Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca

Tonight belongs to Bastia.

Tonight belongs to Julien De Rocca.

Outside the walls of the Stade de France, dazzling blue fireworks erupted into the Parisian night sky like fallen stars returning home.

The explosions turned the darkness in shades of Bastia blue, each burst accompanied by the thunderous roar of thousands of voices united in celebration.

Even as stern-faced police officers moved through the crowds, attempting to restore order, those captured Bastia supporters continued their chants—

"De Rocca! De Rocca!" and "Double Champions!"—

Only one word could capture the essence of this moment:

Madness!

The barriers and military-grade security of France's national stadium became utterly inadequate against the tide of high-spirited Bastia supporters.

Like water finding its way through the smallest cracks, their passion seeped through every gap, overwhelming the planned containment measures.

Security personnel under the pressure, hurriedly escorted both teams' players through service corridors back to the safety of the dressing rooms, abandoning the pitch to the sea of blue that had claimed it as their own.

Bastia fans had always been notorious for their intensity, their devotion bordering on being fanatical. Their reputation had been forged in tragedy as much as triumph—most painfully during that horrific evening of May 5, 1992, when their home stadium became the site of one of French football's darkest chapters.

It had been a French Cup semifinal, as approximately 20,000 spectators were packed into a venue designed for far fewer. The excess crowd needed hastily erected temporary stands.

When the players from both teams—Marseille and Bastia—emerged from the tunnel and stepped onto the pitch, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of foot-stomping and screaming.

Then, in a split second, one of the temporary stands gave way with a sound like thunder splitting the sky, metal and wood dropping in a deadly avalanche that claimed over 700 wounded and tens in death.

The Stade de France was now immersed in blue celebration.

Deep within the stadium, in the narrow player tunnel that had witnessed a thousand pre-match nerves and post-match emotions, Bastia's warriors were drunk on their own success.

After the initial chaos subsided and the crowd around their captain began to thin, Alexandre Lacazette—his Lyon jersey still damp with sweat and disappointment—approached Julien.

"Hey, Julien," Lacazette said, his voice carrying genuine admiration despite the sting of defeat, "could I exchange jerseys with you?"

The other players, their conversations momentarily paused, watched this interaction with knowing smiles.

In the unspoken hierarchy of professional football, such requests were reserved for the truly special—those rare individuals whose talent transcended club loyalties and spoke to the soul of the beautiful game.

Anyone who could recognize De Rocca's extraordinary gift, they understood, was worthy of friendship and respect.

"Of course!" Julien responded without hesitation.

The two stripped off their jerseys and exchanged them.

"You performed exceptionally well tonight," Lacazette continued, his eyes reflecting a mixture of professional jealousy and genuine admiration. "I'm envious of you, truly. I really hope to be your teammate on the national team someday—France needs players like you."

Julien met his gaze with quiet confidence. "It will happen. I look forward to that day when we can create magic together in the blue of France."

After this brief exchange, Lacazette departed.

Rothen shook his head in wonder. "You're really going to become a star, Julien. When players like Lacazette, one of Ligue 1's most lethal forwards come seeking your jersey, you know you've arrived at something special."

Julien touched his sweat-dampened hair and laughed with joy of youthful triumph. "Not really, it's just that we were teammates on the U21 national team."

The players entered the dressing room.

Chataigner ran over, immediately embracing De Rocca before pulling him aside.

"You're not leaving?" Chataigner asked expectantly.

"No."

Julien naturally wouldn't go back on his word. Next season's Bastia, with Europa League football to play, was his optimal choice.

"Good, good, good!" Chataigner repeated the word like a mantra, each iteration growing more fervent, more desperate in its gratitude.

His hands shook slightly as he leaned closer, lowering his voice to share the secret that had been burning inside him all evening. "I told Geronimi about you staying with the team. The president—he's decided to go all in! Everything we've built, everything we've dreamed of—it all depends on next season."

Julien's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. In the world of modest budgets and careful financial planning that defined clubs like Bastia, "going all in" was not a phrase used lightly.

Chataigner's face was glowing with excitement. The opportunity to compete not just for survival, but for glory—who could refuse such a calling?

"Ten million euros," He continued, his voice hushed as if he were revealing state secrets.

"That's everything—every last centime the club can scrape together. This is only possible after we sell quite a few of our current players, clear out the deadweight, and focus entirely on quality over quantity. I'll do my absolute best to build around you for next season's signings.

A big striker who can finish the chances you create, a midfielder who can match your vision, a defender who won't buckle under Europa League pressure—trust me, Julien, I'll create a squad capable of reaching the Europa League knockout stages!"

Julien nodded slowly, his mind already racing through possibilities and combinations. He had complete faith in Chataigner's eye for talent and understanding of the game, but perhaps—just perhaps—he could offer some "guidance" in such crucial matters.

"I'll sign that Bologne kid like you suggested," Chataigner added. "I don't pretend to understand why you rate him so highly, but after tonight, after everything you've shown me, I trust your eye completely. If you see something in him, that's good enough for me."

Chataigner was now beaming, constantly calculating in his mind how to bring the team a future.

This was ten million euros—a war chest!

For this unprecedented investment, President Geronimi was prepared to mortgage everything he owned, to stake the very future of the club on a single, audacious gamble. And the cornerstone of that gamble, the most valuable asset in the club's possession, was Julien's contractual commitment and the promise of even greater things to come!

This summer window, Chataigner knew he'd be busy with various negotiations, clearing out players, renewing important players' contracts, and more.

