Chapter 736 - 736: Chapter-734 The Hope

Germany's celebration was gradually winding down.

Tweet!

The referee blew his whistle to restart play.

And yet—the scene French fans had been hoping for: their team surging back after conceding, never came.

Slowly, control of the match fell completely into the hands of the German war machine.

Löw's tactics unfolded wholly. Germany played exactly the football they wanted to with fluid passing, flexible shape, and every attack carrying ferocious pressure.

France, meanwhile, sank into passive defence, unable to organize any real offense, clinging on only through tenacious resistance.

On paper, Germany's shape was the 4-2-3-1 they'd lined up in before kick-off, but in the flow of attack it kept shifting.

Whenever they pushed forward, Schweinsteiger would drop back alone into a single defensive-midfield role. Khedira would shift to the right, linking up with Müller, and the form would instantly morph into a 4-1-4-1—thickening the midfield defensively while sharpening the attacking edge in front.

In the stands, German fans cheered again and again. Many held up posters of Lahm, hoping the legendary fullback would put on a show of assists.

But in these ten minutes, Lahm mostly held his position on the back line; even when he pushed forward now and then, it was only a brief probe before he quickly retreated. He never surged forward the way the fans were hoping for.

Clearly, in Löw's setup, Lahm's core job was to lock down the right flank and guard against a French counter—especially against Julien's breakthroughs on the wing. It left the fans hoping for a Lahm assist very disappointed.

Khedira's positioning on the right was highly targeted. He didn't join the attack much; instead, he stayed just behind Müller, mainly covering the space Müller left when he pushed forward, occasionally stepping up to support when Müller had the ball—forming a kind of hidden strike partnership.

In the 15th minute, one German attack showed off this system perfectly. Kroos held the ball calmly in midfield. Khedira dropped back to the right to offer support, drawing a French defender out of position, then quickly played it to Müller. Müller surged forward, shook off Varane's marking, cut into the box, and fired with his right foot—Lloris flung himself wide and made a brilliant save, the ball skimmed the post and went wide.

Whoosh!

It sent a chill down the French fans' spines.

Germany was too dangerous!

In the mouths of commentators from other neutral countries, "Germany were playing like champions!"

Klose also made full use of his experience. He didn't stay planted in the box as a target man the whole time—instead he dropped back into midfield again and again, linking up with Kroos and Ozil to deliver pinpoint through balls.

In the 18th minute, Klose dropped into midfield, took Kroos's pass, and without a moment's hesitation slid a ball straight through France's midfield line.

Müller read it instantly and darted into the box—only for Sakho to stretch out a leg and cut it off just in time. No shot came of it. But that exchange alone had already put enormous pressure on France's back line, it was a perfect display of the two strikers' chemistry.

Germany's shifting shape was devastating. Whenever Ozil drifted in from the flank toward the centre, the team would switch again—this time to a 4-3-3. Ozil, Müller, and Klose formed the front three; Kroos, Khedira, and Schweinsteiger formed the midfield triangle.

This kind of fluid shape-shifting made it impossible for France's defence to keep pace. Just as they adjusted to defending against the 4-1-4-1, Germany would switch to 4-3-3, and gaps would open instantly out wide. France's defenders could only scramble to cover, and holes kept appearing in the back line.

Compared to Germany's effortless command of the game, France barely created a single good chance in these ten minutes, pinned almost entirely inside their own half by Germany's passing.

Deschamps's counter-attacking setup could, for now, only focus on defence—the counters themselves had no teeth.

Julien, France's undisputed attacking core, was marked relentlessly by Germany—Kroos and Khedira were double-teaming him, with Hummels and Boateng ready to cover.

He often found himself swallowed alone by a crowd of opponents, with no teammates able to offer strong support. Midfield was suffocated by Germany, unable to push forward in time to help. Up at the front, Giroud and Griezmann couldn't find space either—no matter how strong Julien was, one man alone couldn't manufacture better chances.

In fact, every one of France's few threatening attacks had been dragged out of nothing by Julien's individual ability alone.

