"I see what they're doing. They're strangling the tempo, just like the end of the first leg," Mauricio Pochettino muttered, his brow furrowed as he paced the technical area.
He realized that David Qin, perhaps even more than De Bruyne, possessed an uncanny ability to shield the ball and maintain rhythm even when swarmed by multiple defenders. Pochettino signaled his players with a sharp, downward chopping motion.
Press higher! Force the issue! If they didn't reclaim the narrative now, the game would slip through their fingers like sand.
"The Wolves have a corner on the right," Derek Rae's voice resonated through the speakers. "De Bruyne lofts it toward the near post. Vertonghen rises for the header—oh, he's misjudged it! It's absolute chaos in the Spurs box!"
"Perišić is there!" Stewart Robson shouted. "He strikes it on the half-volley—but it's gone into orbit! High into the stands!"
The Tottenham faithful exhaled in collective relief. Jan Vertonghen, usually the picture of Belgian reliability, had nearly gifted the visitors a lead with a rare lapse in judgment. Only Perišić's hurried finish had spared them.
"Lost my footing," Perišić grumbled, kicking the turf in frustration.
"Don't sweat it," David Qin said with a lopsided grin. "I've seen guys in your national team do worse. I once saw a striker kick the ball off his own standing leg just to clear it for the opposition."
Kevin De Bruyne, standing nearby, felt a phantom pain in his chest. He didn't even need to ask who David was talking about; the mere thought of Romelu Lukaku wasting his pinpoint crosses was enough to make his head ache.
As the clock ticked to the 15th minute, the intensity shifted from a simmer to a boil. Perišić engaged in a high-speed drag race down the flank with Danny Rose. It was a stalemate of pure athleticism, forcing the Croatian to pull up short and recycle the ball to Christian Träsch. Träsch, the man once heralded as the heir to Michael Ballack, showcased his own vision with a booming, diagonal switch to the left wing.
David Qin tracked the flight of the ball, sensed Kyle Walker closing in from a distance, and met the falling leather with a sensational "Scorpion" touch—flicking his heel behind him to deaden the ball perfectly in his path.
"Absolute eye candy!" Derek Rae exclaimed. "Every time David Qin touches the ball, it feels like we're watching a highlight in real-time. He makes the difficult look utterly mundane."
"He's the reason I watch the replays, Derek," Stewart Robson admitted. "He has that 'X-factor' that makes you lean closer to the screen."
On the pitch, Kyle Walker was fuming, but he remained disciplined. He had learned his lesson at the Volkswagen Arena: lunging in meant certain death. Today, he would play the waiting game.
"I'm waiting for my teammates to overlap," David said, catching Walker's wary gaze. "What are you waiting for?"
Without warning, David executed a "no-look" flick, disguising the pass perfectly for Ricardo Rodríguez. The Swiss left-back didn't hesitate, charging past a trailing Paulinho and whipping a cross toward the far post.
Ivica Olić was waiting. The veteran striker was a curious creature—steady in the league, but a different beast entirely under the lights of Europe. He peeled off Fazio with the guile of a seasoned hunter, preparing to smash a volley home, but Vertonghen redeemed himself. With a desperate, acrobatic lunge, the Belgian poked the ball over his own crossbar, narrowly avoiding an own goal to the frantic cheers of the home support.
As Wolfsburg prepared for the resulting corner, David Qin tried to ghost into the six-yard box, but he found himself shadowed instantly. The "ghost goal" he had scored against Schalke had clearly made the rounds in every tactical briefing in Europe. Vertonghen rose highest, powering the header out of the danger zone.
"A chance for the counter!" Rae shouted as Spurs transitioned with lightning speed. Two quick headers found Erik Lamela in the center circle. The "Heir to Messi" accelerated, his feet a blur as he threw a double-stepover to bypass Luiz Gustavo.
"Pass it! Give it to Harry!" Pochettino roared from the touchline. Kane was screaming for the ball in the channel, but Lamela had tunnel vision. He wanted the glory for himself.
Robin Knoche stepped out to meet him. Though standing at a towering 190cm, Knoche was lean and cerebral, his game built on reading the opponent's intent. Having spent months defending David Qin in training, Lamela's flashy footwork felt like slow motion. As the Argentine tried to cut inside, Knoche simply stepped across, using his frame to shield the ball and shepherd it out for a goal kick.
"Magnificent defending," Robson noted. "Dieter Hecking said his players are evolving every day, and you can see it in Knoche's composure there. This Wolfsburg side is a completely different animal than they were six months ago."
As the half-hour mark passed, the game settled into a tense chess match. Tottenham's high-press, fueled by adrenaline and the roar of the crowd, began to wane. No team on earth—not Klopp's Dortmund nor Pochettino's Spurs—could maintain that frantic intensity for ninety minutes.
