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"OHHHHHHHHH—!"
"WHAT A GOAL!"
Liu Jiayuan's voice soared above the deafening roar inside the Stade Vélodrome.
Even amidst tens of thousands of screaming supporters, his excitement was unmistakable.
At that moment, he felt incredibly fortunate to be commentating this match live.
Belgium versus France.
This semifinal was delivering football worthy of a final.
Only one thought echoed through his mind.
Lance is unbelievable.
"OHHH! SENSATIONAL!"
"WHAT A STRIKE!"
"BRILLIANT!"
Even Sky Sports commentator Martin Tyler couldn't hold back his praise.
The bicycle kick had left him speechless.
Then again...
This was Lance.
Over the past season, Martin Tyler had already witnessed enough miracles from him to fill an entire career.
For other players, goals like these happened once in a lifetime.
For Lance?
It was beginning to feel routine.
France 1–1 Belgium
"Lance has done it!"
"Ten goals in this European Championship!"
"He surpasses Michel Platini and now stands alone as the highest scorer in a single tournament!"
Ten goals.
Six matches.
The numbers were absurd.
"YES!"
"LANCE!"
The Belgian players lost their minds.
As Lance completed a long knee slide across the grass, the Belgian supporters erupted.
His teammates swarmed him.
The equalizer meant far more than a goal.
It was proof that no matter how desperate the situation became, Belgium still possessed the most dangerous player in the world.
And as long as Lance remained on the pitch, anything was possible.
Confidence surged through the entire squad.
On the opposite side, France's momentum took a noticeable hit.
The hosts had started aggressively.
Now they were forced to remember a terrifying reality.
Belgium had Lance.
And that changed everything.
Morale was a strange thing.
It rose.
It fell.
It spread like wildfire.
Griezmann nearly celebrated instinctively when the ball hit the net.
Fortunately, he caught himself at the last second.
He was wearing blue tonight.
Not red.
"Damn it..."
He rubbed his face.
"This guy is ridiculous."
If given the choice, Griezmann would much rather have Lance beside him than across from him.
The match settled into a midfield battle.
France possessed one of the strongest central units in world football.
Kanté.
Matuidi.
Pogba.
Three midfielders capable of controlling both sides of the ball.
Belgium responded with Lance dropping deeper to assist Witsel and Nainggolan.
Without Fellaini on the field, Belgium's defensive shape looked significantly cleaner.
The game entered a tense deadlock.
Twenty minutes.
Thirty minutes.
Still 1-1.
The crowd began to wonder whether the first-half fireworks had finally ended.
France had other ideas.
Playing at home, with a young and fearless squad, they refused to settle for a draw.
The attack began patiently from the back.
Then Griezmann received possession.
Everything changed.
A sudden acceleration.
A quick shift of rhythm.
The Belgian defender was left behind instantly.
"GRIEZMANN!"
"What a run!"
The Atlético Madrid forward surged toward the box.
Lance immediately tracked back.
The danger was obvious.
But France's movement was even quicker.
Matuidi pushed forward.
Payet sprinted wide.
Giroud occupied the center-backs.
Pogba arrived in support.
France flooded the attack.
Three Belgian defenders converged on Griezmann.
That was exactly what he wanted.
With a subtle touch, he rolled the ball backward.
"CUTBACK!"
"POGBA!"
The Juventus star arrived at the perfect moment.
Of all France's players, Pogba might have been the most unpredictable.
His flashes of inspiration could change a match in an instant.
Lance immediately stepped forward.
Blocking the lane.
Blocking the shot.
Blocking the pass.
A human wall.
"Lance's recovery is brilliant!"
Liu Jiayuan couldn't help praising him.
Not only was Lance the most dangerous attacker in football.
His defensive awareness was improving at an incredible rate.
On the sidelines, Deschamps frowned.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Pogba's options were disappearing.
The attack looked finished.
Then—
Pogba let the ball run.
No touch.
No control.
Just a clever dummy.
"What?!"
Lance's pupils contracted.
