The following day at the Campbelltown training base, a heavy silence permeated the medical room.
"David Qin has a contusion in his left hamstring," the team doctor explained to Alain Perrin, his brow furrowed with concern. "The cold compress yesterday masked the pain, but the fatigue from today's drills triggered a flare-up. He needs three to seven days of total recovery."
During the morning's light recovery session, David had felt a sharp, rhythmic twitch in his leg. Every time he tried to push off, a searing bolt of pain shot through the exact spot where Kim Jin-su had stamped on him. An immediate trip to St. Vincent's Hospital for an X-ray confirmed the diagnosis: nothing was torn, but the muscle had suffered significant trauma, and the high-intensity workload following the injury had led to acute inflammation.
"It sounds like the semifinal is out of the question for me," David said plainly. He wasn't the type to play the martyr. If he was hurt, he rested. It would be a fool's errand to risk a career-ending rupture for a single match, no matter the stakes.
"David, how's it going? Any better?" Gao Lin walked in just after training, worried that the youngster would be climbing the walls with boredom.
"Not bad. As long as I don't put weight on it, I don't feel a thing. The docs say it's minor," David replied, tossing a handful of blueberries into his mouth. The Australian berries were impressive—massive, juicy, and perfectly balanced between tart and sweet. They were far superior to the local produce back in Germany. Must be the sunshine, David mused. They were high-nutrient, low-calorie, and notoriously expensive; back before his "rebirth," he'd rarely been able to justify the cost.
"Did you hear?" Gao Lin said, settling into a chair to share the latest gossip. "The Japanese squad hasn't even left for the airport, and their fans are already outside the hotel with banners. The insults... man, they are filthy!"
Toxic fandom wasn't exclusive to China; every footballing nation had its share of "ultras" who turned on their idols the moment they stumbled.
"The South Koreans are getting it even worse," Gao Lin continued, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Their hotel is just down the road. Apparently, people have been sending them buckets of taffy. Do you know what that means in Korea? It's a pretty colorful way of telling them to go jump off a bridge."
David thought of Son Heung-min. While he had no love for the Korean national team, he and Son were on decent terms. There was no personal animosity, but in the current climate, any public interaction would be social suicide for Son. It was better to wait until they were back in Europe to catch up.
"Gao-ge," David asked, shifting the subject, "I heard you were quite the firebrand back in the day. Getting into a scrap in England and getting booted from the Olympic squad?"
Now that they were close, David felt comfortable poking at the old wounds.
"God! Just thinking about that makes my blood boil!" Gao Lin laughed, not at all offended. He treated David like a younger brother. "It was the 80th minute. I'd just equalized and then got hacked. The kid went straight for my knees! I wasn't about to take that lying down, so we had a go. But..." He trailed off, looking embarrassed.
The infamous brawl had ended with Zheng Tao suffering a shattered jaw, Chen Tao a broken eye socket, and Wang Dalei a torn ear—while the English side emerged relatively unscathed. Fighting was one thing; losing the fight was the real humiliation.
"The Brits are built like tanks; they're hard to drop," David offered as a consolation.
"Forget the past," Gao Lin said, looking out the window with a trace of envy. "You're seventeen. You have Olympics, World Cups... a whole lifetime ahead of you. Me? My clock is ticking."
"Don't sweat it. Call me 'Big Brother' and I'll carry you to the World Cup myself," David teased.
"You brat!" Gao Lin swiped at him playfully. "Tell you what—if we actually make it to 2018, I'll call you whatever you want."
Gao Lin had barely left when Wu Lei arrived. "David, be honest with me. For my style of play, is La Liga better, or the Bundesliga?"
Wu Lei's clever movement in the Asian Cup had finally caught the eyes of European scouts. He was already planning his exit strategy from the Chinese Super League, and David was the only person whose advice he truly trusted.
"Lei-ge, to be blunt: your fundamentals are lacking," David said, choosing candor over comfort. "If you go abroad, you're going to have to rebuild, especially your finishing with both feet."
"I know," Wu Lei said solemnly. He was a god in the CSL, but in Europe, he was just another face in the crowd.
"Go to Germany. Look at why most Asian players start there. Our strengths—speed, spatial intelligence, and agility—actually pose a threat to Bundesliga defenders. In Spain, there are thousands of players like you, but they're more technical and physically superior. You'd get lost in the shuffle."
"What about Wolfsburg? Do you think I'd fit in there?"
"No," David said, dousing the fire immediately. "The Wolves are chasing titles now. They don't have time to wait for a player to develop. They'll buy established, high-impact strikers. You'd be better off at a smaller club where you can actually play."
--
January 27th. Newcastle Stadium (McDonald Jones Stadium).
"The 2015 Asian Cup semifinal between the UAE and China is underway!" He Wei's voice crackled through the television in the training base's conference room. "The Emirates have started with incredible aggression. They clearly know David Qin is missing and feel they no longer have to fear the counter!"
Alain Perrin had opted for a cautious "park the bus" strategy. It was a pragmatic, if painful, necessity; with their star spark sidelined, China's offensive threat had evaporated. The UAE squeezed the pitch, confident and assertive. Omar Abdulrahman—the "Middle Eastern Messi"—was pulling every string. In the 21st minute, he slipped a sublime lofted ball over the top, nearly carving the Chinese defense in two. Only a mistimed lunging effort from Mabkhout saved China from trailing early.
David watched with the intensity of a fan. In the past, he'd seen national teams that were afraid to move, teams that gave up after losing the ball. But this group was different. They were being dominated, yet they fought. They fell and scrambled back up. "Grit"—a simple concept that had taken the national team decades to learn.
Against the run of play in the 40th minute, China struck. Ren Hang intercepted an Omar dribble and fed Hao Junmin. Hao, playing with a renewed fire after being David's understudy all tournament, played a slick wall-pass with Yu Hai before lofting an exquisite ball with the outside of his boot.
"Sun Ke! Is the chance there?" He Wei thundered. "He's beaten the fullback! He's in! SUN KE!"
Sun Ke poked a sliding finish home. 1-0. David punched the air. For forty minutes, China had been a man holding his head while being beaten, waiting for the exact moment to pull a dagger from his sleeve.
But the fairy tale began to unravel in the 65th minute. Fatigue, the silent killer, finally caught up. Zheng Zhi, the 35-year-old engine, finally missed a step against Omar. The UAE maestro cut inside and unleashed a stinging shot. Wang Dalei parried it, but Khalil was the quickest to the rebound, stabbing it home.
1-1.
The momentum shifted violently. Perrin threw on Wu Xi for Zheng Zhi, but the captain's departure left a hole in the midfield that no one could fill. In the 82nd minute, the inevitable happened. Omar danced through the inside channel once more, and the resulting cross found Abdulrahman at the back post. He nodded it past Wang Dalei's despairing reach.
2-1 to the UAE.
"The whistle blows! It's over!" He Wei's voice was somber. "A 2-1 turnaround for the UAE. We will face Iraq for the third-place playoff. It is a result that stings, but let us be honest: we were beaten by a superior side today. The road for Chinese football remains long and arduous."
In the conference room, David stood up. He wasn't devastated. He saw his teammates on the screen, gathered in a circle on the pitch. Zheng Zhi was speaking, telling them not to be arrogant, that the road was long, and that they still had one more fight left.
David remembered a quote from the great Lu Xun: "Even if it is slow, if it is sustained, it will reach the goal. Even if it is behind, if it is persistent, it will reach the destination."
China had lost, but they had lost like men. For the first time in a long time, the future didn't look like a dead end.
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