Alphonse's ecstatic roar rang in the ears of everyone in France watching the broadcast.
Across the ocean, in France, it was already past ten at night.
But there was nothing of the night's usual silence.
The two goals Julien had just sanctified himself with at the Mineirão had set the entire country blazing.
All of France plunged into instant frenzy. Lights blazed in every street and alley—city or small town, it made no difference everywhere wrapped in scorching passion.
Everyone was celebrating without restraint, for their captain's legendary moment, for their team's overwhelming dominance.
In Paris, the Champs-Élysées, the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville, everywhere had become an ocean of blue.
People draped themselves in the French flag, faces painted blue, white, and red, hoisting posters of Julien's jersey and placards printed with the number 10.
Cheering, screaming, without pause!
The noise shot straight into the sky.
Some fans climbed into their cars just to lay on the horn, the honking was weaving together with the fans' singing.
Someone scaled a lamppost to wave a flag; someone else threw their arms around a total stranger. On the giant screens, Julien's two goals and his record-breaking moment played over and over.
Every replay set off a fresh wave of screaming, and the strains of "La Marseillaise" rang out across the entire city.
Romantic Paris—tonight, nothing remained but the purest football fever.
In Lyon's old town square, the outdoor screening had been set up for hours, and not a single spot was left empty.
Fans packed the square shoulder to shoulder. Some stood on benches, some clung to the railings, every eye was locked onto the screen.
The instant Julien's screamer from outside the box tore into the net and shattered the legendary record, the whole square erupted into deafening cheers.
The young ones crowded together, jumping and shouting; the older fans clapped with reddened eyes, slapping each other on the shoulder and saying, "Unbelievable! Simply unbelievable!"
The whole old town trembled for that legendary moment.
Along the banks of Marseille's Vieux-Port, the sea wind carried the frenzied cheering in like a rolling tide.
Beneath the big screen at the harbour square, fans stood packed in dense rows, and even the boats moored along the shore were crowded with fishermen waving flags.
The moment the footage of Julien's brace and his new record appeared, the whole shoreline boiled over. Someone set off celebratory fireworks, and the coloured flames reflected on the sea's surface, mingling with the ecstasy on every fan's face.
People joined hands in circles, singing together, chanting Julien's name—the waves, the cheering, the singing all mixing into one, drifting through every corner of the port city.
But in Bastia, the celebration reached its absolute peak.
This quiet little Corsican town wasn't sleeping tonight. Practically every resident had dropped whatever they were doing and, without any prior arrangement, streamed toward the newly built Julien De Rocca Square.
At the centre of the square stood the pedestal already set aside for Julien's future statue—a smooth stone plinth, standing quietly. The statue itself hadn't been started yet, but beside the pedestal stood a life-size cardboard cutout of Julien: in it, he wore France's number 10 jersey, arms flung wide in his signature celebration, lifelike down to the last detail.
The little square was packed until there wasn't room to move.
Men and women, young and old, had all gathered here—grandparents leading children by the hand, young people in Julien's club jersey, fans wearing that special spliced jersey.
Every single person held a French flag or a Bastia flag, waving them like mad.
Every time the big screen replayed one of Julien's goals, the whole crowd erupted into a roar like a tidal wave: "Julien! Julien!"
The shouting carried across the entire town.
Fans crowded around the life-size cutout, celebrating like mad, eyes brimming with tears.
Those nearest the cutout jumped and embraced each other around it; children wove through the crowd waving little flags; and other fans, eyes rimmed red, kept repeating, over and over, "He's our Bastia boy. He's ours."
Even with the statue still unbuilt, this life-size portrait had already become the whole town's emotional anchor.
The lights lit up every face flushed with excitement. The cheering, the applause, the laughter went on and on—this small town celebrating, in the most fervent way it knew, the World Cup legend its own son had just carved into history.
This glory belonged to Julien. It belonged to Bastia. And even more, it belonged to all of France.
Brazil.
At this very moment, the deathly silence of the Mineirão was spreading to every inch of the nation.
The voice of the home broadcast's commentator, filled with complete shock, carried through Brazil's every street and alley, through the favelas and into the wealthy neighbourhoods alike.
His voice shook so badly it nearly gave out, cracking with disbelieving questions: "What is happening?! Is this really our home ground?! How, in just three minutes, did our opponents seize total control of this match?! Why is our back line standing there like it doesn't exist, letting De Rocca score a brace so effortlessly and shatter the World Cup's most legendary record while he's at it?!"
The commentator sat in the booth, staring blankly at the match feed, his voice neared close to collapse, all the fire from kick-off was completely gone:
"We're the five-star Seleção! We're the host nation!
