The morning air was sharp, tinged with the scent of freshly cut grass and faint traces of turf sweat from early drills. Qin Ming stood at the edge of the Bayern II training pitch, taking measured breaths, his body humming with the energy of the Ronaldinho template. Fusion had already reached seventy-five percent, but the system's prompts reminded him that every successful execution increased both skill and instinct. His fingers tingled as he rolled the ball across the ground, testing friction, timing, and responsiveness. Every touch was precise, every adjustment natural. The first-team trial today would determine whether he could even step onto the main squad's radar.
Erik Ten Hag appeared at the far end of the pitch, his presence immediately commanding. Qin Ming's heartbeat remained steady—he wasn't afraid, not in the slightest—but he knew Ten Hag's scrutiny was exacting. One misstep, one moment of arrogance, and he could be relegated back to youth training, or worse, pushed toward the Chinese Super League. Ten Hag's sharp eyes scanned the players like a hawk searching for the slightest vulnerability. Qin Ming tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the challenge. Today wasn't just about impressing the scouts; it was about surviving Ten Hag's unforgiving assessment.
The whistle blew. A friendly match with Bayern's first-team reserves began under the cool morning sun. Defenders surged, strikers darted, and the midfield was a chaotic storm. Qin Ming moved as if in slow motion, each motion precise, each feint calculated. His body seemed to anticipate the opposition before their own feet knew what to do. A sudden burst forward, a double feint to the left, then a sudden pivot right, and he split the central defenders effortlessly. A quick glance at the sidelines confirmed Ten Hag's unreadable expression—eyes narrowed, lips pressed. The scouts scribbled furiously. Fusion notifications blinked faintly in his vision: [Fusion: 76%].
Midway through the match, a senior first-team midfielder pressed aggressively, attempting to block Qin Ming's path. Instinct and system merged seamlessly; he read the defender's body language—the weight distribution, the subtle lean forward, the micro-adjustments in foot placement. With a slight shift of his weight and a deft outside-foot flick, the ball rolled past the defender, leaving him stumbling, off balance. Qin Ming accelerated, leaving defenders trailing, weaving through the midfield as if the pitch itself bent to his will. Another fusion prompt appeared: [Skill Training +3, Dribble Mastery +2]. He suppressed a grin; the system's subtle guidance had already begun reshaping him into a professional-caliber prodigy.
By the second half, whispers had spread among the first-team bench. Players nudged each other, casting glances toward the seventeen-year-old Chinese prodigy who seemed to glide across the pitch effortlessly. The opposing captain, a seasoned youth international, tried to mark him more tightly, but every feint, every acceleration, every sudden change of pace left him off balance. Qin Ming realized that the Ronaldinho template didn't just provide raw skill—it had enhanced his strategic mind. He instinctively predicted patterns, mapped passing lanes, and created opportunities before anyone else recognized them.
Højbjerg called out from the sidelines, his voice taut with excitement and worry. "Qin! Don't overdo it! Save some for the scouts!" But Qin Ming didn't slow; he couldn't. The system's interface pulsed faintly in his vision: [Fusion: 78%]. Every second mattered, every execution added to the template's integration. And with it, the possibility of claiming his place in Bayern's senior squad grew tangible. He weaved past defenders again, executed a nutmeg that made even the first-team reserves flinch, and delivered a precise pass that split the defense.
Ten Hag's gaze didn't waver. Yet the imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested approval—approval carefully masked behind years of discipline and expectation. Qin Ming knew better than to assume complacency; every subtle movement, every feint, every acceleration could be used against him if he lost focus. The system reminded him: fusion was incomplete, and the more he pushed in real matches, the faster the template integrated into his physical and mental processes. [Fusion: 80%] blinked.
A sudden tactical shift forced Qin Ming to adapt. The opposing team pressed with high intensity, cutting off his usual passing lanes. He scanned the pitch, noting defenders' tendencies, movement patterns, and the approximate timing of their pressing. With a sudden burst of acceleration, he executed a perfect rainbow flick over the nearest defender, landing with absolute balance. Another fusion notification blinked: [Dribble Mastery +5, Skill Training +4]. A small crowd of spectators and staff had gathered near the fence, murmuring among themselves. A seventeen-year-old was making adults look ordinary.
Halfway through the second half, a scout approached the edge of the pitch. Qin Ming barely noticed; his attention remained on the flow of the game. The system pulsed a subtle reminder: [Observation: Tactical Awareness +2]. Using the template's enhanced cognition, he anticipated a cross from the wing, intercepted it with a subtle body shift, and passed with perfect precision to a teammate breaking forward. The crowd erupted in applause, faint but distinct, as the opposing team regrouped. Ten Hag's expression remained unreadable, but the small nod he gave as Qin Ming jogged past suggested he had passed an invisible threshold.
By the final whistle, the scoreboard was irrelevant. Observers, scouts, and staff approached, scribbling notes and exchanging whispers. Qin Ming walked off the pitch, sweat dripping, heart pounding—not from exhaustion, but from the thrill of potential realized. Fusion had risen again: [Fusion: 82%]. The system had integrated more of Ronaldinho's skills and instincts. He felt stronger, faster, smarter, and more controlled than any seventeen-year-old should possibly be. Højbjerg clapped him on the back, smiling. "You… you actually did it. First-team level."
In the locker room, Ten Hag's voice cut through the hum of conversation. "Qin Ming. Today, you showed skill, vision, and discipline. You still have much to learn, but…" He paused, fixing him with a piercing stare. "…you've earned the right to train with the first team tomorrow. Don't waste it." The weight of those words sank in. This wasn't just a reward; it was a test, a chance, and a challenge rolled into one.
Qin Ming lay awake that night, replaying every moment in his mind. Every feint, pass, acceleration, and tactical read had been calculated and executed. Fusion was rising faster than he expected, and the potential for full integration loomed near. Tomorrow, he would face a new battlefield: Bayern's first team, seasoned professionals who would push him to the limits. But for the first time, he felt the thrill of possibility, the certainty that his transmigration wasn't just a second chance—it was a doorway to greatness.
As sunlight filtered through the blinds again, Qin Ming whispered to himself, eyes gleaming. "Europe isn't just a dream anymore. It's mine to conquer."