"Welcome back, everyone!"
"You are watching the live broadcast of the 2015 Asian Cup quarter-final between China and South Korea. The second half is underway!"
China opened the half with composed possession. Alain Perrin was a disciple of the technical game; since taking the helm, his drills had focused relentlessly on ball retention, from building out of the back to the intricate movements in the midfield. The only thing missing had been the final spark up front.
Zheng Zhi received the ball and recycled it to Mei Fang. With Cai Huikang shielding beside him, the captain was free to dictate the tempo. His role in the national team was often understated—quiet, unassuming, yet utterly indispensable.
Suddenly, Zheng Zhi shaped his body as if to launch a long, diagonal ball toward David Qin. The Korean backline flinched; the memory of David dismantling three defenders in the first half was still raw. But it was a ruse. Instead, Zheng Zhi clipped a lofted ball over the top, targeting the dangerous space just outside the penalty area.
Wu Lei burst forward from the midfield to meet it. However, under pressure from Kwak Tae-hwi and plagued by his own inconsistent finishing, he sent a speculative volley skyward.
"Ah, that one's ended up in the cheap seats! But credit where it's due: China's attacking play has become significantly more fluid," He Wei noted, sensing the shift in momentum.
"The key is how much attention Korea is paying to David Qin," Liu Jiayuan added. "Kim Young-gwon and Kwak Tae-hwi are stretching so far apart to cover him that they're leaving massive gaps in the heart of the defense. If China keeps probing, another goal isn't far off."
By the 57th minute, Zhang Chengdong was beginning to realize just how much fun Mei Fang had been having. With David Qin attracting defenders like a magnet, Zhang was left with acres of space to operate. Emboldened by David's confidence, his play grew increasingly daring.
"Beautiful! He skips past Lee Keun-ho and lofts a ball in! He's looking for David Qin!"
"Kim Jin-su is coming in hot!"
David moved toward the drop zone, spotting Kim Jin-su charging in out of the corner of his eye. The bastard wasn't looking for the ball; he was looking for blood.
David glanced at the referee, noted his obstructed view, and decided not to jump at all. To the casual observer, it looked like he'd been completely out-jumped by the Korean defender. In reality, David tucked his right elbow tight and braced. Kim Jin-su, fully committed to the collision, slammed right into it.
Crack!
Kim Jin-su felt his ribs scream in protest. A wave of sharp, agonizing pain surged through his torso, and he collapsed onto the turf in a heap of tangled limbs.
"Sss—!"
Kim tried to suck in a breath, but the movement only intensified the stabbing pain. He lay there, face turning a deep shade of crimson, waiting for a whistle that never came. When he saw the linesman signaling a throw-in for China, his world turned upside down.
"A bit of controversy here," He Wei said cautiously. "South Korea wants a foul on David Qin, but the referee isn't interested. Let's look at the replay."
He paused as the slow-motion footage rolled. "Er... well, Kim Jin-su is back on his feet."
The cameras captured David Qin calmly lifting his jersey to wipe away sweat, casually smoothing his hair. Behind him, the background consisted of a doubled-over Kim Jin-su clutching his side.
"What do we call that?" He Wei mused. "That, my friends, is elegance."
David looked back at Kim Jin-su with a faint, predatory smile. He didn't say a word, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes: I still prefer you unbroken and arrogant. This look doesn't suit you.
Kim Jin-su wanted to scream a string of profanities, but the pain in his ribs forced him to swallow his rage.
"You're a handful, kid," Wu Lei whispered, a hint of awe in his voice. "That was a nasty little move."
"Old man Ivica Olić taught me that," David replied with a shrug. "The Croatian veterans... they know a few tricks about self-preservation."
Olić's twenty-year career had been a masterclass in the "dark arts" of football. David had only absorbed a fraction of it, but it was more than enough to handle Kim Jin-su.
"The Big Five leagues really are something else," Wu Lei muttered, his resolve to move abroad hardening by the second.
The substitutions began. Stielike brought on Han Kook-young for Lee Jeong-hyeop and the legendary veteran Cha Du-ri for the battered Kim Jin-su. Perrin responded immediately, readying Jiang Zhipeng and Gao Lin. He knew China's stamina wouldn't survive extra time; they had to kill the game now.
The temperature on the pitch reached boiling point.
"Ki Sung-yueng with a long diagonal to Son Heung-min!"
"Jiang Zhipeng is closing in—oh, goodness!"
Jiang Zhipeng went in with a high boot, a wild flying kick that forced Son Heung-min to hurdle out of the way to save his neck. The referee brandished a yellow card instantly.
"He tried to head my foot!" Jiang argued, looking aggrieved.
Son Heung-min stood there, chest heaving, realizing that every time a Korean player targeted David Qin, the Chinese response would be to target him. It was a brutal, unspoken policy of escalation.
"Watch the set piece! Park Joo-ho to whip it in!"
