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In the north of Paris, Saint-Denis. The Stade de France, home of the French National Team.
At least half the people on site were French.
This top-tier European venue, capable of holding over 81,000, had allocated 20,000 seats to Belgium fans, 20,000 to Portugal fans, and nearly 40,000 to neutral supporters. Logically, after France's heartbreaking semifinal exit, most of the host nation's fans would have had no reason to show up. But the 4-3 comeback had captivated the entire world. The French, who had always considered themselves the standard-bearers of European football, had felt genuine respect for Belgium for the first time. Specifically, for the teenage genius who had scored eleven goals in six matches — the nineteen-year-old Lance.
For that reason, host-nation fans had a unique advantage in grabbing tickets, and many of them were now sitting in those stands to cheer him on.
"Since you eliminated us, go ahead and win the whole thing."
That was Blaise Matuidi's tweet after the semifinal, which cleared 100,000 likes and retweets. It captured the mood of much of France.
Of course, Cristiano Ronaldo had his own army of fans, and the clash between his supporters and Lance's had been building long before today. Now they finally had a chance to settle it.
"Are you nervous, Duan Xuan?"
"Actually, a bit."
"You're a veteran. You weren't even nervous at the World Cup Final — why now?"
"Because Lance is playing today."
In the media box at the Stade de France, Duan Xuan and his longtime partner Xu Yang exchanged a look and smiled. The two were CCTV5's official commentators for the final.
Over on LeSports, Jian Jun and Instructor Zhang had already been talking for half an hour before the match even started, with the live viewer count climbing past fifty million and still rising.
"Goodness — so many people!"
"Can't help it. That's Lance for you."
Jian Jun was nervous, but mostly he was thrilled. He found himself wondering: two years from now, could Lance stand on the World Cup stage too?
"Thirty seconds. Get ready. Good luck, you two."
The producer's cue came through their earpieces. Jian Jun and Instructor Zhang locked in.
Even thousands of miles from the stadium, their hearts were already in that tunnel.
Lance and Cristiano Ronaldo did not exchange words or even eye contact as they lined up. Belgium and Portugal stood like two armies preparing to meet — no sentiment, no warmth. Just the match ahead.
The head referee was a familiar face: Clattenburg, who had also officiated the Champions League Final and was one of the most respected names in the Premier League.
"Come on, guys! Let's move!"
"Let's go! Time to enter!"
Led by Clattenburg and his officials, the starting players of both teams walked out of the tunnel hand-in-hand with the tournament mascots. Eighty thousand voices erupted at once. Lance and Cristiano Ronaldo emerged almost side by side, brushing past the European Championship trophy on its podium.
Lance glanced at it. It was right there — within arm's reach. He very nearly stretched out a hand.
He stopped himself. If he was going to touch it, he'd wait for the right moment.
Portugal — 4-4-2 Patrício; Cédric, Pepe, Fonte, Guerreiro; A. Silva, William Carvalho, Renato Sanches, João Mário; Nani, Cristiano Ronaldo. Subs: B. Fernandes, Ricardo Carvalho, Moutinho, Éder, Danilo.
Belgium — 4-3-3 Courtois; Ciman, Vertonghen, Vermaelen, Alderweireld; Nainggolan, Witsel, Lance; De Bruyne, Lukaku, Hazard. Subs: Januzaj, Benteke, Fellaini.
"We notice Belgium have made a slight tactical adjustment from the semifinal — shifting from a 4-2-3-1 to a 4-3-3. Instructor Zhang, your read on this?"
"Hehehe." Instructor Zhang loved talking formations, and he settled in with his usual unhurried tone. Both sets of players were still shaking hands and spreading into position — there was time.
"The two shapes aren't radically different. The key change is Lance's role. Previously he operated more like a traditional number ten, constantly active around the penalty area. That sacrificed some defensive stability. But his defensive output has been validated across this tournament, and he's starting to look like a genuine all-around midfielder. Today's setup is similar to the attacking midfielder-retraction role he used at Atlético."
"Exactly," Jian Jun added. "Lance keeps evolving. He has more of a box-to-box quality now — a real presence at both ends. And he's Belgium's only true midfield core."
At Atlético, there were Koke and Gabi alongside him, which allowed Lance to operate freely in the front third. Belgium's defensive midfield didn't have that luxury. There was no proper pivot. Lance was the axis the whole team revolved around.
De Bruyne and Hazard were more co-pilots than commanders. Lance was the one flying the plane.
He had also become the youngest captain in a European Championship Final. Lance exchanged pennants with Portugal captain Cristiano Ronaldo and shook his hand.
Only then did Cristiano lean in: "This time, I will have my revenge."
Lance nearly laughed. Every time Cristiano said that line, it sounded like a cartoon villain's catchphrase. The man was covered in dramatic declarations. In Lance's head, he was basically a walking death flag.
"Good luck. I hope it's a great match."
Lance said it in the Portuguese he had been quietly picking up over the past few days.
Cristiano froze.
He had braced himself for a counter-threat, a hard stare, something to match the intensity. Instead Lance had just smiled at him in his own language and moved on. The difference in composure was immediate and glaring. Before a single ball had been kicked, Lance had already taken the mental high ground.
"Damn it!! This kid!!"
Cristiano Ronaldo was furious, and genuinely impressed.
He walked back to his half and went through several rounds of deep breathing before he had the inner fire under control.
One consolation: Lance, for all his ability, had terrible luck with coin tosses. He never won them. Not once.
From the very first second of the match, the initiative belonged to Portugal.
Cristiano Ronaldo had a flash of inspiration, recalling the early blitzkrieg Bayer Leverkusen had once used to catch opponents cold.
"Why not..."
He quickly gathered the team for a final word before the whistle.
"Guys — should we gamble at the start?!"
The Portugal players exchanged glances, slightly unsettled by the gleam in their captain's eyes. But no one was about to argue with Cristiano Ronaldo.
"Portugal!!"
"Invincible!!!"
Both sides lined up. Clattenburg raised the whistle, checked his watch.
Eighty thousand voices inside the Stade de France began counting down.
Beep.
The match was underway.
"I am the only protagonist of this final!"
Cristiano Ronaldo, beaten more times than he could count, still had that same unyielding fire in his eyes. He touched the ball, and the battle began.