Julien walked toward the touchline with a smile on his face.
The short ten-meter journey felt endless. Each step seemed to be landed in perfect rhythm with the applause pouring down from the stands while scattered at first, tinged with reluctance to see their hero leave, but rapidly building into a thunderous standing ovation that rolled across Anfield like a huge wave crashing against the shore.
As he moved along the touchline, Julien embraced his teammates one by one, then lifted his head toward the Kop, raising his hand in acknowledgment. The roar intensified, vibrating through the night air.
Kante waited at the sideline, already loosened up and ready. Brendan Rodgers was making his tactical intention clear: pulling off a winger to slot in a defensive midfielder. The message was also obvious: lock this down, protect the lead, see out the massacre.
Julien pulled Kante into a brief embrace, patting his back firmly. "Play well."
Kante nodded once, looking sharp and focused, then sprinted toward the defensive zone Rodgers had indicated with hand gestures.
Rodgers himself stood on the touchline; hands buried deep in his coaching jacket pockets. But unlike his usual urgency with the constant roaring at players to hurry substitutions, tonight he waited, patient and reverent, almost.
When Julien finally reached him, Rodgers extended his hand and pulled him into a brief hug. His voice was low but heavy with emotions, "Today, you are the king of this place."
Julien smiled, ducking his head slightly. "Thank you, boss."
He turned toward the bench.
The applause hadn't faded, if anything, it swelled. Then, from somewhere deep in the Kop, a few voices began singing You'll Never Walk Alone. Within seconds, the entire stadium joined in, tens of thousands of voices were merging into one haunting anthem that seemed to lift the very roof off Anfield.
The lyrics mingled with the applause, carried on the wind, floating through Liverpool's night sky like a sanction.
The substitutes on Liverpool's bench were already on their feet, lining up to slap hands with Julien as he approached. Someone thrusted a towel into his grip. Another twisted open a water bottle and passed it over, the cap already spinning through the air.
Out on the pitch, the game rolled on.
The applause gradually subsided, transforming into sustained roar of joy that pulsed through the stadium like a heartbeat.
No one regretted Julien's substitution. Not after what they'd witnessed.
The eighteen-year-old had already done the impossible: double hat-tricks, six goal contributions, complete domination of the North West Derby. He'd given Anfield an unforgettable night, one that would be recounted in pubs and living rooms for decades to come.
The crowd's chants and cheers became his medal of honor. From this 6-0 night forward, Julien wasn't just a Liverpool player anymore. He was imprinted into the land of Anfield itself becoming a continuation of the Red Soul that had burned here for over a century.
After Julien's departure, Liverpool's counterattacks remained dangerous. Gerrard dropped deeper, spewing long diagonals with precision, each pass was perfect, curving through the air like guided missiles. Coutinho and Sturridge pushed forward, probing for openings.
But genuine chances became rare for both sides. United had collapsed into themselves, broken and dispirited. Liverpool simply managed the game, content to let time drain away.
Ten minutes passed quickly.
The fourth official raised his board: 3 minutes of added time.
Those three minutes stretched like a slow-motion sequence.
Liverpool players dropped the tempo, knocking the ball around lazily in midfield. Gerrard controlled possession in the center circle, in no rush to push forward, just rolling his studs over the ball, side to side, as if putting the final signature on this historic victory.
With a 6-0 cushion, the urgency to attack had vanished entirely. It felt like a training ground exercise. A training session where victory was guaranteed, and the only goal was to avoid injury.
For Manchester United, even training ground intensity seemed beyond reach.
In the dying seconds of stoppage time, United won a corner. Nani positioned himself at the flag, took his run-up, and swung the ball in.
It sailed high and wide—a terrible delivery that flew straight into Mignolet's grateful arms. The Belgian keeper caught it cleanly, but instead of launching a clearance downfield, he casually rolled it to a nearby defender. More keep-ball. More time-wasting.
Not a single United player pressed. No one complained about the delivery quality. They simply stood in place, watching Liverpool's players drain every last second from the clock.
They'd accepted the humiliation. Even the final traces of fight had been beaten out of them.
Finally:
Tweet!!!
The final whistle.
The instant referee Andre Marriner blew the full-time whistle, Liverpool's players exploded into celebration with high-fives, embraces, while substitutes poured onto the pitch from the bench.
Anfield was swallowed whole by a red tide's wave.
The joy that had been building for ninety minutes erupted all at once, like molten lava spilling across every inch of the stands, flooding every blade of grass on the pitch.
Red scarves waved in the stands like flowing silk ribbons, surging in waves across the terraces.
"LIVERPOOL! LIVERPOOL!"
Chants crashed against chants. You'll Never Walk Alone rang out again, the sound was so powerful the safety barriers trembled with the vibrations.
Meanwhile, United's players stood frozen for a moment, then slowly dispersed across the pitch like wreckage from a shipwreck.
Some crouched on the turf, hands covering their faces. Others leaned against advertising boards, staring blankly at the night sky. Van Persie and Vidic stood shoulder to shoulder, exchanging a few words but their voices were too soft, swallowed completely by Liverpool's celebrations.
Then both fell silent.
Anfield's celebrations continued to rage. But on United's side, only the dead silence of utter defeat remained.
Their bodies hadn't collapsed, but their spirits had been ground to dust by the 6-0 scoreline. Even the courage to lift their heads and face their traveling supporters seemed to have abandoned them.
