After Kanté entered the match, Liverpool's defensive solidity in midfield improved intensely.
Manchester United's attacks, which had been flowing with increasing menace suddenly encountered greater resistance.
In the seventy-third minute of play at Old Trafford, the scoreboard's "3-2" felt like a shard embedded in David Moyes's consciousness. He stared at his midfielders laboring across the pitch, finally gritted his teeth, and turned to bark instructions at his substitutes' bench.
The fourth official raised his board shortly after.
Shinji Kagawa and Nani off.
Adnan Januzaj and Michael Carrick on.
Kagawa walked off with his head slightly bowed, the white shirt was clinging to his back dark with sweat. His several attempts to penetrate Liverpool's penalty area had all been disrupted by Kanté and the frustration was clear across his face.
Nani's exit was even more demonstrative. He ripped off his headband and hurled it toward the bench, dropping into his seat and viciously kicking a water bottle across the technical area. After seventy-plus minutes battling on the left flank, he hadn't managed a single meaningful cross, he was thoroughly neutralized by José Enrique's relentless defensive work.
The moment the substitutions were complete, Manchester United's attacking intensity ratcheted up another level.
With Carrick anchoring the midfield, the team's rhythm transformed. Rather than rushing passes forward like Kagawa had attempted, Carrick used patient lateral switches to stretch Liverpool's defensive shape across the width of the pitch.
In the seventy-fifth minute, he collected a pass from Rafael at the top of the center circle, observed his options, and launched a raking diagonal ball toward the left channel.
Januzaj peeled away from Kolo Touré's marking to collect it, knocking the ball into space before Sakho could close him down. As the Ivorian center-back scrambled to recover, Januzaj slipped a pass inside to the arriving Rooney.
Rooney struck it first time. The shot deflected off Skrtel's inner thigh and spun narrowly wide of the post.
Whoosh!
Another groan resounded through the stadium.
Liverpool's defensive line was clearly showing signs of fatigue, as it was stretched thin by the relentless waves of pressure. But Kanté's positioning continued to provide crucial cover, his tireless running was disrupting United's rhythm in the build-up phase.
Still, United kept coming.
In the seventy-eighth minute, Carrick orchestrated another attack, this time spreading play to Rafael on the right. The Brazilian full-back drove past Henderson with a burst of acceleration and whipped in a cross from the byline. Januzaj attacked the near post with a glancing header aimed at the top right corner.
Once again, Mignolet defied expectations. He launched himself up and sideways, his fingertips were grazing the ball just enough to push it over the crossbar.
Whoosh!
Manchester United fans clutched their heads in anguish.
As the clock ticked down, tension rose with every passing second. United's attacks grew more frantic, and more desperate. Each time they surged forward, it felt like the equalizer was inevitable.
Yet somehow, Liverpool held firm.
Mignolet pushed himself up from the turf once more, his chest was heaving, as he shouted at his teammates: "Stay focused!"
From the resulting corner, Carrick stood over the ball at the flag. He delivered it toward the near post, where Rooney rose to meet it, shaking off Kanté's attempt to hold him back. The ball glanced off Rooney's forehead toward the left side of goal.
Mignolet reacted with cat-like reflexes, springing to parry it away from danger.
But the clearance wasn't clean. The ball fell to Phil Jones just outside the six-yard box. Jones lashed at it immediately, but Skrtel threw his body in the way, blocking the shot with his torso.
The ball ricocheted to Henderson, who frantically hoofed it toward the touchline to relieve the pressure.
Wave after wave crashed against Liverpool's defensive walls.
The roar of Old Trafford had almost become a physical presence, pressing down on the visiting players.
Manchester United continued to pour forward. Carrick orchestrated from deep, constantly waving teammates into attacking positions. Januzaj and Rooney interchanged fluidly around the penalty area, probing for openings.
In the eighty-first minute, United carved out another dangerous opportunity. Carrick found Januzaj, who laid it back for Rooney. Rooney looked ready to shoot but instead made a pass into the penalty area for Hernández.
Hernández spun toward goal, but Kanté arrived from a diagonal angle, using his body to jostle him while simultaneously poking the ball away to Kolo Touré.
Touré booted it long once more.
The clock continued its unstoppable march forward. United's attacks showed no signs of dwindling. Liverpool's defense felt like a stretched wire, vibrating with tension, ready to snap at any moment.
In the stands, Manchester United fans chanted "GOAL!" while Liverpool fans screamed "HOLD!"
The noise was merged into an incomprehensible wall of sound.
Every pass, every tackle, every desperate clearance carried suffocating pressure.
Even the commentators were caught up in it: "United are getting closer and closer! Surely the equalizer is coming!"
But up front, Julien kept his eyes on the developing chaos in his own half.
He understood well enough that this level of intensity couldn't be sustained indefinitely.
Everyone gets tired. Even Manchester United would.
He positioned himself carefully, waiting for the moment when their desperation would create the space he needed.
The eighty-ninth minute at Old Trafford.
Manchester United fans' voices had become an overwhelming force, crashing toward Liverpool's penalty area.
Rooney stood near the corner flag, hands on hips, dragging air into his lungs in uneven gasps. His white shirt had turned dark brown at the collar from sweat saturation. He lifted his head to scan the penalty area—Hernández, Januzaj, and Phil Jones all were jostling for position among Liverpool's center-backs.