Danger.
For weeks, [Spatial Perception] had become second nature.
Whenever danger appeared, the crucial puzzle piece revealed itself.
Moments earlier, Lance had already identified and blocked the most threatening option.
But Pogba had created a new one.
A brilliant improvisation.
The danger shifted instantly.
By the time Lance turned—
Kanté was already arriving.
The French midfielder burst forward from deep.
No hesitation.
No extra touches.
Just a strike.
"KANTÉ!"
The stadium exploded.
People often forgot that Kanté could attack.
Because his defensive brilliance overshadowed everything else.
But when left unmarked?
He was still a Premier League champion.
Still an elite footballer.
Still dangerous.
Bang!
The shot stayed low.
Flying through a forest of legs.
One gap.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
Four players failed to stop it.
Worst of all—
The ball clipped Vermaelen on its way through.
A cruel deflection.
Courtois reacted.
But even he couldn't change direction in mid-air.
The ball nestled into the corner.
Goal.
France 2–1 Belgium
"Damn it!"
Courtois slammed his fist into the turf.
What else could he do?
Sometimes football simply refused to be fair.
Even Lance could only shake his head.
At the moment Kanté struck the ball, a sense of unease had flashed through him.
Now he understood why.
The shot had found the only path available.
Pure chaos.
Pure luck.
And yet it counted exactly the same.
Griezmann sprinted past again.
Coincidentally.
Of course.
"Nothing you can do about that one."
He shrugged before racing away to celebrate.
Lance stared at him.
One day.
One day he was absolutely settling this score at Atlético training.
"The hosts lead once again!"
"France 2, Belgium 1!"
"Kanté scores before halftime!"
"And now Belgium need a response!"
Liu Jiayuan wasn't worried.
Whenever Lance fell behind, strange things tended to happen.
The replays were still showing Kanté's goal from every angle.
Meanwhile, something was already happening on the pitch.
Belgium had stolen possession.
And Lance was running.
"LANCE!"
"What a turn!"
The crowd gasped.
One touch lifted the ball.
An Elastico.
A change of direction.
Then another.
Matuidi was beaten instantly.
Pogba stepped across.
Lance answered with a perfectly executed Marseille Turn.
Another defender gone.
The center of France's defense suddenly opened.
[Anger Value: 100%]
[Bachira Meguru]
Full activation.
The monster awakened.
Lance charged directly at the heart of France.
Every touch seemed impossible.
Every movement unpredictable.
France's defenders began collapsing inward.
De Bruyne immediately drifted centrally.
Lance drove right.
The defenders followed.
Then, with a flick of his ankle, he delivered a perfectly weighted pass.
Straight to De Bruyne.
"Danger!"
The French defense shifted again.
De Bruyne shaped as if he were about to pass left toward Hazard.
Behind the play, Griezmann suddenly shouted.
"Watch the right!"
Too late.
Lance was already gone.
Just before being closed down, De Bruyne whipped a low, curling pass into the right half-space.
The ball skipped through the defensive line.
Lance arrived.
One touch.
A delicate lift.
Evra could only watch.
The ball floated over his head.
By the time the veteran defender turned, Lance had already moved past him.
No disrespect.
Evra was a legend.
But legends grew older.
Lance wanted victory.
Nothing else mattered.
The ball dropped.
Left foot.
No hesitation.
Bang!
A beautiful curling strike bent toward the far corner.
Lloris flew.
Full stretch.
Fingertips outstretched.
Not enough.
The ball kissed the inside of the post.
Then crossed the line.
GOAL!
"GOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!"
"LANCE AGAIN!"
"A BRACE!"
"What a response!"
Liu Jiayuan nearly shouted himself hoarse.
"One minute after conceding, Belgium equalize!"
"What a match!"
"What a player!"
The Belgian supporters exploded.
The French crowd fell silent.
And with halftime approaching, the scoreboard changed once more.
France 2–2 Belgium
A semifinal.
Four goals.
Two superstars trading blows.
And the night was only getting started.