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"Giroud!!!"
The ball was in the net.
Lance stared blankly.
Wonderful.
He had assumed Belgium would tighten up after Giroud's earlier warning shot.
Courtois was already carrying a knock.
If they didn't raise their concentration levels now, when would they?
Yet less than three minutes later, with only seven minutes played, France struck.
And it was almost the exact same move.
Pogba's chipped pass.
Giroud's aerial dominance.
Belgium had seen it coming.
And still couldn't stop it.
Of course, France had added a wrinkle.
Matuidi and Payet both surged forward at the same time, creating multiple threats around the penalty area.
[Spatial Perception] screamed warnings inside Lance's mind.
A giant puzzle piece flashed on the right side of the box.
Payet's run was dangerous.
Extremely dangerous.
Lance had no choice but to shift across and help contain the threat on that flank.
Then Pogba made a split-second decision.
Instead of playing wide, he lofted the ball directly into the area.
"Crap!"
Another puzzle piece exploded into view.
Too late.
Pogba's improvisation had completely disrupted Lance's read of the attack.
All he could do was watch.
Giroud rose above Vermaelen.
The duel wasn't even close.
Bang!
A thunderous header flew toward the far corner.
Courtois reacted.
But his injured arm slowed him by a fraction.
A fraction was enough.
The ball crashed into the net.
"GOOOOOOOAL!!!"
"Giroud!"
The French commentator nearly lost his voice.
"Giroud! France's aerial king!"
"He gives France the lead!"
"One-nil!"
The entire stadium erupted.
France's players sprinted toward the corner flag.
The pressure of facing Belgium had been immense.
Taking the lead changed everything.
The television cameras quickly found Arsène Wenger in the stands.
The legendary Arsenal manager was attending as a supporter of France—and, as always, a scout.
His eyes lingered on several players.
Particularly Lance.
...
As Griezmann jogged past, he couldn't resist.
"Sorry, Lance."
He grinned.
"Our striker is better."
Lance rolled his eyes.
If anyone else had said it, he might have replied.
Coming from Griezmann, it was just annoying.
Lukaku was an elite striker.
At his peak, he'd be worth a fortune.
But in terms of aerial dominance?
Few forwards in the world could compete with Giroud.
"You know..."
Lance muttered.
"I really want to punch him."
De Bruyne nearly laughed.
"Forget punching him."
The Belgian midfielder pointed toward the French half.
"Let's answer with a goal."
"They're leaving opportunities."
Hazard nodded.
"The real problem is Kanté."
Both of them had already experienced it firsthand.
Belgium had generated several dangerous transitions.
The chemistry between Hazard, De Bruyne, and Lance was becoming increasingly sharp.
But every time momentum began to build, Kanté appeared.
One interception.
One recovery run.
One perfectly timed tackle.
Attack over.
"That guy's ridiculous."
Hazard shook his head.
"But not as ridiculous as you."
De Bruyne immediately agreed.
"Exactly."
The two of them looked at Lance.
"Your turn."
Lance spread his hands.
"What choice do I have?"
The moment he finished speaking, both of them walked away.
Not even giving him a chance to look cool.
Lance's expression gradually became serious.
Today's lineup wasn't just built around [Spatial Perception].
He also carried the abilities of [Bachira Meguru].
Combined with [Nagi Seishiro]'s passive talents...
He was curious.
Very curious.
Could the world's best ball-winning midfielder really stop him?
"Anime characters are basically cheating anyway."
The match resumed.
After taking the lead, France immediately shifted gears.
No reckless attacks.
No unnecessary risks.
They dropped deeper and willingly ceded possession.
Defensive football.
Counterattacks.
It was the perfect strategy.
With Kanté, Matuidi, and Pogba protecting the middle, France formed a wall that was difficult to break.
Hazard tried.
Twice.
Three times.
Each attempt ended the same way.
Kanté stayed glued to him.
No matter how sharply Hazard changed direction or accelerated, the French midfielder remained attached like a shadow.
He tugged.
Pressed.
Intercepted.
Yet somehow never committed a foul.
Eventually Hazard had no choice but to retreat.
Seeing Matuidi closing from another angle, he immediately passed the ball backward.
"Lance!"
"Got it!"
The pass rolled toward the center.
Lance moved to receive it.
Then suddenly—
A bald head appeared directly in front of him.
No warning.
No buildup.
Just there.
"What the hell?"
"Kanté?"
Lance almost jumped.
The guy's defensive instincts were absurd.
The danger sensor of France's midfield.
Any threatening possession immediately attracted him.
The safe choice would've been simple.
Pass right.
Recycle possession.
Wait for another opening.
Instead, Lance made a different decision.
For no reason other than wanting to test himself.
One versus one.
The entire stadium focused on the duel.
Kanté stabbed a foot forward.
Lance calmly dragged the ball backward with the sole of his boot.
Kanté's eyes narrowed.
He immediately shifted across to block the right side.
Experienced.
Disciplined.
Precise.
Lance found himself receiving the ball with his back to goal.
Griezmann closed in.
Giroud stepped forward.
Pogba followed.
France's trap was closing.
Kanté wasn't even trying to steal the ball.
He was simply squeezing the space.
Forcing Lance backward.
Forcing him into mistakes.
Forcing him into support.
A textbook defensive sequence.
Then—
Kanté's expression changed.
For the first time all match, uncertainty appeared in his eyes.
Where was the ball?
Lance feinted toward the right.
Kanté held his position.
Then Lance pulled the ball back.
Except...
The ball vanished.
For a split second, Kanté genuinely lost sight of it.
He instinctively turned.
Lance was already gone.
Only when he spun around did he see the ball dropping from above.
Lance had flicked it over his shoulder.
A self-created rainbow flick.
The ball landed perfectly in front of him.
The Belgian captain accelerated through the middle.
The stadium exploded.
Even television viewers were confused.
The movement had happened so quickly that several camera angles completely missed it.
France's defense scrambled.
Koscielny abandoned the penalty area and charged forward.
"Stop him!"
"Close him down!"
Just as the defender prepared to engage—
Lance lifted his head.
Then clipped a lofted pass into the box.
A mirror image of France's goal.
"What?"
Even Deschamps blinked.
"He's copying us?"
The ball floated perfectly toward Lukaku.
The Belgian striker rose into the air.
Umtiti challenged beside him.
Deschamps relaxed.
For a moment.
Lukaku's heading ability wasn't remotely comparable to Giroud's.
The danger seemed manageable.
Then his smile froze.
Because Lukaku wasn't shooting.
He was passing.
The striker redirected the ball with a flicked header.
Across goal.
Toward the far side of the box.
And there—
A red figure arrived.
Lance.
Leaping into the air.
Suspended against gravity itself.
[Aerial Thunder Beast Shot]
Activated.
[Direct Strike Shot]
Activated.
The two abilities merged.
For a brief moment, the entire stadium seemed to stop breathing.
Then Lance twisted his body.
Bang!!!
A perfect bicycle kick.
The strike exploded off his foot.
Lloris launched himself desperately across goal.
Too late.
The ball ripped into the top corner.
Swish.
The net billowed violently.
And for one brief second—
The entire Stade Vélodrome fell silent.