Griezmann, too, failed to show his true level out on the wing. France's midfield was firmly under Germany's control and couldn't get the ball forward to the strikers cleanly; even the rare pass that reached Griezmann's feet was quickly closed down by Lahm and Höwedes together—either the pass went astray or it was stolen outright, never turning into a real threat.

In the 20th minute, Julien fought free of a double-team through sheer willpower and managed to get on the ball. It was one of France's few chances of the match. But once he'd broken through, there was no teammate there to receive the ball, and a fresh defensive line stood in front of him.

Julien had no choice but to stop. He played it back.

Watching the way the game was unfolding now, there was extreme helplessness in it. Julien's eyes kept drifting over both sides' formations—he knew full well, given the team's tactical problems, he wasn't going to get much support up front. He could only rely on his own ability to force things.

Faced with a situation like this, Deschamps's expression grew grim. He kept shouting instructions at his players, telling them to tighten the lines and not push up rashly—he didn't want to concede again.

Defend first. Attack after.

Inside the Maracanã, the German fans' cheers grew louder and louder—they could see clearly how much their team was on top. They kept chanting for the score to be extended.

In the 22nd minute, Germany attacked again. Kroos threaded a ball through the middle, Ozil came inside to receive it and quickly switched it wide, Höwedes crossed from the left, Klose rose to attack it in the box—the header sailed just over the bar.

This attack once again showed off the advantages of Germany's shifting shape and the fluency of their passing. It also made everyone realize: if Germany kept up this form, kept controlling the game, they'd very likely extend their lead.

Time slipped by, little by little. Julien's chances were few and far between, but he never once let up—he kept running hard, kept hunting for openings, and whenever even the thinnest crack appeared, he threw everything he had into it.

Finally—the chance came!!

35th minute.

France's defender Sakho won the ball off Kroos in his half with a hard-fought tackle, and without a moment's hesitation, sent a long ball straight up field. It was France's first genuinely effective long pass in half an hour. And the ball dropped right where Julien had been drifting all along, cutting through the gaps in the crowd.

Julien read the flight of the ball instantly and set off early, using his speed to shake off Kroos. He sprinted forward with everything he had, and before the defence could close him down, he brought the ball under control.

In that moment, he found himself surrounded once again, swallowed by a wall of German players.

Khedira raced back to cover, closing in from the side; Hummels abandoned his mark on Giroud and spun around to double up on Julien—the two defenders came at him from either side, trying to force him toward the touchline and strip the ball away.

Julien didn't panic. His feet flashed through one step-over after another. His shoulder dropped. He'd found the crack in Khedira's balance! His body tilted, and he accelerated hard toward the box.

Just as he was about to break free, Khedira, desperate, grabbed a fistful of Julien's shirt and clipped his ankle at the same time.

Julien went down.

Tweet!

The referee blew his whistle without a second's hesitation, pointing to the spot for a free kick. France had won themselves a golden scoring chance!

"Foul! Khedira fouls him! France have a free kick in a great position—this is the best scoring chance France have had all half!"

Commentator Alphonse's voice lifted with excitement at the sight. "Julien fought with everything he had for this chance—he never gave up, and even alone, he's still creating hope for his team! France have been suffocated by Germany all half, with no way forward at all—and now, the chance is here!"

Inside the Maracanã, the French fans erupted in an instant. One after another they rose to their feet, light was flaring back into their eyes.

Up in the stands, Zidane and Blanc wore expressions full of anticipation too.

Far away, in the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville in Paris, more than thirty thousand French fans burst into cheers at once, roaring Julien's name, their shouts were drowning out everything else across the square.

France's players hurried over and pulled Julien to his feet; the rest of the team moved up near the box, getting ready for the free kick.

Pogba and Griezmann walked up to the ball and conferred with Julien. They wanted Julien to take the shot himself.

But Julien clapped Pogba on the shoulder. "Paul, you take it."

In training it had usually been Pogba taking free kicks like this anyway—his technique really was excellent.

"All right!"

Pogba drew a deep breath. He'd been shut down hard all match, barely a moment to show what he could do. He was still, after all, a little young for this.

At the same time, Germany hurriedly organized their wall—Kroos, Müller, and the others lined up in it while Neuer kept adjusting his position in goal, hands on his hips, his expression tight, eyes locked on the ball at Pogba's feet.

