The match had ended, but the searing passion inside Stade Cesari showed no signs of cooling.
If anything, it aged like fine wine, growing richer, more intoxicating.
Not a single fan wanted to leave early. Everyone greedily clung to this historic night, wanting to stretch it out forever.
When captain Julien led his teammates, soaked in sweat and grass stains, faces etched with exhaustion and pure joy toward the stands for their lap of appreciation, the stadium's atmosphere reached yet another boiling point.
"TREBLE! TREBLE!!"
This was no longer a distant dream but a battle cry erupting from tens of thousands of throats, charged with yearning.
Elderly supporters roared alongside the young, tears streaming down faces, lips trembling as they chanted in rhythm—as if proclaiming to their younger selves that the long wait had finally found its answer.
Julien took in the scene, lips pressed together, feeling a searing wave of emotion flowing through the entire stadium.
Penetrating his body.
Penetrating everyone's body.
The Treble!
What magnificent, impossible words.
Never mind the treble—a single season ago, even one trophy had been beyond Bastia's wildest dreams.
And now they were chasing immortality.
The French Super Cup was already secured.
Ligue 1 and the Europa League stood just one step away.
Julien and his teammates linked arms, jumping and singing along with the supporters, the entire ground moving as one.
When the stadium's celebration finally subsided and the players returned to the dressing room, hearts still pounded with residual adrenaline.
Teammates exchanged glances, shared smiles, eyes burning with hunger.
The word treble rippled through their minds like a stone thrown into still water, creating endless waves.
At the press conference, Hadzibegic still wore the excitement of reaching the final, though he remained composed.
Discussing the match, he said: "This victory doesn't belong to me—it belongs to the entire burning island of Corsica. This glory belongs to every soul who ignited Stade Armand Cesari with their voice, to every Bastia supporter who kept hope alive through 35 years of waiting.
This isn't a miracle. This is the victory of belief and tactical discipline. Chelsea are formidable opponents with world-class players. We prepared meticulously. We believed in our approach.
The key to the match was simple: every single one of us, from the first minute to the last, executed the tactical plan to perfection."
When journalists asked about Julien, the pride in Hadzibegic's eyes couldn't be concealed.
"Julien—his brilliance tonight transcends what 'excellent' can describe. For me, it was a demonstration of history-shaping, dominant force.
Whether he's already a top-tier player? This Europa League semi-final—I believe he's written the answer himself. You've all seen it.
I'm fortunate to coach such an extraordinary player."
Asked about the significance of eliminating Chelsea, his tone turned passionate,
"It means everything. This isn't just a victory, just a ticket to the final.
It brings our island, our fans, endless joy and immense pride.
Returning to a final after 35 years—this time, we go with stronger belief and clearer purpose.
For my players, it means their efforts and talent have received the highest reward.
For the club, it means we're on the right path. Our name is once again spoken with respect across European football.
But as I always say—we won't dwell on this.
Enjoy tonight. Tomorrow when we wake, our focus shifts to the next match, the next objective.
The Ligue 1 title isn't secured yet. The Europa League final isn't the end.
This team's legend is still being written."
When a journalist mentioned the treble, Hadzibegic smiled but didn't answer directly. Instead, he gave a cryptic response,
"The stars suspended in the night sky guide us, but stars don't fall into mortal hands on their own."
Hadzibegic answered many more questions. When people are happy, they open up—he discussed numerous players' performances at length.
On the other side, Benítez had far less to say.
His expression was grave, his tone steady but laced with deep fatigue and formulaic composure.
"We made mistakes in both penalty areas at decisive moments. Our attacking end lacked sufficient efficiency. The players tried, but sometimes effort isn't enough to win matches. You need to be smarter, calmer, make better decisions at critical junctures. Today, our decisions were poor.
This is a very, very disappointing result.
The Europa League was a major objective this season. To exit in this manner is obviously unacceptable.
Now we need to refocus quickly on the Premier League. We still have matches to play. We must secure Champions League qualification for next season.
That's all we can do now. It's what we must do.
Regarding my future—now isn't the time to discuss it. I'm a professional coach. My contract runs until season's end. I'll fulfill my duties until the final moment."
Regardless of anything else, this night belonged to Bastia.
In Bastia's taverns, glasses clinked until dawn. Boisterous shouts burst through windows into the night, intertwining with the sound of Mediterranean waves—endless, eternal.
Julien and his teammates returned to the training base together.
On the journey, they learned who awaited them in the final—Benfica.
The Portuguese giants had overturned a 1-0 first-leg deficit to Fenerbahçe, winning 3-1 at home to advance to the Europa League final.
Though former Liverpool striker Kuyt scored for Fenerbahçe, he couldn't save them. Young talent Şahin had an unremarkable performance, substituted off at halftime.
Upon learning the result, Hadzibegic didn't allow his players to continue discussing the final.
"Alright, get proper rest. Stop thinking about how to play the final. That's my job. Your task is to rest well, maintain your condition, then follow my instructions."
Laughter rang through the group.
Hadzibegic was strict during training, but he genuinely cared for his players—he was a paradox typical of old-school managers.
Both demanding and protective.
Lukaku announced loudly, "I'm not scared of Benfica! They haven't won a European trophy in a hundred years. We've got a great chance!"