Yes, Neymar's out, Silva's suspended but we still have world-class players on this pitch. So why are we playing like this, like we can't even put up a fight?!
The midfield can't hold up against France's pressing, the back line is riddled with holes—where is our teamwork?
Where is our fighting spirit?!
This isn't the Brazil we know. All of this is too hard to believe. I don't even know how I'm supposed to call the rest of this match!"
Defeat swept over every corner of Brazil like an icy tide.
In the favelas of Rio, fans who had been huddled around battered televisions, shouting roaringly, now sat frozen in place. Their flags hung limp in their hands. Some just stared blankly at the screen, unable to get out a single word.
In a mansion in one of São Paulo's wealthy districts, guests stood motionless with wine glasses still in hand, every trace of anticipation shattered from their faces, replaced by nothing but stunned disbelief.
At the open-air viewing areas on the street, in the little bars down the alley, in the community squares—every single Brazilian fan had fallen into dead silence.
Everyone was stunned senseless, and only one thought remained in anyone's head: how could the team they were so proud of collapse this badly—crushed by France on home soil, without the strength left to fight back at all.
Why?
Was this even Brazil anymore?!
This was nothing short of a national disgrace!
At that moment inside the Mineirão, the 2-0 scoreline hung over every Brazilian player like a set of iron shackles, crushing the breath out of them.
On the touchline, Scolari had long since lost his usual composure, his greying hair damp with sweat.
He bit down on his lower lip, a war was raging inside his head.
The next instant he was nearly hopping in place, screaming at his players on the pitch, both arms thrashing as he jabbed a finger toward the French half: "Attack! Get forward, all of you, attack! If we're behind, we make it up with attack! ATTACK!!"
The players' minds, too, were an agitating mess.
Hearing Scolari's order, they seized on it the way a drowning man seizes a floating straw.
One thought, and one thought only, filled every head: attack!
They needed a goal!
It came quickly.
Once the French celebration had died down, on their way back to the centre circle Julien made a point of raising both index fingers to his temples, signalling to his teammates: stay switched on.
Both sides took their places at the centre circle once more.
Peep!!!
The referee's whistle sent the match back into motion.
Fred sucked in a deep breath and thumped the ball back toward his own half, and the Brazilian players charged forward like headless flies.
They were going to attack!
But there was nothing left of their earlier tactical shape in their runs now only blind, every-man-for-himself charges forward.
Coordination was entirely forgotten.
Gustavo got the ball, but he didn't check on Fernandinho in the middle, didn't glance toward Bernard out on the wing. All he wanted was to shove the ball forward as fast as possible.
But the instant his long ball crossed the halfway line, Kanté, already reading the play perfectly, got there a full step ahead and cut it out clean.
The moment he won the ball, Kanté didn't waste a single second, squaring it straight away to Pogba at his side.
The instant the Brazilian players saw the ball turned over, what crossed their minds wasn't an immediate scramble to press and cover—it was despair.
By the time they'd summoned the will to close the ball down again—Pogba had already taken his touch, spotted the gap in Brazil's back line, and threaded a long ball straight over their disordered midfield, dropping it right at Julien's feet.
By then, Giroud had already made a run in front to stretch the space, dragging both centre-backs' attention with him and clearing an enormous corridor for Julien to drive into.
Julien never broke his run, exploiting Brazil's chaos to surge straight toward their back line.
Seeing this, Gustavo spun around and tore after him, staking his entire defensive judgment on one lunge, stretching out a leg to try to poke the ball away from the side.
But Julien's feet suddenly checked—a light hook with the right foot, then the left following through to knock the ball sideways.
One clean, crisp change of direction, and Gustavo's challenge was left grasping at nothing.
Forward!
Seeing this, David Luiz abandoned his cover, no longer able to spare a thought for Giroud in front of him, and came charging at Julien in long strides, trying to block his advance with sheer body weight.
But the instant he left his position at the heart of the box, the space behind him tore open like a gash, laid open in a single moment.
Dante alone was never going to be enough to hold Giroud!
The moment Julien caught the gap in the corner of his eye, mid-dribble he suddenly shoved the ball forward in a through ball that seemed to have eyes of its own, threading the exact seam between David Luiz and Dante, running straight to Giroud's feet.
The instant David Luiz lunged out of position, Giroud shifted sideways in a flash, shaking off Dante's marking.
He met the through ball in stride and took it forward in one motion, and ran straight into the box.
By the time he took the ball, Dante was already a full step behind.