The Commentary Box
As the final whistle blew, Martin Tyler's voice crackled with emotion through television sets across England:
"Ninety minutes are complete! The Anfield night sky burns red as Liverpool demolish Manchester United 6-0! This isn't just another victory in the historied North West Derby—this is the most shocking, most comprehensive demolition in the hundred-year history of this fixture! A gift to the Kop, and a night of shame United supporters will desperately want to forget!
Liverpool controlled the tempo from the opening whistle. Julien opened the scoring in under five minutes, and by halftime they were already three goals to the good!
And United? They tried, make no mistake—but they fought like headless chickens! Five yellow cards across the squad, and Moyes threw on Nani, Hernandez, and Valencia, yet couldn't organize even a semblance of a fight-back! This Manchester United side has lost the iron will of the Ferguson era. The spirit of the Red Devils has been extinguished. All that remains is the humiliation of being ground into the dirt by their fiercest rivals!
Let's not forget: Sir Alex Ferguson himself was in attendance tonight, watching from the director's box! We saw him leave at full-time, his back turned to the pitch. How much heartbreak was carried in that silhouette? He won countless derbies against Liverpool, but never—never—did he see his team concede six goals in one night!
This 6-0 scoreline isn't just about today. It's a glimpse into the future gap between these two clubs. Liverpool have Julien, a generational talent who's announced himself on the biggest stage. United have only chaos in defense, ineffective tactics, and a defeat that stripped them of their dignity.
Tonight, Anfield won't stop singing. The celebrations won't end. This 6-0 will be written into Premier League history, into Liverpool's legend, and it will stand as a milestone in Julien's career!
We don't know how quickly Liverpool's resurgence will come, but we know this: with Julien in their ranks, the next few years of English football will be painted in brilliant, dazzling red.
As for Manchester United—they don't need complaints or blame. They need to rediscover the soul of the Red Devils. Otherwise, nights like this will come again.
That concludes tonight's derby! Remember this 6-0. Remember Julien's double hat-trick. Remember the red storm of Anfield! The Premier League is glorious because of matches like this, and it boils over because of talents like this! We'll see you next time."
Tyler's voice faded from television screens across the country, but the broadcast continued to replay the match's most electrifying moments: Julien's dribbles, his vision, his clinical finishing.
The Boot Room Pub
At the Boot Room pub, the atmosphere hit another crescendo.
"JULIEN!!"
Every time Julien appeared on screen, weaving past defenders, sending impossible passes, celebrating goals, the pub erupted in fresh waves of cheering.
George sat at his usual spot, eyes fixed on the screen. Julien looked so young in the replay footage, yet somehow blazed with an intensity that transcended his years.
Decades had passed since George first started following Liverpool. He'd witnessed the club's highs and lows, but he'd never seen anyone quite like this.
On screen, Julien had just finished celebrating a goal and was waving to the Kop stand.
"Back in the day," George said suddenly, voice quiet but carrying to those nearby, "when Dalglish was this age, he wasn't nearly this bold on the ball."
His old mate Ted leaned over, clinking his glass against George's. "Too right! Owen at eighteen could run like the wind, but he didn't have Julien's football brain or his technical mastery. Even young Gerrard wasn't this complete. This kid's got speed, technique, and intelligence all rolled into one package."
George nodded, his gaze drifting back to the screen.
The replay showed Julien's assist for Gerrard—the way he'd used his movement to drag defenders out of position before slipping a perfectly weighted pass to their onrushing captain. The whole sequence flowed smoothly like butter, leaving United's backline grasping at shadows.
"Brilliant ball!" someone shouted.
A few patrons held up their phones, recording the television screen, desperate to preserve these images forever.
A young woman with her hair in a ponytail squeezed through to George's side, holding up a sketchbook. On the page was a drawing of Julien mid-celebration, arms spread wide, his red kit was curling in the wind, his eyes seemed as bright as stars.
"George, do you think Julien can become a legend?"
Her eyes sparkled with hope, voice trembling with anticipation.
George took the sketchbook, studying the lines of the sketch and a warm smile spread across his wrinkled face.
"Silly girl, he already is one. Look at what he did tonight: carrying the attack on his shoulders, elevating the entire team, three consecutive matches with goals. If that's not legendary, what is? Years from now, when we talk about the North West Derby in this pub, the first thing we'll mention is his double hat-trick tonight."
As he spoke, the screen cut to footage of Julien's substitution, the entire stadium was rising to its feet in appreciation.
The cheering in the pub softened, becoming tender.
George watched that young figure surrounded by teammates on the screen, and suddenly found himself remembering his own experiences at Anfield as a boy, when his father had pointed to the pitch and said, "That's our hero," speaking of Bill Shankly.
And now, finally, George could point to Julien and tell the young people around him: "Look—that's Liverpool's hero."
Ted suddenly raised his voice: "Everyone, raise your glasses! To Julien! To 6-0! To Liverpool!!"
"CHEERS!!"
"Tonight was absolutely incredible!"
"Hahaha!"
The entire pub lifted their drinks, beer mugs, whiskey glasses, even juice cups clinking them together in a symphony of celebration.
George raised his glass toward Julien's image on the screen, then took a slow sip.
The beer tasted the same as always.
But the feeling in his heart, because of this eighteen-year-old kid burned hotter than ever before.
The replays continued on television, showing Julien's dribbles, passes, and goals again and again. Each time, the Boot Room erupted with fresh cheers.
As if they wanted to preserve this night's joy forever within these walls, saturated with red and the rich aroma of ale.
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!