Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca

"Julien!!"

The fans roared wildly, teammates screamed at the top of their lungs.

Julien felt his body go limp. He collapsed onto the grass, breathing heavily as his thoughts slowly returned to his mind.

He had scored.

After just a few seconds of calm, Giroud rushed over and threw himself down to embrace Julien on the ground. "You scored! You scored again! Julien! You're incredible!!"

Giroud's voice cracked from excitement, this goal had left him beside himself with joy.

The other teammates quickly followed suit, rushing over.

A pile-on celebration.

Frenzied jubilation.

Nearby, Buffon turned to look at the football resting quietly in the net, then at De Rocca, who was completely buried under his celebrating teammates.

He sighed.

Walking into the goal, he retrieved the ball.

Conceding in extra time dealt a massive blow to morale, though perhaps the only consolation was that this wasn't sudden death.

They still had time!

The other Italian players covered their faces, shook their heads, and sighed.

Prandelli was so furious he didn't know how to vent, only able to repeatedly curse "Cazzo!" under his breath.

Not far from him stood Blanc. The French coach was now completely unable to remain calm.

The domineering "President" from his playing days dropped to his knees, pounding the ground frantically. "C'est putain de génial! This is fucking brilliant! Brilliant!!"

He had abandoned all pretense of elegance, his mouth was filled with crude language. Only this way could he release the emotions surging through him at this moment!

In the stands. Everyone was lost in cheering and shouting.

Mbappé, Kanté, Chataigner, even Hadzibegic watching from his home in Bosnia—all were shouting wildly, celebrating without restraint.

At the Sunset Coffee Bar in Bastia, there wasn't a single drinking glass left intact.

All had been smashed on the floor.

The aroma of pastis, mixed with other alcohols, enveloped the entire tavern.

Bertrand no longer cared about any of this. He had joined the passionate celebration.

"Julien!"

The chant rose in Bastia, in Ajaccio, in Paris, Lille, Lyon, Kiev—in every corner where French national team and Julien fans could be found!

In the stands.

"Julien truly is a promising talent worth developing!" Deschamps chatted cheerfully with Le Graet and others.

But Zidane's expression was grim. While all the French were celebrating, he frowned.

Deschamps still wore a smile. "Zinédine, what's wrong?"

Zidane's voice was somewhat subdued. "Julien might be injured. He's had two serious adductor muscle injuries before."

Zidane didn't continue. When Julien had rounded Buffon and fallen just now, he had noticed something abnormal about Julien's body.

"Hmm?" Deschamps hadn't really noticed this. "Are you sure?"

If it was multiple serious adductor injuries, the player could easily become injury-prone. Many top talents had seen their careers derailed by repeated major injuries, lacking stable playing time, with their match form gradually declining.

Even experiencing a complete collapse in form!

So Deschamps became somewhat nervous too. Julien was France's answer on the wing!

France's future!

At this moment, the thunderous cheers from French fans throughout the stadium couldn't erase the worry in Zidane's eyes.

He watched the French team celebrating, hoping Julien would stand up.

But the thing he least wanted to see happened.

"Huh? What? The medical team and stretcher are coming on! What's happening?!" The TF1 commentator was still basking in the excitement of France's comeback, only to see the medical staff and stretcher entering the field.

French fans were suddenly struck dumb. The celebration came to an abrupt halt.

The French players had stepped aside. Giroud was asking Julien, "Inner thigh?"

"Yeah."

Julien placed his hand on his forehead and sighed softly. He knew it was most likely another adductor injury.

And judging by the pain he felt at the time, it was quite serious.

But he'd had no choice.

When the opportunity presented itself, you had to seize it at all costs!

He had done just that.

But it had triggered his old injury.

When the team doctor arrived, he immediately asked about Julien's symptoms. On the pitch, a player's initial assessment was crucial.

It was the body's most primitive response.

"Julien may be injured. He played the full match, plus extra time. Just now his speed was incredible—I said he was burning himself up, and now it seems what burned out wasn't just match time, but Julien himself."

The commentator's words shifted fans from excitement and joy to immediate concern.

In the conflict-ridden French squad, Julien's performance had been there for all to see.

At just 17, he already possessed the ability to become France's key player on the wing.

Many fans had quietly closed their eyes, praying for Julien: "Dear Lord, please don't let Julien be seriously injured. In football's name we pray, Amen."

In Bosnia.

Hadzibegic covered his face, slumping onto the sofa.

What about next season?

With less than a month before the new season began, if Julien was injured now and judging by the expressions of the French players and medical staff on the broadcast, the situation looked very bad.

"Sigh."

With one breath, what he least wanted to see had happened.

"Merde!!"

Chataigner held his head in his hands, his face full of disbelief as he cursed meaninglessly.

Who knew Julien's physical condition better than he did?

Two serious adductor injuries, plus the physical toll from that period of decline when he wasn't disciplined.

The De Rocca family's eyes no longer held tears of excitement, but tears of heartbreak. What parent wants to see their child suffer from injuries?

It was the greatest heartbreak and sense of helplessness for any parent.

Too many people were affected by Julien's collapse.

Julien listened to the team doctor's diagnosis.

The preliminary result was an adductor tear. Adductor injuries had three grades: mild, moderate, and severe.

He likely had partial muscle fiber tears with significant pain and swelling—probably moderate grade, with a recovery period that might take two to three months.

Julien's heart sank.

The team doctor had Julien get on the stretcher; the specific situation would require further detailed examination.

Julien sat on the stretcher.

"Ça va aller," Pirlo approached and patted Julien's shoulder, telling him in less-than-fluent French that it would be okay.

Buffon also came over to pat Julien's shoulder.

In this match, though they were now trailing, they held no grudge. Julien had used his solid individual ability to seize two opportunities through sheer force.

Julien nodded and lay down on the stretcher. He was carried off toward the sideline.

"Julien! You'll be fine! Hang in there!"

"We're waiting for you!"

"Julien, tonight you are France's hero!"

The stretcher bearers walked along the sideline toward the tunnel—less than a hundred meters. But they walked exceptionally slowly.

Julien could hear countless fans' voices—encouragement, comfort, expectations for his triumphant return.

Julien stared up at the roof of Kiev's Olympic Stadium, the lights seemed somewhat blinding.

So many scenes and possibilities flashed through his mind.

"Rest well." Blanc's expression was somber as he patted Julien's shoulder. He wanted to say many things, but when it came out, it was just "rest well."

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