January 17, 2015.
The final round of Group A in the Asian Cup: South Korea vs. Australia. The Brisbane Stadium, which had just witnessed two consecutive victories for China, was now the stage to decide who would claim the top spot in the group—and who would face the "Red Dragons" in the knockout stage.
"The South Korean media has spent the last few days acknowledging that China is no longer the team they once knew," He Wei noted during the pre-match buildup. "They are desperate to win the group specifically to avoid David Qin. Local analysts in Seoul are critical, however; they claim Uli Stielike hasn't improved their tactical ceiling. Their group stage has exposed a blunt attack and an unstable backline. Today, we find out who China's date with destiny will be."
On the pitch, the two tournament favorites played at a tempo far beyond the rest of the field. Australia's defense was a wall of muscle and aggression, leveraging their physical superiority to the absolute limit. Even the fit South Korean squad found themselves pinned back by the Socceroos' relentless intensity.
In the 37th minute, Ki Sung-yueng threaded a needle through the left channel. Son Heung-min ignited his engines, driving to the byline and whipping a low cross into the danger zone. Lee Jeong-hyeop lunged for the strike, but a desperate block from an Australian defender deflected the ball away.
"South Korea is still lightning-quick on the flanks, but it's a one-man show," He Wei observed. "They rely entirely on Son's individual pace rather than a collective rhythmic advantage. Their overall transition is sluggish. We might be looking at a stalemate here."
On the touchline, Ange Postecoglou's brow was furrowed. Having coached the Australian youth setups and the Brisbane Roar, he had been instrumental in shifting the national team's identity toward a more sophisticated European style. He recognized that Korea's threat, much like China's, hinged on individual brilliance. His solution? A two-man shadow on Son Heung-min.
The tactic worked. Son was denied the ball, forced into fruitless decoy runs. As the game wore on, the absence of Lee Chung-yong and Koo Ja-cheol became glaring. Korea's midfield engine room stalled; Ki Sung-yueng looked lost in the physical jungle of the Australian middle, unable to find the passing lanes he usually dominated.
By the 60th minute, Postecoglou's expression softened. He had briefly entertained the idea of finishing second to face China, but after watching David Qin's phenomenal opening performances, he had changed his mind. He didn't want a piece of David Qin yet—not without a guaranteed victory in sight.
A collective gasp rippled through the stands as Nathan Burns caught Park Joo-ho with a stray elbow during an aerial challenge. Park hit the turf, blood gushing from his nose, and had to be stretchered off. When the referee only produced a yellow card, the South Korean fans erupted in fury, hurling accusations of home-field bias.
Minutes later, the violence escalated. Son Heung-min attempted to burn past Ivan Franjic, who met him with a heavy shoulder barge, while Mark Milligan flew in with a crunching tackle.
Clack!
Son collapsed, clutching his ankle and howling in pain. The referee saw Milligan catch the ankle and brandished another yellow. The atmosphere turned toxic.
"Shibal!" the Korean fans screamed, their curses echoing through the stadium. Stielike was livid, berating the fourth official, but his protests fell on deaf ears. Postecoglou just smirked. He had achieved his goal: exhausting the Koreans through sheer attrition and "dirty" defensive work.
As the final whistle blew, the scoreboard remained blank.
"It's over! A 0-0 draw!" He Wei announced. "Australia claims the top spot on goal difference. That settles it—China's quarter-final opponent will be South Korea! On today's evidence, the Koreans are still searching for their best form. However, holding Australia to a draw with only 33% possession is a testament to their grit. Toppling them will be no easy feat for Perrin's men."
On the pitch, Son Heung-min sat on the grass, staring at his boots. David Qin's smiling face flashed in his mind. They had met in the Bundesliga, and David had come out on top. They had promised to meet again in the Asian Cup.
I can't lose this time, Son thought. I'm heading to the Premier League next season. I need to be better.
Back at the base, Perrin gathered the squad. "South Korea won't sit back. They'll look to overload the flanks with Son. We have to neutralize that. But what do we do on the other side? Simple: we attack. Parking the bus against Korea is suicide—they are stronger and faster. We have to move the battle into their half."
The next day, at the Canberra Stadium, the final group match against North Korea began.
"Move! Work for it!" Perrin roared from the sidelines.
Having already qualified, Perrin fielded a rotated side, and the players were showing signs of complacency. It was exactly what he feared.
"David Qin is on the bench today, resting for the Korean clash," He Wei noted. "But China's offensive bite has dropped an entire gear without him. Yu Hai just stood off Pak Kwang-ryong—if that shot hadn't rattled the crossbar, we'd be behind. The focus isn't there. You can't play like this against the Koreans."
At halftime, the dressing room was a pressure cooker. Perrin exploded.
"Do you think this is a vacation?" he shouted, his hands trembling with rage. "You're letting North Korea dictate the game! Our midfield is nonexistent, the backline is retreating into the box—do you not feel the danger? If you take this attitude into the South Korea match, I promise you, we lose!"
He slammed the tactical board. "Find your focus! Organize, intercept, and pass the ball! Stop playing like cowards protecting a pittance. Show me the spirit you had against Uzbekistan! I want three wins from three!"
He stormed out, leaving a heavy silence behind. The complacency vanished instantly. In the second half, the National Team found their pulse. Wu Xi took the reins in midfield, and the passing grew crisp again.
In the 65th minute, Hao Junmin—starting in David's place—dribbled past a lunging defender and threaded a needle of a through-ball into the box. Gao Lin shielded the ball brilliantly before laying it off to Yu Hai.
"Yu Hai chops inside! He fires!"
"GOAL! China takes the lead in the 65th minute!" He Wei exhaled.
Five minutes later, Perrin signaled to David Qin. He wanted David to keep his rhythm without overexerting himself. As David donned his jersey, the stands erupted. He was no longer just a player; he was the nation's sword.
With David on the pitch, the game stabilized. He dropped deeper, orchestrating the play—a role he rarely played for The Wolves but one he embraced for his country.
"I made a mistake," Perrin realized, watching the game flow. "I thought my tactics alone could control the pitch, but the players were hesitant. They needed a leader to unify their thoughts."
In the 83rd minute, David drifted inside. The North Korean defense swarmed him, desperate to close the gap.
Aggressive, but disorganized, David noted. He saw the flaw. He pushed the ball forward with his right, dug his left boot into the turf, and exploded through the gap.
"Pure physical dominance!" He Wei shouted. "David Qin bursts through the line! A quick wall-pass with Gao Lin—he's through! One-on-one with the keeper... a cheeky chip! BEAUTIFUL!"
"3-0! A perfect group stage! If Zheng Zhi is the soul in the back, David Qin is the heart of the attack. They are a different team with him on the pitch."
The match ended shortly after. Three wins. Top of the group. History made.
But as the players celebrated, Perrin didn't let them leave. He ordered the substitutes to perform shuttle runs on the pitch immediately. The message was clear.
The war is just beginning.
After showering, David returned to the field. He spotted a young boy standing next to Zheng Zhi.
"And what should you call me?" David asked, grinning.
The boy scurried over, beaming. "Big Brother!"