Giroud went on alone, like a knight riding to a duel, straight at César as he came rushing off his line.
César had abandoned his line without hesitation, arms flung wide, trying to cut down Giroud's angle on goal.
But Giroud's composure went far beyond anything César could have imagined.
Watching César come rushing at him, he didn't hurry in the slightest. He set his feet, then flicked the ball up gently with the tip of his boot. The ball rose like a bird taking light flight, clearing the very tips of César's fingers.
It traced a perfect arc through the air and dropped into the net.
Swish!
GOAL!!!
The instant the ball slammed into the net, the deathly hush over the Mineirão was torn wide open except this time, once again, the cheering belonged only to the French fans.
On the Brazilian side of the stands, nothing remained but a sky-blanketing sigh.
3-0!
The margin had grown again. Brazil, on their own home soil, was being utterly steamrolled by France, with no strength left to fight back at all.
Alphonse's voice had gone completely out of control, the words were tumbling out at breakneck speed, his tone was so charged it trembled, and he roared:
"GOAL! It's in again!! My God! And it's only the nineteenth minute of this match!!
Barely a single minute has passed since the last goal!!
France has punched straight through Brazil's goal once again!
THREE. NIL.
Here, on Brazilian soil, at the Mineirão with the whole world watching, we lead the five-star Seleção three goals to nil!!
Just look at that finish—Giroud's one-on-one was absolutely gorgeous!
Cool. Composed. Ruthlessly clean.
Facing César charging off his line, he didn't panic for even a fraction of a second—one light little chip, and the move was finished. This is what a French striker is capable of. This is what top-tier finishing looks like!
And once again, the praise has to go to Julien!
The man who started this goal—once again, it's Julien!
Once again, he broke through single-handedly and threw Brazil's entire back line into complete disarray!
Brazil's defence counts for absolutely nothing in front of this man!
Whether it was Gustavo's gambling lunge or David Luiz's hurried cover, neither one could slow his feet. With one perfect through ball, he served Giroud the most comfortable assist you'll ever see!
The picture couldn't be any clearer now!
France has this match locked down, and we already have one foot, practically both feet, through the door of the World Cup final!
To every French fan out there—hold nothing back. Celebrate without limits!
Scream at the top of your lungs!
We can see it clearly now—the World Cup final is waving us in!
Victory belongs to France. It belongs to every single person cheering for this team!"
In that moment, Giroud tore off toward the corner flag, arms flung wide, roaring, his face lit up with a joy he couldn't have contained if he'd tried.
His very first World Cup and it felt this good.
Julien sprinted after him and wrapped him up hard from behind, and the two of them slammed together, laughing, shouting, pounding each other on the back.
Pogba, Griezmann, Matuidi, and the rest of the team came flying in from every direction, piling into one tight, tangled knot of an embrace.
Someone was shouting and slapping Giroud on the shoulder; someone else had an arm around Julien, cheering at the top of their voice.
The whole team formed a circle, jumping, shouting. Someone pumped a fist in the air, someone else blew kisses at the stands.
And with that, the entire Mineirão was split clean in two, into two utterly different worlds.
On one side, a soaring heaven. On the other, a bottomless hell.
The contrast was so brutal it was suffocating.
The section of French fans had turned completely into an ocean of celebration.
Every single one of them was on their feet, roaring with everything they had hugging each other, slapping high-fives, jumping in place. Some were in tears, overcome with emotion. Some hoisted their beer cups high and cheered without a shred of restraint. Some just screamed madly down at the pitch.
Even here, far from home in a foreign land, they celebrated their team's crushing victory in the most fervent way they knew how.
Every corner of that section burned with blood-boiling passion. This was their heaven.
By contrast, the Brazilian stands, which took up the overwhelming majority of the stadium, had gone utterly, completely silent—an entire ocean of yellow plunged into a boundless hell.
The roaring cheers and chants that had once boiled over there had vanished entirely, leaving nothing but endless silence. They had broken.
Countless Brazilian fans sat slumped in their seats, hands clamped around their heads, staring blankly at the 3-0 scoreboard, their faces frozen in disbelief.
Some fans could no longer hold it in, burying their faces in their hands and began sobbing, tears slid down between their fingers, the Brazilian flags in their hands hung slack and lifeless.
Others were angry and helpless all at once, fists clenched, pounding on the seats in front of them, unable to force out even a single scream—nothing was left on their faces but despair.
Everywhere across the stands, there were fans with red eyes, children who didn't know what to do with themselves, young people utterly silent.
In that moment, the home ground of the five-star Seleção had well and truly fallen.
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