Julien collected the ball and accelerated without hesitation, driving directly at three defenders who had formed a wall around him.
Martin Tyler's voice grew urgent, edged with concern. "Julien's beaten Luna, but he's not releasing the ball to his teammates, he's charging straight into Okore and Delph's territory! Liverpool have men making runs in the final third, but Julien seems determined to go it alone!"
On the pitch, Julien was quickly surrounded by the three-man press.
Martin spoke rapidly. "This is far too risky! He's walked straight into their trap! Sturridge's calling for it on the far side—that's the better passing lane! Julien's still too young, too hot-headed in these critical moments, trying to solve everything by himself!"
Paul McGrath let out a hearty laugh. "Haha! Martin, that's youth for you! Blood pumping, fearless! You expect an 18-year-old kid to make the most rational choice at a moment like this?
No! he believes in his own talent; believes he can create miracles! Honestly, I admire that courage, though—"
His words were cut short by Martin's sudden exclamation!
"Good God, Julien!"
On the pitch, facing the three-man cordon, Julien showed no sign of slowing. Instead, he flicked the ball lightly to his right, his entire body was weight shifting in that direction, feinting an outside run.
This simple movement set the nerves of Delph, Elmohamady, and Okore jangling instantly.
"Cover the inside!" The experienced Delph growled the order, directing his teammates to seal the central channel while he shifted his body rapidly toward Julien, attempting to block the outside lane.
But the instant Delph's weight transferred, Julien's right ankle performed an extraordinarily subtle hooking motion, pulling the ball which had been rolling toward the touchline, gently back inside.
Simultaneously, his left shoulder dropped in a convincing feint, his whole body seeming to cut inside.
The fake threw Delph's balance fatally off-balance.
Delph tried desperately to twist his torso back, but Julien's second move was already unfolding—his feet danced over the ball in a blur of stepovers, combined with continuous shoulder drops and upper-body sways, creating the illusion of endless possible breakthrough angles.
"Left side? Right side?"
Okore's brain was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of feints in that split second, his knees were buckling under the constant weight shifts.
Just as he committed fully to his right, anticipating Julien would break that way, Julien's left foot flicked the ball forward with the outside of his boot. It was a deceptively simple but devastatingly effective elastico.
"Damn it!" Delph tried to recover his balance, but his knees and his repeatedly deceived center of gravity could no longer hold.
With a heavy thud, the experienced defensive midfielder dropped to both knees, crumpling to the turf in humiliation as Julien's figure flashed past him.
"Brilliant!"
The traveling Liverpool supporters erupted with deafening roars.
The instant Julien beat Delph, Elmohamady who had been brought on in the second half was already charging in with a vicious sliding tackle aimed directly at Julien's standing leg.
At the same time, Okore rushed to cover, positioning himself like a wall between Julien and the goal.
In that moment, Julien didn't even glance down at the ball. Operating purely on muscle memory and the feel through his boots, he toe-poked the ball forward just as Elmohamady's studs were about to connect, pushing it cleanly through the Egyptian's legs.
He leaped gracefully, narrowly avoiding the brutal challenge.
Landing, Julien's left foot cushioned the ball's fall with a single touch, the entire sequence was flowing like a butterfly weaving through flowers, it was breathtakingly smooth.
Julien had completed his cut inside, and was driving toward the edge of the penalty area, four or five meters from the eighteen-yard box.
A united gasp rippled through Villa Park.
Even as opponents, the home fans couldn't help but marvel. That was extraordinary.
Elmohamady, sprawled on the turf, stared up at Julien with wide, disbelieving eyes. But there was no time for shock, he scrambled to his feet and gave chase.
Now only one barrier remained: center-back Okore.
Okore, having learned from Elmohamady's mistake, didn't dare commit to a tackle. He dropped his center of gravity, spread his arms wide, and locked his eyes on the ball at Julien's feet.
But his positioning revealed a subtle gap. Anticipating another inside cut, he'd subconsciously shifted half a step to his right, leaving half a body width exposed on his left side.
That half a body width was all Julien needed.
His speed had dropped slightly from the continuous dribbling, but his momentum was undiminished. He bore down on Okore, and when the distance closed to roughly a meter, Julien's right foot suddenly stepped to the outside of the ball, his body began tilting vividly right in another convincing shoulder drop.
"You're not fooling me again!" Okore thought he'd read the move.
But as his weight shifted fractionally left to counter the feint, Julien pounced on the opening, knocking the ball forward into the half-body-width space Okore's movement had created.
Okore's eyes widened in alarm as he tried to recover, his right leg swinging across desperately.
But that half-step difference meant he could no longer fully close down Julien's shooting angle.
At that moment, the constant explosive effort had pushed Julien to his physical limit. His lungs burned like fire; his legs felt encased in lead. Every breath seared his chest.
But on the very edge of collapse, a scorching power erupted from the deepest core of his being, surging through him like a volcanic eruption.
Shooting Advancement Enhancement activated!
Last Stand: Shooting attribute temporarily increased by 20%, with additional ball velocity bonus!
Without a flicker of hesitation, Julien channeled every ounce of strength into his left foot.
He unleashed everything.
BOOM!
The sound was unlike any other shot—deep, resonant, filled with raw power, like a howitzer discharging beside your ear.
The ball rocketed forward as if jet-propelled, trailing a visible blur and vicious diverge as it screamed past Okore's outstretched leg.
It didn't travel in a straight line. Instead, it carved a savage, arcing trajectory through the air, bending around the diving Guzan's desperate reach and arrowing toward the absolute top corner of the goal.