"Han Kook-young rising for the header!"
"No! Brilliant from Zhang Linpeng! He reads the flight perfectly and thumps it clear!"
"Second ball!"
Both teams swarmed the loose ball. Ki Sung-yueng used his 189cm frame to outleap David Qin, nodding it down to Nam Tae-hee. But just as the Korean fans began to cheer, Zheng Zhi came steaming in. He robbed Nam Tae-hee blind and hit the accelerator.
Boom-boom-boom-boom! CHINA VICTORY!
The rhythmic thrum of the drums became the war drum of the counter-attack. A crimson tide swept forward as the Chinese players sprinted with everything they had left.
"Foul him! Break it up!" Stielike screamed from the touchline, terrified of his team's exposed underbelly during the transition.
Zheng Zhi saw Son Heung-min chasing back and Park Joo-ho closing in from the side. He slowed his stride just enough to settle himself before launching a pinpoint long ball. Not to David, but to Gao Lin.
In his prime at Evergrande, Gao Lin was the kind of target man that made Asian defenders lose sleep. He braced himself against his club teammate Kim Young-gwon, feeling a gust of wind at his shoulder.
"BEHIND YOU!"
David's raspy roar tore through the air. Without a second thought, Gao Lin flicked his head back, his gelled hair meeting the ball perfectly.
Snap!
The ball sailed over the Korean backline and dropped into the vast, empty expanse of the penalty area. Thirty thousand fans held their collective breath, watching the boy in red chase the horizon.
"The flick is too long... the keeper will get there!" Stielike thought, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Kim Jin-hyeon raced off his line, the weight of a nation on his shoulders. David Qin's speed hit another gear. He shimmed, his body swaying like a willow in the wind.
"Mine!" Kim Jin-hyeon dove, committed to the slide, expecting a shot.
But David dug his left cleat into the turf and executed a "hurdle" flick. He took off, sailing over the prone goalkeeper while the ball hovered just above the grass. The stadium erupted in a collective gasp.
David settled the ball on the other side. The goal was gaping. He was two yards out. He didn't shoot.
He stopped the ball dead on the goal line.
He waited. He waited until he could hear the frantic, desperate footsteps of Ki Sung-yueng racing back. Then, and only then, he nonchalantly back-heeled the ball into the net.
Pure, unadulterated humiliation.
2-1!
The Turnaround!
The Korean players stood frozen, their faces burning as if they'd been slapped. Their fans were hysterical.
"Where is your sportsmanship! You're mocking us!"
"Someone break his legs! Don't let him play again!"
Ki Sung-yueng stormed up, grabbing David by the collar. "What the hell was that?"
David just smirked, a villainous glint in his eyes. "You tell me."
"I'll—"
Ki was hyperventilating with rage, but before he could do anything, Gao Lin shoved him back. "Hey! Picking on a teenager? You want a piece of someone, come get me! Quit acting tough!"
"Don't worry," Zheng Zhi said, pulling David away from the scrum. "I loved it, but don't make a habit of it. You'll get your legs broken for real one day."
"I only do it for them," David replied, feeling a strange sense of serenity.
On the sideline, Perrin was losing his mind. He shook his assistant's shoulders. "He is a gift from God!"
"What now?" the assistant gasped.
"Ride the wave! Withstand the final surge, and we're in the semis!" Perrin roared.
Stielike, meanwhile, was catatonic. He'd underestimated the boy's spite. He called Ki Sung-yueng over. "Calm them down! We have twelve minutes! Control the ball, drain their adrenaline, and penetrate through the middle. Do you want to lose to the kid who just mocked you?"
"No!" Ki hissed, his teeth clenched.
"The 78th minute and China leads!" He Wei's voice was hoarse with emotion. "Zheng Zhi with the steal, Gao Lin with the veteran flick, and David Qin... he just jumped over the keeper and into the history books!"
"A bit of youthful arrogance at the finish, perhaps—but as the saying goes: if you aren't wild when you're young, you've wasted your youth!"
The match restarted. Korea, fueled by a toxic mix of shame and fury, began to dominate possession. They had to stabilize, or a third goal would end their tournament.
Minutes ticked away like hours.
"Is Zhang Chengdong too far forward? He's pushed up way too high!"
"Park Joo-ho with the long ball into that channel! Han Kook-young!"
The Korean supporters found their voices again. Han Kook-young trapped the ball and looked up. Fatigue was setting in for the Chinese; gaps were appearing in the right half-space where Cai Huikang could no longer cover.
Zheng Zhi gritted his teeth and sprinted to cover the gap. He was running on fumes, but Perrin refused to sub him out. He was the anchor.
Zhang Linpeng lunged toward Han Kook-young, but the pass was already away. It was heading straight for a charging Ki Sung-yueng.
"I've got it!" Zheng Zhi yelled, throwing himself into a desperate slide.
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