The whole stadium held its breath.

The Maracanã fell into a brief hush with nothing left but the suppressed heartbeats and cries of both sets of fans.

Tweet!

At the referee's whistle, Pogba ran up, swung his leg, and struck the ball!

Boom!

The ball spun fiercely as it rose, arcing over the German wall, streaking straight for the middle of the box!

Giroud leapt with everything he had, straining to win the header. But German centre-back Hummels was quicker—he rose higher, got his head to the ball first, and cleared it out of the box.

Just as everyone thought the free kick chance had gone to waste, and the French fans let out a sigh of disappointment—a blue shape came flying in.

It was Julien!

The instant the ball was cleared from the box, he'd already seen it, already surging forward before it landed; his body twisted slightly to the side, and he met the falling ball with his right foot, striking it clean out of the air!

Boom!!

The ball shot out like a cannonball, screaming through the air, straight for the top-right corner of the goal!

Neuer threw himself at it, his whole body stretched out fully but the strike was simply too good. There was nothing he could do. He could only watch the ball rip into the net, the thud echoing through the air.

Swish!

Goal!

The score was rewritten—1-1!

"GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! In the 35th minute—Julien! A stunning volley finds the net! 1-1! France have levelled the score!"

Alphonse's voice was on fire, nearly a scream. "Incredible! Absolutely unbelievable! Surrounded and alone, he fought with everything he had to win that free kick, and even when his teammate's header came to nothing, he never stopped—one perfect volley, straight into the corner. This is Julien De Rocca. This is our national hero!"

In an instant, the French section of the Maracanã exploded into thunderous, earth-shaking cheers!

After scoring, Julien flung his arms wide open, turning toward the French fans' section, sprinting forward.

He let out a furious roar!

This was thirty-five minutes of pent-up pressure finally breaking free—a redemption after fighting alone, and the spark that lit France's hope of a comeback!

Behind him, his teammates caught up, faces filled with excitement.

Pogba was the first to reach him, throwing his arms around Julien's shoulders, pulling him into a fierce hug, shouting over and over, "Julien! You're incredible!"

Giroud arrived right after.

Evra came sprinting in too, and from several teammates away he pumped his fist wildly at Julien, shouting his name—the tension was completely gone from his face, replaced by nothing but joy.

A few substitutes even rushed to the touchline, waving team towels and cheering at the top of their lungs.

They all knew it—this goal had no complex build-up, no perfect team play behind it. It was entirely Julien, alone, forcing it into being through sheer will.

French fans rose to their feet one after another, waving the flag! They embraced each other, weeping! Many chanted together, "Julien! Julien! France will win!"

The cheering was deafening!

Those French fans who, moments earlier, had sat with anxious faces, hands clutching their heads—now their eyes burned with light again, and long-absent smiles broke across their faces.

They had finally seen hope. They had finally seen the possibility of a comeback. And that hope belonged entirely to Julien, who had given it to them.

Far away in Paris, the whole city was now wrapped in a roar of sound. In the square before the Hôtel de Ville, the more than thirty thousand French fans had gone completely wild—waving flags and posters of Julien, roaring and cheering together, their voices were ringing out over the rooftops of Paris, as if trying to carry that joy all the way across the ocean to distant Brazil.

The fans who had travelled from Bastia held each other close, tears in their eyes, chanting Julien's name over and over, pride shining in every face.

Just like it used to be, back in Bastia.

This boy who had walked out of Bastia was now, with his own two feet, carrying the hopes of an entire nation.

On the big screen above the square, the replay of Julien's volley played over and over. And every single replay set off another wave of cheering, louder than the last!

Meanwhile, up in the stadium stands, Zidane and Blanc exchanged a glance and smiled with warmth and relief in their eyes.

Blanc said softly, "In the end the tactics always come back to the same point—give the ball to Julien. Ha. I told you—with Julien out there, there's always hope. He never lets people down."

Zidane smiled too.

He thought of what the outside press always said—that for France to succeed, they needed a core, a true centre of the team.

Once it had been Platini. Later, it had been him.

And now, it was Julien's turn.

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