Upon returning to the temporary base, Alain Perrin briefed the squad on the recovery protocols and sent them to their rooms to rest. David Qin glanced at the setting sun filtering through the blinds; he knew that if he slept now, insomnia would claim his night. Instead, he pulled up the match footage of Uzbekistan versus North Korea.
His first impression of North Korea was a mix of olive drab and mystery. The "mystery" was literal—no live broadcasts from within their borders, and even their World Cup matches were edited and aired a day late. Data on them was a rare commodity.
"They look fierce," David muttered, scrolling through historical archives. Despite their reclusive nature, North Korea boasted a storied past, most notably in 1966 when they shocked Italy to reach the World Cup quarter-finals—the first Asian team to do so. Moreover, a significant portion of their current roster hailed from the military.
Thump, thump, thump!
The sound of collisions on the video made David sit bolt upright. Beyond the mystery, the North Koreans played with an intensity that bled through the screen—their psychological attributes were off the charts.
"If it weren't for a lucky deflection, Uzbekistan might have walked away with a draw against them," David observed, jotting notes in his journal.
North Korea: Their aggressive pressing and relentless energy are also their greatest weaknesses. When they overcommit high up the pitch, the backline becomes exposed. Must use tempo control in the final third to tear those gaps wide before striking.
Uzbekistan: Limited offensive punch up front, but their midfield engine is superior to Saudi Arabia's. They protect the half-spaces much better. I need to be clinical with my environment when attempting to break through.
David didn't try to play head coach; he focused on the local battle. He visualized how to dismantle the right flank from his position on the left, hunting for that sliver of space to feed a teammate or pull the trigger himself.
Knock, knock, knock!
"David, dinner! They've got Aussie steaks tonight!" Wu Lei shouted from the hallway.
"Coming!"
David shut off the TV and headed down to the dining hall. The atmosphere was light, filled with the clinking of cutlery and the low hum of relaxed conversation.
"Regarding the match against Uzbekistan," Perrin said between bites, ever the tactician. "If we take three points, we effectively secure passage to the knockouts. However, we should aim for the top of the group to avoid a premature quarter-final clash with Australia, Japan, or South Korea."
Perrin knew how to manage a squad; he used these informal moments to build rapport and cast a vision for the future.
"David, my mentor called me again," Perrin said with a twinkle in his eye. "He said you were excellent today. There's a chance he might show up at the stadium."
David stiffened. Not again. Perrin was constantly dropping Wenger's name. Was the man trying to smuggle him to Arsenal? David hadn't decided on his ultimate destination yet, but his philosophy was firm: he didn't want to be a cog; he wanted to be the engine.
For now, The Wolves were the perfect place to level up. A winter departure was out of the question, and even a summer move would depend on his progression. He estimated he needed at least an 85% synchronization with his system templates before he was truly "big-club ready."
He glanced at his mental HUD:
Elven Ball Control: 83%
Dribbling Technique: 77%
Wicked Finesse: 75%
"David, don't misunderstand," Perrin added quickly, sensing the boy's wariness. "It's been a long time since we've caught up. He's coming to see me."
Perrin kept a straight face, but he knew the truth. Wenger didn't travel halfway across the world just to grab coffee with a former assistant. With March approaching—the month Arsenal's title hopes historically evaporated—Wenger was looking for a catalyst.
"Missed too many good ones in the past, now he's finally in a hurry," Perrin thought, privately amused by his mentor's sudden interest.
"I get it, I get it," David said, slicing into a steak. The rich, buttery fat of the Australian beef exploded on his palate—tender, juicy, and infinitely better than the lean cuts back in Germany.
"So, David," Wu Lei asked curiously, "I heard German pork is... a bit pungent. What do you even eat over there?"
"It's the smell," David grimaced. "They passed a law a couple of years back regarding painless slaughter. In Lower Saxony, where Wolfsburg is, they actually have to let the pigs rest and play soft music for them before the end. If you don't use heavy spices to cover the natural scent, it's tough."
David continued, "I stick to the basics: pasta, eggs, fish, chicken, and a mountain of broccoli. High carb, high protein, low fat. The nutritionists map out every calorie."
Wu Lei nodded, processing the discipline. "Makes sense."
"What's up, Lei? Thinking about going abroad?" Zheng Zhi joked.
"Who doesn't dream of the Big Five leagues?" Wu Lei admitted openly. "I think about it every night."
Beside him, Zhang Linpeng's eyes shimmered with a similar longing. As a top-tier domestic defender who had won everything with Guangzhou Evergrande, Europe was the only logical next step. He knew that with the "David Qin Hype Train" in full swing, there would be scouts in every corner of the stadium.
January 14th. 3:00 PM.
The sweltering sun beat down on Brisbane Stadium once more as the Chinese team arrived for their second group stage match. David pressed his face against the bus window, watching a group of middle-aged women in red shirts and black skirts dancing to a familiar, infectious beat.
"You are my little, little apple!" the music blared.
It was "Little Apple," the viral sensation that had swept through China over the last year. Seeing the aunties performing square dances in the heart of Australia brought a warmth to David's chest.
"Listen up! The boys are here!" the fan association leader shouted through a megaphone. "Hand out these jerseys! We need to be loud, we need to be organized!"
Because of past failures, China had "curses" with almost every Asian rival. They had just broken the 18-year hex against the Saudis, but now they faced the 14-year Uzbekistan jinx—a team they hadn't beaten in a major tournament since 2001.
"Lads," Zheng Zhi shouted as they stepped off the bus, "if we lose today, we can't look those fans in the eye. They flew ten hours to be here. Don't let them down."
Inside the stadium, He Wei prepared for the broadcast. "Welcome back to our live coverage of Group B! Today, we see some tactical shifts from Alain Perrin. Gao Lin replaces Yu Hai up front, and Jiang Zhipeng drops into a double-pivot with Zheng Zhi. It's a defensive insurance policy, likely aimed at weathering the early Uzbek storm."
On the other side, Mirjalol Kasimov deployed a disciplined 4-5-1. Kasimov, a legend who had captained the Soviet Union youth teams before independence, was a hard-nosed leader.
"Djeparov is aging," Kasimov whispered to his assistant, staring at his veteran playmaker. "This is his last chance. If he doesn't meet my intensity, he sits."
Tweet!
The match kicked off with Uzbekistan controlling the tempo. Their style mirrored the Japanese approach—patient, technical, and focused on intricate passing triangles.
"The opening minutes are cagey," He Wei noted. "Djeparov still has that vision; he shimmies past Wu Lei with ease. Zheng Zhi flies in to close him down, but Djeparov sees it coming—he pings it wide to Haydarov!"
The Uzbek fans erupted as the ball was worked into the half-space. Ahmedov timed his run perfectly, ghosting behind the defense and driving toward the byline.
"Ahmedov looks to fire it across the face!"
"Zhang Linpeng slides in to block!"
"Oh no! The ball clips Zhang's shin, takes a wicked deflection, and loops over Wang Dalei! It's in!"
"19 minutes in, and Uzbekistan take the lead through an own goal! Luck is not on China's side today!"
David Qin stood in the center circle, silent. He looked back at his own box, where Zhang Linpeng lay flat on the grass, hands covering his face in agony.
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