26th Minute
Gerrard stood over the ball. Julien joined him briefly, they exchanged a few words with hands covering their mouths then Julien went away to the edge of the box.
The penalty area was packed. Vidić tugged Skrtel's shirt. Skrtel shoved back. Ferdinand pinned Sturridge with an arm across his chest. Henderson and Cleverley grappled in midfield.
Marriner blew the whistle after three warnings.
GO.
Gerrard's run-up was textbook perfect: plant, swing, strike. The ball sailed high over the crowded six-yard box, curling toward the back post.
Vidić leapt but missed completely. Ferdinand turned to track it, forgetting Sturridge. Everyone surged toward the ball.
Evra, tasked with marking Julien, got dragged central by Henderson's decoy run and was just half a step out of position.
And Julien moved.
The instant Gerrard struck the ball, he ghosted toward the far post, moving through the chaos unnoticed.
When the ball dropped at the back stick, only one man was there.
Julien.
No time to set himself. He threw his body at it, twisting mid-air, flexibility enhancement was allowing him to get clean contact despite the awkward angle and spear it toward the goal.
THUMP.
Close range with a blistering pace.
De Gea with his vision blocked by Carrick, saw it too late. His desperate dive came up short a bit short.
The ball cannoned into the net, shaking the stanchion.
2-0
Twenty-six minutes.
Julien spun toward the corner flag, arms spreading wide like wings, the red shirt wafting in the wind. He reached the flag and stopped, then began turning toward United's half.
His eyes locked onto their players.
There was no shouting, no gestures.
Just a slow, deliberate point: first to the Liverpool crest on his chest, then to the Anfield turf beneath his boots.
This is our house.
Then he turned to face the Kop.
Arms wide again.
The corner erupted first. A shirtless fan with YNWA tattooed across his back jumped onto his seat, whipping his scarf: "ANFIELD! THIS IS OUR GROUND!"
The chant spread like wildfire. Thousands pounded the metal barriers in rhythm—BANG BANG BANG creating a thunderous drumbeat rolling through the stands.
A kid on his dad's shoulders waved a Julien #10 shirt, piping voice joining the adults: "JULIEN! JULIEN!"
The entire Kop aimed their voices at the away end:
"THIS! IS! ANFIELD!"
Over and over, drowning out United's support completely.
Julien stood there drinking it in, nodding, grinning, the crowd's energy was crashing over him in waves.
Henderson, Gerrard, Lucas, all of them mobbed him, slapping his back, mussing his hair, shouting over each other. When Julien finally pulled away, the Kop's roar grew even louder.
The Red Devils stood frozen.
Cleverley moved first, not to retrieve the ball, but to kick the turf in frustration. He glared at Julien's celebration while clenching his fists tightly.
Vidić rounded on Ferdinand: "Why didn't you watch the back post?!"
Ferdinand said nothing, just stared at the grass. He had lost track of Julien.
Two goals down in twenty-six minutes. Panic was beginning to crept in.
De Gea turned toward Carrick, gesturing angrily at where he had blocked his view. Carrick didn't respond, just trudged toward the goal to collect the ball, with slumped shoulders, shirt hanging limp.
Van Persie stood outside the box, staring at the goal frame. As United's striker, he should be collecting the team. Instead, he glanced at the scoreboard, the Kop's earsplitting noise was pressing down on his chest like a boulder.
This match was slipping away.
High in the stands, Dalglish laughed like a child with pure joy.
Ferguson's expression darkened further. Part of him wished—God, how he wished, he could suit up again. He'd spent twenty-seven years building United into a juggernaut. Watching it crumble the moment he left was agony.
He wanted successors who'd maintain the dynasty, keep collecting more trophies.
Not… this.
On the touchline, Brendan Rodgers who used to be generally composed booted a water bottle into ground. He spread his arms wide then clutched his head in disbelief, then pounded his chest repeatedly.
When the adrenaline faded, he found himself staring at Julien, surrounded by teammates.
Rodgers remembered the transfer window. When the board forced this £80 million signing on him, he'd thrown a tactics board across his office in fury.
Now?
"You were right," he whispered. "He's a genius."
He straightened his suit, smiling.
Liverpool's new star had arrived.
Martin Tyler's voice resounded through countless Televisions:
"GOAL! Julien! A masterclass in set-piece execution! Gerrard and Julien's telepathy just validated everything we've been saying: United's defense is systematically broken!
Look at this goal. While everyone mechanically attacked the near post, Julien drifted like a ghost to the back. Evra completely lost in the shuffle; it was a classic defensive breakdown!
This isn't luck. This is Liverpool repeatedly hammering United's right-side vulnerability. Julien has created havoc in that zone all match!
And the intelligence on display: when the world expected a solo show, he chose the smartest off-ball run imaginable. This is why he's worth every penny of that transfer fee!
United now face more than a two-goal deficit. They also face an unsolvable tactical puzzle. When your opponent has decoded every weakness and exploits them at will, the match would spiral beyond recovery.
Remember this night. Anfield has rediscovered its roar…"
Inside the Boot room pub was absolute chaos.
"SEE THAT?! THAT'S REAL FOOTBALL!" A massive supporter launched his entire beer sky high with golden liquid catching the lights like champagne.
Someone hammered the bar: "Tyler's right! That run was genius!"
When the replay showed Julien's movement, long whistles pierced the air.