As Spurs dropped into a mid-block to catch their breath, De Bruyne raised a hand. It was a signal. The Wolves began to hunt.
Suddenly, the cameras panned to the VIP boxes. A man in a sharp grey suit with a shock of silver hair leaned forward. Arsène Wenger. "The Professor" had been a frequent visitor to the Lane, usually in the opposing dugout, but today he was a spectator with a purpose.
Wenger watched David Qin move and saw shadows of Dennis Bergkamp—the same elegance, the same spatial intelligence. But where Bergkamp was a perfectionist who demanded the "mathematically correct" touch, David was an improviser. He played with a Brazilian flair that suggested he wasn't just trying to win; he was trying to create art.
Wenger's hand habitually reached for his waist, searching for the zipper of a coat he wasn't wearing—a phantom limb of his sideline anxiety.
Then, it happened.
David Qin received a zip-pass from De Bruyne on the edge of the area. Kyle Walker stood his ground, legs braced, heart hammering against his ribs.
David moved. His feet became a flickering strobe light of high-frequency feints. A shimmy left. A dip right.
Stepover. La Croqueta.
Walker fought the urge to lung, but the human brain isn't wired to ignore such blatant deception. As David's body weight shifted, Walker bit. He threw his leg out.
Clank. David didn't just bypass him; he humiliated him. As he hit the touchline, David wrapped his right foot behind his left—a Rabona cross? Walker threw himself into a block. But David didn't release the ball. He used the Rabona motion to deaden the ball into a "V-pull," dragging it back and spinning into the space Walker had just vacated.
The stadium went silent. Pochettino's water bottle slipped from his hand, clattering to the turf unnoticed. Wenger stood up, his eyes wide.
David was at the byline now, staring down Hugo Lloris. The keeper sold out for the near-post blast. David feinted the shot, but instead, he produced a delicate, chipped no-look pass into the heart of the box.
Olić didn't miss. He beat Vertonghen to the spot and hammered the ball into the roof of the net.
0-1!!!
"HE'S DONE IT! ABSOLUTE GENIUS!" Derek Rae's voice cracked with emotion. "David Qin has just turned the Spurs defense into a collection of statues! The imagination, the audacity—to pull off a Rabona-fake into a V-pull in the opposition box! It's footballing blasphemy!"
"I've never seen anything like it, Derek," Robson added, sounding breathless. "He didn't just beat Walker; he dismantled his confidence. That wasn't a play; it was a performance. Pure, unadulterated street football brought to the grandest stage."
David didn't wait for a celebration. He sprinted toward the corner flag, a massive, infectious grin on his face. It was the look of a kid who had just pulled off a prank on the playground. Even a few Spurs fans, paralyzed by the sheer quality of what they'd seen, found themselves applauding.
In the away end, the Wolfsburg faithful were in hysterics.
"V-F-L! V-F-L!"
The chant drowned out the North London night. Two young women were jumping in the front row, screaming until their voices gave out.
"Did you see that?!" Bright yelled, her hair damp with sweat and excitement. "He's a god! He's playing a different sport!"
"It's unbelievable," Michèle replied, her eyes fixed on De Bruyne, who was standing in the center circle with his jaw slightly dropped, looking at David like he'd just seen a magician pull a dragon out of a hat.
On the touchline, Dieter Hecking was punching the air with a manic energy. One away goal meant Spurs now needed three. The mountain they had to climb had just turned into a vertical wall.
"A masterclass," Hecking whispered.
Across from him, Pochettino finally noticed his wet trouser leg and the empty bottle on the floor. He squeezed the plastic until it buckled. And my board asks if he can handle the physicality of the Premier League? he thought bitterly. The boy is the physicality. He is the storm.
Olić finally caught David, nearly tackling him with a hug. "Damn it, kid! You're making me want to retire right now. How am I supposed to follow that?"
"Practice makes perfect, old man!" David chirped, his eyes sparkling.
"You're a menace, Qin," Perišić laughed, ruffling David's hair. "If you'd scored that yourself, it would have won the Puskás. As an assist? It's just cruel."
The Wolves marched back to their half, their shadows long under the floodlights. David leaned in toward De Bruyne. "Hey, Kevin. Michèle and Bright are watching. Your turn to show off."
De Bruyne nodded, a competitive fire igniting behind his blue eyes. "Watch me."
A few yards away, Kyle Walker looked like a man who had just seen a ghost. Paulinho patted his shoulder, but there were no words of comfort for a soul that had been snatched in the penalty area.
Harry Kane clapped his hands, trying to rally his troops. "Plenty of time! Let's go!"
But as the referee blew the whistle to restart, the air had gone out of the Lane. The Wolves were no longer just visitors; they were the masters of the house.
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