Even Carrick had pushed up to the edge of the eighteen-yard box. This corner represented Manchester United's last roll of the dice.
Referee Clattenburg's glance at his watch sent a ripple of urgency through every United player.
Rooney struck the corner with pace and precision, the ball was arcing toward the crowded near post.
Hernández rose highest, the back of his head was grazing the ball just as Mignolet launched himself into the air. His outstretched hand reached the ball first, punching it away from goal.
The clearance flew toward the edge of the penalty area, but it lacked distance.
Skrtel tried to get there before Januzaj, stretching out his leg to hook the ball toward the touchline. But his execution was rushed as a result the contact was imperfect.
Instead of a clearance to safety, it became an inadvertent through ball toward the center circle.
There was nobody there to receive it.
And then, in the next second, everything changed.
Julien.
Their forward who had been quiet for so long suddenly exploded into view.
Julien burst toward the loose ball and brought it under control with his first touch.
From kickoff to this moment, he had no idea how many kilometers he'd covered. His calf muscles screamed with every tread, and even occasionally seem about to cramp during his sprints.
But when he pushed the ball forward and began his run, none of that mattered anymore.
Julien moved like a predator who had spotted wounded prey, and began driving the ball directly toward the Manchester United half.
United's players were caught flat-footed, their positioning was completely wrong.
Carrick recovered first, and spread his arms wide to block Julien's path forward. But Julien had no intention of getting bogged down in a physical battle. His left foot feinted over the ball, drawing Carrick's weight to that side. Then the outside of his right boot flicked the ball in the opposite direction while his body accelerated past Carrick's left shoulder.
A classic give-and-go with himself, man and ball were separating briefly, then reuniting.
Carrick lunged for Julien's shirt but caught only air. By the time he turned his head, Julien had already opened up a two-meter gap and was widening it with every stride.
"STOP HIM! SOMEONE STOP HIM!"
On the touchline, David Moyes launched himself from his seat, those words were tearing from his throat with such force they cracked.
Phil Jones charged back from the penalty area, his eyes were locked on Julien's back bloodshot with desperation. He threw everything into the recovery run, angling across to cut off the attack.
But Julien was simply too fast.
Ryan Giggs represented Manchester United's last line of defense.
The Welsh legend tracked across from the right side toward the center, his heart was hammering so hard he could hear it pounding in his ears. With each stride, he could feel his legs growing heavier, as if they'd been filled with weight. Every step came slower than he wanted.
Time is cruel to everyone.
He was no longer the flying winger who'd terrorized Premier League defenses for two decades.
As Julien closed the distance, Giggs could see separate beads of sweat on the teenager's face.
Desperation drove him forward. He reached out, trying to grab any part of Julien he could, shirt, arm, anything to slow him down.
But Julien shifted his body just enough to slip the contact, simultaneously pushing the ball half a meter to his left with the outside of his boot, taking it away from Giggs's defensive zone.
A few more strides and Julien had left Giggs in his trail.
Old Trafford fell into an eerie silence.
The cauldron of noise from moments before vanished. The Manchester United sections could only produce scattered gasps of disbelief. Even the Liverpool fans seemed to have their voices trapped in their throats, every eye was fixed on that white-shirted figure charging into the penalty area.
David de Gea abandoned his goal line and began rushing out with arms spread wide trying to cut off every possible angle.
Julien decelerated three meters from the goalkeeper. His right leg quivered with accumulated lactic acid, the burn from his sustained sprint made his quadriceps feel tight as drum skins. But his eyes remained utterly calm.
This was the moment those abilities were made for.
As De Gea committed to the challenge, Julien's right foot swung through the ball with every ounce of power he had left.
CRACK!
The sound of boot meeting ball echoed across the stadium like a gunshot.
The ball rocketed toward the top corner with vicious velocity.
De Gea threw himself down desperately, his reactions were sharp as ever.
But no amount of athleticism could match the speed of that shot.
SWISH!
The ball ripped through De Gea's dive and buried itself in the net.
The force of his follow-through sent Julien stumbling forward, his momentum was carrying him past his point of balance.
He crashed to the turf.
For a moment, he didn't get up. Instead, he lay there on the grass, catching his breath. His chest heaved violently, sweat was dripping from his chin onto the surface below.
Not far away, the devastation of Manchester United's players showed a picture of despair.
Phil Jones stood with both hands covering his face. Jonny Evans had his hands on his hips, head hanging so low his shoulders shook. Carrick stood motionless in midfield, staring at nothing, his eyes were glazed and distant.
De Gea knelt before his goal, turning to look at the ball nestled in the net behind him.
The anguish of Manchester United's players spread like shadows across the Old Trafford turf, seeping through the grass, creeping over their slumped shoulders, washing over the suddenly muted red sections in the stands.
After a few seconds of recovery, Julien pushed himself to his feet.
He turned and sprinted toward the away fans' section. When he lifted his head to face them, Liverpool's traveling fans erupted with the most deafening roar of the entire match.
FOUR GOALS.
4-2.
Liverpool had won. At Old Trafford.
The fans screamed Julien's name with fervor.
"JULIEN!!"
"JULIEN!!!!"
Julien stood in front of the barrier separating pitch from stands, slowly spreading his arms wide. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and absorbed every decibel of adulation.
The final sprint had drained every reserve of energy he possessed, but it had also extinguished Manchester United's last flicker of hope.
This match belonged to him.
It belonged to Liverpool Football Club.
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