As November descended, a biting chill settled over Wolfsburg. Withered leaves spiraled to the ground in a quiet rustle, yet the vibe at the VfL Training Center remained white-hot.
"Our next opponent is Stuttgart," Dieter Hecking said, his voice echoing in the tactical briefing room. "They finished fourth from the bottom last season, but they've picked up momentum lately, grinding out draws against Dortmund and Leverkusen."
"Keep a close eye on their center-back, Antonio Rüdiger. He's a physical specimen—1.9 meters tall, 85 kilograms. His defensive positioning can be erratic, but his style is aggressive. Brutal, even."
"He's like a predator tearing at its prey. Back when he debuted in the Bundesliga, he famously leveled Rafael van der Vaart with a single punch. Stay sharp out there. Don't let him catch you off guard; I don't want anyone in the treatment room."
Hecking's warning was stern. For a manager, injuries are the ultimate enemy. Wolfsburg's current success relied on a rock-solid defense paired with irreplaceable attacking flair. If either Kevin De Bruyne or David Qin went down, the team's engine would stall.
David stared at the face on the screen. A specific memory from his past life flickered in his mind: those high-stepping knees. It wasn't necessarily a taunt by the German defender; it was a unique sprinting mechanic Rüdiger believed made him faster. A personal quirk that would eventually become world-famous.
November 1st. Stuttgart, nestled in the Neckar Valley of Baden-Württemberg.
The city's coat of arms features a black stallion rearing against a golden field—the very same "Prancing Horse" that inspired the logos of Ferrari and Porsche. But Stuttgart is famous for more than just automotive excellence; it is home to a club with a legendary pedigree.
VfB Stuttgart. They were the first Bundesliga champions after the reunification of Germany, and they famously snatched the title again in 2006-07, beating out giants like Schalke, Bremen, and Bayern. That history is immortalized by the solitary gold star above their crest, representing their three top-flight titles.
The Mercedes-Benz Arena was a sight to behold. Known for its unique membrane roof spanning 34,000 square meters, the stadium breathed history. Its roots stretched back to 1933, originally named after a certain dictator before evolving through names like the Neckarstadion and the Gottlieb-Daimler-Stadion.
To the roar of 50,000 fans, the players emerged from the tunnel.
"Good evening, football fans!" Wolff-Christoph Fuss's voice crackled with energy over the airwaves. "We are live for Round 10 of the 2014-15 Bundesliga season! Stuttgart welcomes the high-flying Wolves of Wolfsburg! The whistle blows, and we are underway!"
The cameras panned to the pitch. Stuttgart's Alexandru Maxim—the young Romanian playmaker, not the Mohawk-sporting winger—took the ball and immediately looked to the flanks. Stuttgart's game plan was rudimentary: fly down the wings and find the target man in the middle.
However, that strategy requires a powerhouse striker. Stuttgart lacked one. Against the twin "anti-aircraft guns" of Naldo and Robin Knoche, their crosses were swatted away with ease.
In the 16th minute, Vieirinha intercepted a stray ball on the right and fed Luiz Gustavo. The Brazilian shrugged off Maxim and moved it forward. In the blink of an eye, the ball found De Bruyne, and the Wolves' counter-attack surged forward like a tidal wave.
David Qin sprinted down the flank, his eyes glued to De Bruyne's movement. Just as he ghosted into the half-space behind Christian Gentner, the pass arrived with surgical precision.
"Rüdiger is closing in fast!" Fuss shouted. "Look at those high knees! If you didn't know he was a footballer, you'd think he was a hurdler warming up!"
"David Qin!"
The Rüdiger of 2014 was a far cry from the refined world-class defender he would become a decade later. He was raw, reckless, and overly aggressive. David executed a simple body swerve, causing Rüdiger to momentarily stutter in his stride.
Those high knees left a massive, inviting gap between the defender's legs.
Clack! David pushed the ball forward with his right foot, sending it clean through the "tunnel."
A nutmeg!
David drifted past him like a ghost, chasing the ball. Rüdiger, his center of gravity completely compromised, couldn't even manage a tactical foul. Schwab attempted to cover from the side, but David ignited his afterburners, leaving the defender in the dust.
One-on-one!
Under the stunned silence of the Stuttgart faithful, David bore down on Thorsten Kirschbaum's goal.
"Ivica!" David barked a shout toward Olić as Kirschbaum rushed off his line. It was a bluff. Instead of a pass, David flicked his ankle, sending the ball on a delicate, rising trajectory.
Snap! A beautiful arc traced through the air, ending its journey in the dead center of the net.
0-1!!!
As the ball bounced rhythmically inside the goal, the traveling Wolfsburg fans erupted. David Qin was becoming the ultimate "X-factor." Every time he touched the ball, he defied expectation. It was that sense of the unknown, like the turn of a card at a high-stakes table, that left the fans mesmerized.
On the pitch, David grabbed a reluctant De Bruyne for a celebratory dance. The Belgian was adorably shy, his movements as stiff as a marionette. Laughter broke out on the bench as Hecking clapped with a broad grin.
In the three months between August and November, Hecking had witnessed a terrifying evolution. David Qin was no longer just a prospect; he was playing with a fluidity that suggested he was finally "enjoying" the game, free from the friction of his early days.
A short distance away, Rüdiger's face was a mask of embarrassment and simmering rage. He had been raised on a "toughness first" philosophy—if you aren't the hammer, you're the nail. His eyes flashed with a dark intensity; he was determined to turn up the heat on the kid.
"David Qin's opener has changed the complexion of this game," Derek Rae observed. "The cameras are panning to the south stand—those banners are calling for a change in management. Armin Veh, the man who led them to glory in 2007, is back in the dugout, but the magic has faded."
"Stuttgart has only eight points from ten matches—their second-worst start in history. Their twenty-five goals conceded is the worst in the league. They drew with Dortmund and Leverkusen only because those sides were in disarray. Against a disciplined Wolfsburg, they look lost."
When the match resumed, Rüdiger switched to a "man-marking" strategy. Whenever David drifted into the half-space, Rüdiger was there like superglue, adding subtle shoves and jersey tugs to his arsenal. It was effective, to a point. He also made sure to keep his knees low, terrified of being humiliated between the legs a second time.
Seeing this, David simply abandoned the center. He stayed wide on the left, taking delight in tormenting Florian Schwab. David's mesmerizing footwork left Schwab dizzy; at one point, the defender nearly tripped over his own feet.
David's logic was simple: Are you going to help him, Rüdiger? If you stay away, I'll destroy Schwab. If you come over, I'll slip the ball to Olić for an easy finish.
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