More laughter.
Rothen grinned. "Let's hope old man Guttmann blesses us and doesn't let his curse fail."
Julien remained silent, watching his teammates discuss the legendary Guttmann Curse surrounding Benfica.
The world functions on science, but some things defy explanation.
The story, in brief was: Imagine helping your team achieve historic results, only for the owner to refuse your bonus and contract extension. You explode with rage and, upon leaving, deliver the most venomous curse imaginable:
"You'll never win another European trophy for a hundred years!"
And then... they genuinely never did.
The story began with a genius coach and an invincible team.
In the 1960s, Portugal's Benfica was a legitimate European superpower, competing at the absolute pinnacle.
Their manager, Béla Guttmann was a Hungarian football visionary with a fiery temperament and ruthless eye for talent, he constructed a dream team featuring one of the world's all-time best striker Eusébio, "The Black Panther."
Under Guttmann's guidance, Benfica dominated:
1961: Defeated the mighty Barcelona to win the European Cup!
1962: Beat Real Madrid to successfully defend the title!
Back-to-back European champions!
Guttmann was Benfica's god.
After securing two consecutive European Cups, Guttmann approached the club's management: "Gentlemen, I deserve a raise and contract extension."
The board, however, believed the credit belonged to the club, not one manager. They refused his demands.
Guttmann's legendary temper ignited.
He immediately resigned, leaving behind football's most infamous curse:
"Not in a hundred years from now will Benfica ever win a European Cup!"
Then he walked away, taking his genius and fury with him.
From that moment, Benfica seemed strangled by fate, embarking on a tragically poetic journey as perpetual runners-up.
They could reach finals—but never win them.
Six times they'd reached European finals.
Six defeats.
Benfica tried every conceivable method to break the curse. They erected a bronze statue of Guttmann at the stadium entrance, seeking forgiveness.
It didn't work.
Before the 1990 final, legendary icon Eusébio even visited Guttmann's grave to pray for mercy.
They still lost.
Before every final, fans performed intricate rituals and prayers.
The outcome was always the same: "It's the curse!"
Absolutely haunted.
Now, they were entering their seventh European final.
Bastia's players desperately hoped the world contained a bit of mysticism.
Amid laughter and banter, the group dispersed, heading home.
Back in his room, Julien checked his victory points—now sitting at 35 points.
Beating Chelsea had added a hefty 30 points. Compared to Ligue 1 matches adding two or three points each, this windfall felt incredible.
Julien then called his father Pierre, instructing him to arrange tomorrow's meeting with the Saudi representatives.
He was prepared for this encounter. He had his own agenda, and with foreknowledge from his past life, he understood what the Saudis wanted.
This collaboration wouldn't be difficult.
It was mutual interest—a two-way street.
The Next Day
French media showered Bastia, France's sole remaining representative in European competition with lavish praise.
L'Équipe published an extensive feature early:
[When the final whistle sounded and the Stade Armand Cesari scoreboard froze at 3-0, aggregate 5-2, Corsica was no longer merely an island on France's map—it had become an epicenter of European football!
Bastia, this team from a Mediterranean island, steamrolled English giants Chelsea to march proudly into the Europa League final. Thirty-five years of waiting transformed into blue confetti raining from the sky and deafening roars of jubilation!
The architect of this epic? Julien De Rocca.
Last night, he was the absolute king of Stade Cesari.
With an unparalleled individual performance, he provided the perfect definition of "carrying a team on your back": a crucial rebound goal, a defense-splitting assist, a nerveless penalty under immense pressure, and repeated explosive sprints that tortured Chelsea's defense to breaking point—ultimately manufacturing Ramires's red card dismissal.
Every tactical setup Benítez prepared to contain him crumbled against his absolute pace, cool intelligence, and burning desire.
He was assassin, engine, and soul incarnate!
Now, the path to legend is crystal clear:
Europa League: Chelsea vanquished; Amsterdam's final awaits. The club's first European trophy is one match away.
Ligue 1: Six points clear with four matches remaining. Surpassing PSG to claim the club's first-ever Ligue 1 title is within touching distance.
The Treble: The French Super Cup already secured, an unprecedented treble for an island club is crystallizing into reality!
From Ligue 2 to a European final, from obscurity to continental prominence—Bastia's ascent is the purest football fairy tale.
And Julien De Rocca is this story's most radiant protagonist.
With his own feet, he's shattered the arrogance of oil money, proving that dreams, loyalty, and collective strength can still create miracles in this era.
The Stade Cesari TIFO prophesied it: Julien with arms spread, lifting the outline of five trophies.
Now, three shine with palpable blue brilliance. The final two outlines await him and his warriors to illuminate them completely with passion and blood.]
The Treble!
This was the expectation—from Bastia supporters to French media to the players themselves.
A burning desire coursing through every vein.
The scheduled reporting time at the training base was 1 PM, but players began arriving in the morning. They couldn't sit still.
Restless energy pulsed through them, an insatiable hunger for more matches, greater miracles.
After a light recovery session that morning, Julien skipped lunch at the team cafeteria.
He had a lunch appointment with the Saudi delegation at a Bastia restaurant.
Finally, Julien met the man in the white headscarf.
"Hello, Julien."
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