It was unstoppable.
WHOOSH!
The ball struck the underside of the crossbar with a crisp crack, then hammered into the back of the net with such force that it sent the mesh billowing upward like a breaking wave.
Goal.
The 92nd minute of the match.
Julien had scored the only and decisive goal.
A last-gasp winner.
As the ball smashed against the crossbar and buried itself in the net like death's kiss, time itself seemed to freeze at Villa Park.
The entire world stopped.
The earsplitting noise of the previous second cut off as if someone had severed a wire. The tens of thousands of home supporters stood with expressions that solidified instantly…..then shattered into pure, incomprehensible shock.
Mouths hung open, forgotten. Arms raised in mid-gesture froze in the air. The entire stand became a picture of despair, a frozen frieze of anguish.
Silence.
A suffocating, enormous silence fell over the stadium.
This silence was more piercing than any jeers or curses could have been. You could hear the faint bounce of the ball settling in the empty net. You could hear the manic screaming from the away section as if it came from another dimension. You could almost hear the sound of hearts shattering as they plunged into an icy abyss.
Then came the murmurs with fans unable to accept reality: "No... this can't be happening..."
Despair began to take tangible form.
Some fans clutched their heads with both hands, fingers clawing at their hair, staring at the pitch with hollow eyes, unable to comprehend what they'd just witnessed.
Others collapsed back into their seats, burying faces in scarves, shoulders trembling.
Children tugged at their fathers' sleeves, bewildered and frightened by the sudden silence and the anguish etched on adult faces around them.
On the sideline, Villa's bench was a scene of devastation.
Paul Lambert stood rooted to the spot. Moments ago, he'd been shouting tactical instructions; now he was a statue, only his clenched fists and slightly trembling lips showed the shock and helplessness within him.
Substitute players covered their faces, tilted their heads toward sky in despair, or shook their heads in disbelief.
Villa's goalkeeper Guzan remained in his diving position, collapsed near the goal line, face pressed into the turf, fists pounding the grass in frustration.
Okore's knees buckled. He dropped to the penalty spot, hands on hips, head bowed, as if every ounce of strength had been drained from his body.
The other defenders either stood with hands on hips, gazing around in bewilderment, or lay face-up with eyes closed, refusing to accept this brutal reality.
This ancient stadium had plummeted from the boiling peak of hope into the frozen depths of despair in mere seconds.
Only the small pocket of red in the away section erupted with ear-splitting roars of ecstasy, such a cruel, plain contrast to the surrounding desolation.
Those cheers were salt poured into Villa fans' bleeding wounds.
Yet on the opposite side of the pitch, the architect of this thunderous worldie stood in stark contrast.
After unleashing the shot, the massive follow-through from his full-power strike sent Julien stumbling forward several steps before he dropped to one knee with his right hand bracing heavily against the turf.
His lungs felt like they were on fire. His leg muscles trembled. Every breath brought burning heat.
The consecutive dribbles past three defenders, followed by that shot that had demanded every reserve of strength, it had drained him completely.
But then...
An unprecedented, even more intense power surged from the depths of his heart, flooding through his limbs like molten lava.
It was the euphoria of victory. The intoxication of conquest.
He pushed himself up from the grass and sprinted toward the corner flag.
Roaring.
As he ran, he tore at the Liverpool crest on his chest with both hands.
Reaching the corner, he spun around to face the entirety of Villa Park, to face the despairing home supporters, to face everyone watching this match around the world.
He spread his arms wide in defiance.
This signature gesture was no longer a simple celebration, it was a coronation.
Head held high, chest heaving, his sweat-soaked shirt clung to his athletic muscular body, the stadium lights were highlighting every contour of muscle beneath the fabric.
His gaze swept across the stands, gradually settling into calm focus.
In this moment, he was no longer the teenager making his Premier League debut. He was the king of this pitch.
"JULIEN! JULIEN!!"
Teammates flooded toward him from all directions like a red tide.
Gerrard reached him first, cupping Julien's head in his hands and pressing their foreheads together, roaring with raw emotion.
Then came Sturridge, Henderson, Aspas—every Liverpool player swarmed him, embracing him wildly, slapping his head and back, surrounding their hero in the center of their jubilation.
On Liverpool's bench, everyone from coaching staff to substitutes detonated like ignited dynamite.
Ninety-plus minutes of suppressed frustration, anger, and anxiety transformed into a tsunami of pure joy, erupting all at once.
"It's in! It's in! WE'VE SCORED!"
Rodgers could no longer maintain his composure. All thoughts of Julien needing to pass more were forgotten.
Nothing else mattered now.
Julien was magnificent, that was all!
He sprinted along the touchline like an ordinary fan, fists clenched, roaring at the sky, every vein in his face was expressing the ecstasy of release.
The entire coaching staff collapsed into a celebrating heap, jumping and shouting.
Substitutes couldn't resist charging toward the corner flag. The scene resembled a red avalanche, instantly burying the corner in bodies.
Players piled on top of each other in layers, with Julien somewhere at the bottom, embraced and crushed by his teammates. They didn't care about appearances or dignity, they just roared, they screamed, they celebrated this hard-won victory that had purged all their frustration.
This was no longer one man's winner. This was a team's rebirth.
All the pent-up tension exploded in this moment into the most liberating roar Villa Park had ever heard.
Julien the Conqueror had used the most dominating method possible to deliver three points to the Reds and to give his teammates the ultimate release.
Ecstasy and despair intertwined on the same pitch.
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