumbeat in his chest had become a high-performance engine.
Thump-thump-thump.
Kim Jin-hyeon charged out, his nerves frayed to the snapping point. The kid approaching him looked exhausted, yet the pressure he exuded was suffocating.
Time slowed. The cacophony of the stadium faded into a dull hum. David saw the keeper, saw the desperate sliding lunges of Kwak Tae-hwi and Kim Young-gwon. He remained the only calm eye in the center of the storm.
Flick. The ball sailed over a sprawling Kim Jin-hyeon.
Cut. He danced past Kwak's desperate slide.
Fake. The stadium fell into an eerie silence. Was he dancing in a minefield? By the time the defenders realized what was happening, Kwak was face-down on the grass and Kim Young-gwon was blocking nothing but the Melbourne air.
Facing an abandoned net, David calmly guided the ball home with his left foot.
3-2!!!
For a heartbeat, the Melbourne Rectangular Stadium was a vacuum. Then, the explosion. A hysterical, sky-shattering roar erupted from the Chinese end. The Korean fans stood frozen, their pride shattered into a million pieces.
"THE WINNER! HE'S WON IT!" Derek Rae screamed. "David Qin has delivered the final judgment! Look at that composure in the box—dazzling feints, unpredictable touches, pure imagination! He turned the penalty area into his own personal theater!"
"He broke their ankles, he broke their hearts, and now he has broken the 'Koreaphobia' jinx that has haunted Chinese football for decades!"
David ripped off his red jersey. The fatigue was gone, replaced by a searing, white-hot adrenaline.
"VAMOS!"
He roared at the heavens, his lean, muscular frame glistening with sweat. In this moment, he understood the addictive allure of the beautiful game: the razor-thin margin between heaven and hell. He was the one who had cast the giants into the abyss, and the power of it was intoxicating.
"We're going to the semis!" Wu Lei leaped onto David's back, followed by a stampede of teammates from the bench.
"STOP! GET BACK!" Perrin was frantic. If every Chinese player was in the corner celebrating, Korea could legally kick off. He wasn't about to let a heart attack-inducing equalizer ruin this.
"Right, right!" Wang Dalei retreated, grinning ear to ear. He had grown up in the shadow of the Korean curse. He had dreamed of being the hero to break it, but as a keeper, he could only do so much. He watched his teammates mobbing David—the boy who wasn't just a player, but the personification of hope.
The Korean box was a graveyard. Kim Young-gwon and the others lay paralyzed, staring at the stadium lights. They had been dismantled. Mocked on the goal line, bypassed by a three-man ambush, and finally, toyed with like kittens. Their collective psyche had simply disintegrated.
Son Heung-min stood with his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. He looked at David, who was currently receiving a yellow card with the brightest smile he'd ever seen. The bitterness was overwhelming. He was supposed to be the Icon of Asia, the Premier League's next big thing. Today, he was just a footnote in David Qin's legend.
"Kick off," Park Joo-ho muttered, his voice hollow.
"One more try!" Ki Sung-yueng hissed, though even his voice lacked conviction.
Perrin made his move, subbing David out for Liu Binbin. To a standing ovation, David limped off the field. Was he wasting time? Absolutely. But his leg genuinely throbbed. That final sequence of explosive bursts and balance-shifting feints had drained the battery to zero.
The Korean fans were in a frenzy of "Siba!" and "Gera!" curses. David didn't speak the language, but the intent was universal. As he reached the bench, he turned to the Korean supporters, flashed a brilliant grin, and held up three fingers.
Pure, unadulterated arrogance.
"Listen to that," David hummed, leaning back in the dugout. "A player isn't truly great until the opposing fans want him dead."
"I'm buying you a bodyguard," Yu Hai suggested sincerely. "Or two."
The match whistled back into play, but the Korean spirit was gone. Perrin, embracing the "shameless" tactics of a relegation-struggle manager, instructed his team to waste every second. Wang Dalei went down for a full six seconds after a routine save. Liu Binbin and Gao Lin took the ball to the corner flag and stayed there, shielding it with their lives.
Peep-peep-peep!
The final whistle blew like a gavel.
3-2. The giants had fallen. For the first time in fifty-five years, the road to the trophy would not go through Seoul. It would go through David Qin.
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