As the distance between them quickly closed,
Strobl’s anxiety spread like wildfire through his chest.
At the same time, Qin Ming suddenly changed the rhythm of his dribble, shifting his center of gravity mid-touch.
It was a simple move—ridiculously simple, even—but it was enough to rattle Strobl into a panicked reach for the ball.
The nearby stands erupted in gasps.
Qin used the outside of his left foot to flick the ball, then suddenly burst forward!
His move was so quick, it became a blur—delivering a shocking visual impact to the fans.
“Beautiful!”
“Minimal feints, relying entirely on rhythm change—this is the most effective dribbling technique!”
“Strobl was completely beaten!”
On the sideline,
Dieter Hecking adjusted his glasses, trying to see more clearly.
“I didn’t expect him to step up first, especially with Kevin being shut down,”
he thought quietly.
Next to him, the assistant coach murmured, “I heard Qin took Kevin to a bar a few days ago.
Mr.
Scott wasn’t too happy about it.”
“Qin’s still young.
It’s understandable.”
Hecking didn’t pursue it and let the topic drop.
Elsewhere—
Chubby Gisdol frowned deeply.
Unlike some arrogant coaches, he had warned his players pre-match to take Wolfsburg’s new talent seriously.
That’s why Süle had been drifting toward the left flank all game, even relaxing his marking of Olić to do so.
But still—he got beaten.
“Take it yourself… take it yourself…”
Gisdol muttered, not watching Qin Ming but rather staring at Olić in the box.
He desperately hoped Qin would get greedy.
Near Hoffenheim’s left side of the penalty area, a visitor arrived.
Qin Ming caught a glimpse of Süle behind him, and Bičakčić sliding in from the other side.
Step, step, step!
After quickly adjusting his stride, he leaned into the ball—right foot swinging.
A shot!
Everyone in the stadium knew he was about to shoot.
Süle tightened his core and launched his body into a lunge.
Keeper Oliver took tiny adjustment steps, eyes fixed on Qin Ming.
Near post or far post?
You could usually tell by the planted foot and the shape of the striking leg.
“Hoffenheim’s defensive cover is solid!”
“Chances are, the shot will be blocked!”
Liu Jiayuan hadn’t even finished that sentence when the unexpected happened.
Oliver realized with a start—Qin Ming had tucked his right foot inward and lightly scooped the ball with the outside of his foot.
It wasn’t a shot!
Pop!
A crisp, sweet sound echoed as the ball jumped over Süle’s sliding tackle, skipping like a sprite toward the penalty spot.
There, Croatian veteran Olić struck with thousands of eyes upon him—hitting a thunderous volley!
BOOM!
The ball blasted into the net as the diving Oliver could only watch in stunned silence.
0–1!!!
“It’s in!”
“35th minute of the first half—Wolfsburg needed just 30 seconds to transition from backline to goal!”
“Hoffenheim’s relentless effort to shut down De Bruyne backfired—they left Caligiuri unmarked and shifted resources away from Olić!”
“Keep in mind, Olić may be 36, but he once outshone Robben!”
“A Champions League semifinal hat trick to eliminate Manchester United—if not for Inter Milan’s rock-solid defense, he might’ve had a UCL title on his resume!”
On the field, Olić wasn’t like De Bruyne—he had a library of celebration routines.
Knee-slide salute!
Then, pulling Qin Ming over, he shouted toward the away stand: “Hey, remember this underage kid—he’s 20 years younger than me!
That play just now?
Amazing, wasn’t it?!”
Wolfsburg fans cheered wildly in return.
“You’re younger than my son—and ten times better!”
“Seventeen!
Did God finally open His eyes and send us a genius?”
“Qin Ming is too hard to pronounce.
Let’s give him a proper German name!”
“…”
The fans in the Wolfsburg stand laughed and chatted with excitement.
Meanwhile, Qin Ming—done celebrating—turned to Olić and said, “Ivica, you’re almost twenty years older than me.
Should I be calling you uncle?”
Without missing a beat, Olić grinned and replied, “If you want to, I won’t stop you.”
“In your dreams!” Qin Ming snorted playfully.
Nearby teammates burst into laughter, clearly enjoying Qin being teased.
Not far away, Süle held his massive head, clearly frustrated.
“Don’t hang your head.
The game’s not over—we haven’t lost,”
Salihović tried to pull him up but couldn’t.
The guy was just too heavy.
Frustrated, he muttered under his breath.
That’s the issue with young players—they’re too easily shaken.
“No more letting 13 roam free.
Rudy, shift toward the wing and support the defense.”
Gisdol didn’t scold—he calmly analyzed.
That composure helped settle Hoffenheim’s nerves.
Soon, everyone was back in position.
Play restarted from the center circle.
The camera cut to the ball boy on the sideline.
Bernhard looked up at the sky.
The clouds were thin and sparse in the bright blue sky.
But nothing else.
Not even a hint of a dragon.
“Olić scored, not Qin—so, no dragon.”
Bernhard stared wide-eyed at the pitch, searching among the green-and-white jerseys for Qin Ming.
Silently, he kept thinking: Please score… please score soon.
“Wolfsburg is playing very steadily now.”
“And with Hoffenheim shifting defensive attention toward Caligiuri and Qin Ming on the wings, De Bruyne is once again orchestrating the attack from midfield.”
“I remember Bild ran an expert piece saying Wolfsburg’s attacking strength would clearly decline this season.”
“They even recommended re-signing Džeko to fix Olić’s dip in form.”
“But after seeing Qin Ming today, maybe Wolfsburg can start dreaming of a new future.”
Liu Jiayuan kept one thought to himself:
Maybe Chinese fans could dream again, too.
Time flowed like sand through fingers.
After being tightly marked, Qin Ming rarely saw the ball again.
In contrast, De Bruyne took advantage of the spread-out formation to crush Hoffenheim’s back line with calculated pressure.
From a bird’s-eye view, Hoffenheim’s formation looked like a compressed spring—poised to snap once it hit its limit.
43rd minute.
Qin Ming darted down the left, dragging Strobl with him.
Rodríguez overlapped, drawing Rudy out of position.
Suddenly, a hole opened on Hoffenheim’s right side.
De Bruyne didn’t hesitate—he sliced through the midfield with a rapid one-two.
BOOM!
A sudden low strike tore through the chaos, slipping between bodies just as Oliver’s view was blocked—
(END CHAPTER)