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Anyone familiar with international football knows that knockout matches tend to become more cautious the deeper a tournament progresses.
Goals become scarce.
A 1-0.
A 0-0.
A tense 1-1 decided by penalties.
Those were the results people expected.
This European Championship had followed the same pattern.
On the other side of the bracket, Portugal and Croatia had just finished a grueling 1-1 draw after 120 minutes, with Portugal advancing on penalties.
Before kickoff, most pundits predicted another low-scoring affair.
Regardless of who advanced, scoring more than two goals seemed unlikely.
Yet by halftime, France and Belgium had already combined for four.
Giroud.
Kanté.
And two goals from Lance.
The Stade Vélodrome was in a frenzy.
Belgian supporters were singing.
French supporters were singing.
Even neutral fans had joined the celebration.
Everyone felt they were witnessing something special.
"This could go down as one of the greatest matches in European Championship history!"
Liu Jiayuan couldn't hide his excitement.
"Both teams are playing at an extraordinary level."
"Pogba has been magnificent despite not scoring. His creativity in the final third has caused Belgium all kinds of problems."
"And Lance..."
Liu Jiayuan shook his head.
"What more is there to say?"
"Six matches. Ten goals."
"A record that now stands alone."
Griezmann had scored five.
Cristiano Ronaldo had four.
Both were enjoying outstanding tournaments.
Yet neither was anywhere near Lance's total.
Ten goals.
The gap was staggering.
Liu Jiayuan wanted to continue praising him.
Unfortunately, the second half had already begun.
The pace somehow became even faster.
"Lance!"
"A long-range effort!"
"Oh! Off the post!"
"Lloris never even reacted!"
The crowd groaned.
Moments later, France were attacking again.
"Pogba!"
"Excellent pass!"
"Griezmann receives on the left!"
"SHOT!"
Courtois parried the effort away.
But danger remained.
"Giroud!"
"The rebound!"
The French striker arrived first.
An open goal.
A golden opportunity.
Then—
He blasted it over the bar.
The entire stadium froze.
Giroud immediately grabbed his head.
Even the Belgian players looked stunned.
That chance should have been buried.
But nobody had time to dwell on it.
The match was moving too quickly.
One attack followed another.
No pauses.
No breathing room.
Only chaos.
"Pogba!"
"A chipped pass!"
"Brilliant through ball!"
"Griezmann!"
The Atlético Madrid star raced into the area and fired.
"COURTOIS!"
"What a save!"
Belgium's goalkeeper exploded across goal and tipped the shot away.
France earned their seventh corner of the match.
Vermaelen and the other defenders immediately rushed over to celebrate the save.
Even De Bruyne instinctively took a step toward Courtois before stopping himself.
Some grudges were difficult to forget.
Lance simply jogged over and patted the goalkeeper's shoulder.
"Nice save."
Courtois blinked.
Then grinned.
"Thanks, Lance."
The response was so enthusiastic that even Lance looked confused.
Was that really necessary?
Shaking his head, he turned and moved into position for the corner.
"Griezmann to take it."
The cross curled into the box.
"Giroud!"
A flick-on.
"BACK POST!"
"KOSCIELNY!"
Bang!
The net bulged.
Goal.
France 3–2 Belgium
"France score again!"
"The hosts take the lead for a third time!"
"Koscielny strikes from a corner kick!"
The stadium erupted.
The French players sprinted toward the corner flag.
The home crowd exploded with noise.
Three goals.
Three leads.
France refused to back down.
Lance stood at midfield.
Expressionless.
He watched France celebrate.
Waited for them to finish.
Then calmly walked back into position.
The whistle blew.
Play resumed.
There was no frustration.
No panic.
No complaints.
Because every Belgian player shared the same thought.
As long as Lance is on the field, we're still alive.
That belief had become the soul of the team.
55 minutes.
56 minutes.
57 minutes.
Three minutes passed.
Griezmann couldn't understand it.
Belgium were pressing harder than before.
They hunted every loose ball.
Closed every passing lane.
Attacked every challenge.
Conceding three goals hadn't broken them.
If anything, it had made them more dangerous.
France began to feel the pressure.
And when doubt crept into their minds—
Disaster struck.
Payet received possession on the wing.
Instead of attacking immediately, he hesitated.
Just for a moment.
That was enough.
Belgium pounced.
The full-back stepped up.
Witsel arrived from midfield.
The trap snapped shut.
Ball won.
"NOW!"
Hazard sprinted forward.
De Bruyne exploded through the middle.
Lukaku immediately attacked the defensive line.
And Lance?
He was already running.
The moment Witsel moved to press, Lance had anticipated the turnover.
[Spatial Perception]
The puzzle piece had appeared.
He moved before anyone else.
Witsel won possession.
Passed to De Bruyne.
De Bruyne drifted centrally, drawing defenders toward him.
Then—
A perfectly weighted through ball.
The pass split Umtiti and Koscielny.
Lance timed his run to perfection.
No offside.
No hesitation.
Acceleration.
Two strides.
Three.
Suddenly he was clear.
A full two body lengths ahead of the defense.
"BEAUTIFUL!"
"Lance's movement is incredible!"
"He's through on goal!"
The criticism of Lance's off-ball movement from a year ago now felt laughable.
At this point, he looked like Filippo Inzaghi reborn.
A master of timing.
A predator.
"LANCE!"
"ONE-ON-ONE!"
Lloris charged out of his penalty area.
The French captain committed fully.
Lance remained calm.
His body shape suggested only one thing.
[Tiger Shot]
The full-power strike posture was unmistakable.
Lloris reacted immediately.
Throwing himself sideways.
Trying to block the expected blast.
Then Lance smiled.
At the last possible moment, his ankle flicked gently.
[Nagi Seishiro]
The technique activated flawlessly.
The football seemed alive.
Instead of power—
Elegance.
Instead of force—
Precision.
The ball floated upward.
A delicate chip.
A perfect arc.
The entire world watched in silence as it sailed over Lloris.
Over the desperate goalkeeper.
Over the scrambling defenders.
Then dropped softly into the net.
GOAL!!!
"HAT-TRICK!"
"LANCE!!!"
"THREE GOALS!"
"BELGIUM EQUALIZE AGAIN!"
Liu Jiayuan completely lost control of his voice.
"Three times behind!"
"Three times level!"
"This is what greatness looks like!"
"This is the best player in the world!"
The Belgian supporters erupted.
The French crowd fell silent.
The scoreboard changed once more.
France 3–3 Belgium
Lance spread his arms before the stunned crowd.
The noise crashing down from the stands felt like a storm.
Three goals.
A hat-trick.
A European Championship semifinal.
And the match was still far from over.