Young fans in retro kits mimicked the commentary: "United's defense is SWISS CHEESE!"
"Fuck Cleverley!" The earlier angry fan now stood on his chair. "Scissor tackle THIS, you prick! We speak with GOALS!"
George, hearing Tyler mention the transfer fee, suddenly raised his voice, "Eighty million? CHEAP! Shankly said great players are priceless!"
The pub roared approval, raising their glasses.
When Tyler said Anfield has rediscovered its roar, the entire room fell silent for a second.
Then Old George began singing, voice cracking with emotion:
"Walk on, walk on
With hope in your heart
And you'll never walk alone…
You'll never walk alone."
Every voice joined. The song was in their blood. They'd sing it until they died.
Through the pub windows, Anfield's floodlights sliced through the Merseyside night sky.
Across England and even the world, countless eyes watched this match. Most expected a slugfest between equals.
Fire meeting fire.
Instead, Liverpool was dominating. United looked hot but toothless, their real chances were nonexistent.
This was a mauling.
When was the last time United got battered at Anfield like this?
London Colney, Arsenal Training Ground
Arsène Wenger sat with hands steepled under his chin, watching the replay of Julien's ghost run. The Professor's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Liverpool's attacking cohesion in the final third…" he murmured. "Gerrard's vertical passing, Julien's lateral movement…"
His tactical mind churned. If Arsenal faced Liverpool, what could they do?
Every thought crashed into the same wall: How do you stop Julien?
Wenger sighed. "Champions League qualification just got harder."
Back at Anfield
United refused to accept this humiliation. They pushed forward desperately.
Van Persie received the ball near the box, Agger was shadowing him tight. But Van Persie used his experience perfectly, cutting off three turning attempts with intelligent positioning.
On the fourth contest, Agger poked the ball away cleanly. Van Persie stumbled.
Marriner waved play on.
But as Van Persie fell, his leg suddenly hooked Agger's planted foot.
Agger collapsed, clutching his ankle.
The Kop's boos reached nuclear levels.
WHISTLE.
Marriner sprinted over. The linesman frantically waved his flag. The replay was clear showing a retaliatory trip, nowhere near the ball.
Marriner didn't hesitate: Yellow card.
The big screen showed Van Persie's scowl in high definition. The card was less punishment, and more confirmation of his boiling frustration.
This incident exposed United's unraveling mentality completely.
As Van Persie trudged back to midfield, the Kop sang mockingly: "Van Persie's crying for his mummy!"
His face went stony.
Five minutes later, the powder keg exploded again.
Ashley Young's cross sailed absurdly toward the corner flag. Van Persie didn't even jump for it in the box.
Because Skrtel had discreetly pinned his shoulder down.
When they collided, Van Persie shoved Skrtel in the chest!
"You fucking elbowed me!" he screamed at Marriner.
Skrtel with face like a Slovak enforcer went ballistic: "Want to fight, you prick?!"
Gerrard inserted himself between them, shoving Van Persie back with one hand while pointing at the referee: "How is that not a card?!"
Incredibly, Marriner issued no second yellow.
Moyes frantically signaled for calm from the sideline, but Van Persie kept gesturing "elbow" to the linesman.
Skrtel cursed in Slovak. Van Persie wiped sweat with his shirt, firing back: "All you do is foul! That's your whole game!"
Julien started forward to defend his teammate as it was captain's instinct from Bastia and France but Lucas grabbed him: "No! Brendan said to protect you! You can't get hurt! It's too dangerous, don't attract their attention more!"
Julien exhaled, looking frustrated.
Gerrard, seeing no card upcoming, got right in Van Persie's face: "You can't handle losing, huh?! Fuck off back to Manchester!"
Van Persie snarled back.
The two captains were pressed forehead-to-forehead, Gerrard was clearly mouthing every insult in his vocabulary. Welbeck pulled Van Persie away. Henderson restrained Gerrard.
But both captains kept circling Marriner, arguing fiercely.
The clash lasted four full minutes.
"Van Persie! Piss off to the youth team! Our 18-year-old's better than you!"
"Kindergarten killer! Go play Under-23s!"
Someone waved a cardboard cutout of Julien's face: "THIS is world-class! Yours is fraud-class!"
"Need diapers, Robin?! Liverpool supermarket's got a sale!"
"Happy red card to youuuu~" (Sung to the birthday tune)
The mockery was relentless.
"Go cry to Mummy in Manchester! Anfield doesn't babysit toddlers!"
"Young defends like my six-year-old nephew plays FIFA!"
Ther were more and more.
High in the stands, Ferguson's frown deepened. His entire demeanor exuded displeasure.
Because among the chants, one particularly stung—sung directly at him:
"When you cry at Old Trafford,
When Ferguson's magic dies,
Remember Anfield's night sky,
Has an 18-year-old who flies."
Dalglish and other Liverpool legends were howling with laughter.
They hadn't felt this good in years.
This was catharsis. This was the derby they'd been starving for.
Fuck! it felt so incredible.
Dalglish's eyes never left Julien now. Under Anfield's lights, the old King's gaze burned bright.
Every time Julien danced past a defender, every time that 10 flashed under the floodlights, Dalglish seemed to glimpse a parallel timeline:
Shankly's pipe smoke. His own arrival in 1977. Robbie Fowler's predatory instincts.
And now: this fearless French teenager.
The torch was passing once more.
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