Julien thought for a moment before speaking up,

"Our next league opponent in two days is Metz, I've studied their recent matches. Their number 21, left winger Sadio Mané—he has exceptional pace, almost supernatural acceleration, combined with an attacking instinct that's genuinely dangerous.

His movement in the final third is intuitive, unpredictable. I believe we should seriously consider making an approach for him."

"Sadio Mané?" Chataigner repeated the name slowly, rolling it around his tongue as if tasting an exotic wine, his brow furrowed in concentration as he mentally stored away this intelligence.

After a moment of consideration, he nodded with decisive authority. "I'll make sure our scouts give him special attention during that match. Thank you, Julien. If you have any other ideas, any players who've caught your eye, please don't hesitate to share them with me."

If Hadzibegic had witnessed this exchange, his jaw would have dropped in absolute astonishment. In all his years working alongside Chataigner, he had never seen this stubborn Frenchman concede to anyone's opinion on transfer matters.

Of course, had Hadzibegic understood that it was Julien offering these pearls of wisdom, his shock would have transformed into understanding. Now Julien's words carried significant weight at Bastia!

"We can discuss your new contract in detail over the coming days," Chataigner continued. "Next season, you'll step onto the pitch as a true Ligue 1 player, carrying the hopes of an entire island on your shoulders!"

"Mm." Julien's response was modest.

When Julien rejoined his teammates in the main area of the dressing room, he was greeted by another thunderous round of applause. Every face in that room bore the same expression of disbelief and joy, as if they were all participants in some beautiful dream from which they hoped never to wake.

The evening's formal ceremonies followed in their traditional order: first Hadzibegic's emotional speech; then passionate statements from both Chataigner and President Geronimi.

And then, of course, came the announcement every player had been waiting for—bonuses!

"It won't be a single penny less than what you deserve!" Geronimi announced passionately.

This was more than just a cup victory—this was a double championship, the first in the club's history!

What did a little bonus money matter when weighed against the immeasurable value of sporting immortality?

His heart swelled with an ambition that bordered on recklessness: mortgage everything, stake the future on one glorious roll of the dice, and damn the consequences! Fortune favored the bold, and tonight they had proven themselves the boldest of all.

As long as Julien could translate his domestic brilliance to the grander stage of European competition, as long as he could weave his magic against teams whose names were admired across the continent, they could eventually cash out at a price that would secure the club's financial future for a decade or more.

Amid the swirling celebration, the champagne sprays and embraces, Julien retreated into his own thoughts. His mind was already processing the transfer possibilities Chataigner had outlined.

It seemed the team was preparing for a big push next season.

Europa League.

Julien silently recalled some information he knew. Kanté was available now, and Mané at Metz could also be discussed.

Thinking of Metz and Mané, the name Gaël Kakuta appeared in Julien's mind—a once dazzling French-Congolese prodigy who had lit up the UEFA U19 Championship, even being named the tournament's best player as France lifted the trophy.

Hazard had been tearing it up at youth level around that same period, but it was Kakuta who had been hailed as the next big thing, courted by Chelsea and seen as a future star.

Now Hazard was worth thirty to forty million, a mainstay of Europe's elite, while Kakuta had drifted through loans and lower leagues, his promise slowly dimmed.

'Injuries, alas...'

Julien shook his head, deliberately banishing these melancholy thoughts before they could take root and spoil the evening's perfect joy.

Tonight was for celebration, for dreaming of futures yet to be written.

He returned his focus to more productive thoughts: how could they make Bastia stronger, more complete, more capable of competing with teams whose budgets dwarfed their own?

Beyond outright purchases, perhaps loan arrangements could bring temporary quality.

Just as his mind was finding its rhythm, constructing scenarios and player combinations, Rothen appeared beside him. His hand fell on Julien's shoulder.

"What are you thinking about so intensely?" Rothen asked, his face creased with fond amusement. "Come on, the fans have finally cleared out of the stands, and the groundskeepers are beginning to assess the beautiful damage. We need to head back to the pitch—it's time for the award ceremony, time to make this victory official."

Julien nodded, immediately rising to follow, consciously setting aside his thoughts for a more appropriate moment.

In any case, since the team was willing to spend money next season and push for Europa League success, he was willing to offer some small "suggestions."

When Bastia's players returned to the pitch, the scene was surrounded by blue.

The field was covered with paint left by Bastia fans, along with jerseys, scarves, and more.

Everywhere the eye could see was that distinctive, magnificent blue—the color of Mediterranean skies and Corsican dreams, the shade that had traveled from a small island to conquer the greatest stadium in France.

As the evening's master of ceremonies concluded his remarks with words that seemed inadequate to the grandeur of the moment, the award ceremony commenced with all the pomp and gravity such an occasion required.

First, Lyon's players approached the podium with the dignified grace of worthy opponents, their faces bearing the mixture of disappointment and professional respect that characterized elite athletes who understood that defeat, while painful, was also part of football.

Then came Bastia's moment—their time to step from the shadows of French football into the blazing light of national recognition!

At this crescendo of emotion, the stadium erupted one final time, the sound seeming to come not just from human throats but from the very soul of the building, as if the Stade de France was offering its own tribute to these unlikely champions.

"Bastia are champions! Bastia are champions!" The chant rolled through the stands like thunder.

Recorded by countless cameras whose flashes created a galaxy of artificial stars, broadcast to millions of homes across France and beyond, Julien De Rocca—captain, leader, architect of dreams—raised the French Cup championship trophy high above his head.

Tonight belonged to Bastia.

Tonight belonged to him.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow belonged to whatever they dared to dream next.

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