"God sake, have you ever seen Ronaldo or Messi act as the team's hitman? It's always been Pepe or someone else doing the dirty work, hasn't it?"
David Qin's logic was ironclad.
In the theater of elite football, every great team needs an "enforcer"—an unapologetic villain to police the pitch. AC Milan had Gennaro Gattuso, Real Madrid had Pepe, Inter had Marco Materazzi, and the Dutch had Nigel de Jong. Malicious fouls are a part of the game's dark arts; if your star playmaker gets hacked down, and the team doesn't strike back, you've already lost the psychological battle.
"True! If you or Kevin pick up a red card, we've got no attack left," Junior Malanda muttered, a look of sudden realization washing over his face. He turned a venomous glare toward Kevin-Prince Boateng. "Just watch. I'm going to bury him."
"That's the spirit. Keep that intensity!" David gave him a sharp thumbs-up.
David had no intention of seeing red, but that didn't mean he was going to be a bystander. He'd just have to channel his inner Zlatan—maximum impact, minimum evidence.
Following Boateng's challenge on De Bruyne, the tempo of the match shifted into overdrive. The intensity spiraled, and the air at the Veltins-Arena grew thick with the scent of a brewing brawl.
"Oof! Huntelaar goes down after a heavy collision with Luiz Gustavo," Derek Rae noted as the replay rolled. "It looks like an elbow caught him right in the small of the back. Huntelaar is part of that famous Dutch strike force, but he's struggling to get back up after that one."
Stewart Robson added dryly, "The referee is trying to let the game flow, but he's walking a tightrope here. He needs to get a grip on this before it turns into a street fight."
The whistling from the home fans was a constant, piercing wall of noise. To balance the scales, the referee kept his cards pocketed but pulled the captains aside for a stern warning: "Gentlemen, keep your heads. Control your players, or I will start cooling people off with bookings."
Schalke 04 earned a free-kick in a dangerous area. Atsuto Uchida swung a searching ball into the mixer. With Choupo-Moting and Huntelaar both elite aerial threats, the Royal Blues' primary strategy revolved around their dominance in the 18-yard box.
"Searching for Choupo-Moting!"
"He wins the header—Benaglio with a stunning save! But it's loose... Huntelaar on the rebound!"
"Goal! Clinical from the 'Hunter'!"
"The deadlock is broken in the 29th minute! Klaas-Jan Huntelaar poaches it home!"
The Veltins-Arena erupted. A sea of deep blue surged in the stands like a living tide. Under the adoring gaze of the Gelsenkirchen faithful, Huntelaar held his head high, sprinting toward the corner flag to savor the moment.
Back in 2011-12, the Dutchman had posted an absurd 48 goals and 9 assists in 48 matches, claiming the Cannon—the Bundesliga top scorer trophy—with 29 league goals. Despite that, Louis van Gaal had famously snubbed him for an out-of-form Robin van Persie during the Euros. Huntelaar remained determined to prove he was still the premier Dutch marksman of his era, aiming to reclaim his starting spot before the next tournament.
"Heads up, boys! Conceding is part of the game," Dieter Hecking roared from the touchline, his voice barely carrying over the din. "We have to push the lines up! Stop letting them pin us back!"
David, being the closest, caught the instruction clearly and relayed it to his disheartened teammates. He was fuming internally. Being forced deep by Schalke, unable to showcase a shred of his offensive flair, felt like being bullied into a corner.
He wasn't about to play the victim. It was time to bite back.
"Let's go! We get one back right now!" David shouted, punching his palm.
The Wolfsburg players looked at their youngest teammate, a flicker of shame crossing their faces. If the teenager was this hungry for a comeback, how could they hang their heads?
"Let's go!!!"
Their collective roar was swallowed by the home crowd's cheers, but the fire in their eyes was unmistakable.
The match restarted. On the Schalke bench, Roberto Di Matteo sat with his arms folded, radiating confidence. He believed the best way to handle a "wonderkid" like David was to disrupt his rhythm and force him into uncomfortable territory—namely, defending. From his perspective, the plan was working perfectly.
His reverie was shattered by a sudden gasp from the stadium.
"Sané ignores the overlap from Uchida!"
"He's going it alone! The arrogance of youth!"
As the son of a former Bundesliga 2 top scorer and a German gymnastics queen, Leroy Sané's athletic pedigree was undeniable. At just 18, he had already carved out a starting spot. His greatest weapon? Blistering, terrifying speed.
Sané ignited, turning into a streak of black lightning down the wing.
Ricardo Rodríguez didn't panic. A 10-million-euro winger versus a 25-million-euro fullback—he backed his quality.
"Pass the ball!" Uchida was screaming for it, completely unmarked.
But Sané, fueled by the ego that often defines young prodigies—much like the early days of Ronaldo or Neymar—had tunnel vision. He didn't even bother with a feint; he tried to blow past Rodríguez with pure acceleration.
Now!
The Swiss international's explosiveness had dipped slightly after his injury, but his veteran instincts were razor-sharp. He timed the slide to perfection, his toe barely grazing the ball to poke it away from Sané's stride.
"Superb challenge from Rodríguez!"
"A goal-saving intervention! Knoche picks up the pieces and finds Luiz Gustavo. The Brazilian shrugs off Kirchhoff and slides a line-breaking ball down the flank!"
"They aren't looking for De Bruyne to reset—they're going direct! The counter-attack is on!"
Wolfsburg had drilled this transition a thousand times during De Bruyne's absence. In a flash, the momentum shifted. Amidst the thunderous cheers from the traveling supporters, David Qin was a blur of white and green charging into the vacated space.
Because he had ignored the instruction to drop deep, staying nearly ten yards further up the pitch than before, he had the head start he needed. Schalke's three-man defense was suddenly in total disarray.
David surged down the left, Perišić screamed down the right, and the veteran Ivica Olić played the offside line like a fiddle, keeping the defenders occupied. It left Roman Neustädter isolated against David.
Within seconds, David crossed the thirty-yard line, cutting diagonally toward the box.
"Don't let him in! Close him down!" Schalke keeper Ralf Fährmann screamed. He knew David's resume; once he was goal-side, he had a dozen different ways to punish you.
Neustädter was visibly anxious. When David feinted a step, the defender instinctively pivoted to cover. David immediately chopped the ball to the opposite side. Neustädter scrambled, his legs tangling as he tried to adjust his weight.
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