Tweet!
The whistle pierced the air.
The referee's arm shot toward the penalty spot.
Chelsea fans couldn't believe it. They hadn't even scored yet, and now they were conceding another penalty?
On the touchline, Benítez exploded at the fourth official. "That's just normal contact!"
The Chelsea coaching staff seethed with frustration.
Lukaku climbed to his feet, grinning broadly. With Julien and De Bruyne already delivering stellar performances, he'd finally managed to make his own contribution.
The order had been perfect—his intelligent run splitting the offside trap, De Bruyne's sharp through ball finding his feet with precision. Lukaku had exploded past the defensive line at full sprint before Ivanović could only bring him down.
The referee pointed to the spot without hesitation.
The Stade Armand Cesari exploded like a volcano.
Every face in the stands contorted with ecstatic joy, flushed red with pure euphoria. The broadcast cameras swept across the crowd—
A young father hoisted his son toward sky, the boy was swimming in an oversized number 10 shirt, tiny fists were pumping as his pure laughter dissolved into the deafening roar. This was a moment that would be carved into his childhood, a story he'd tell for the rest of his life.
Couples embraced. Elderly fans wept openly. Everyone celebrated in their own way.
Every face wore the same expression of unrestrained joy.
Julien collected the ball and placed it carefully on the penalty spot, then stepped back several paces. He stood with hands on hips, eyes locked on Čech.
Facing the legendary Czech goalkeeper, his expression remained blank, revealing no emotion.
The referee offered brief reminders to both Julien and Čech about the procedure.
Throughout, the cameras tracked Julien relentlessly.
Moments later, the referee confirmed both players were ready and blew his whistle, signaling for the kick to be taken.
Julien glanced once more at Čech's positioning.
He exhaled slowly.
Then he began his approach.
He'd already decided exactly how he would take this penalty.
His run-up was fluid, determined—no hesitation, no stutter-step, no mind games. Just raw power aimed at the top corner.
BANG!
The thud of boot meeting ball seemed to hang in the air for a split second before the net rippled violently.
Clean. Decisive.
No messing about.
Goal!
Čech had guessed correctly, diving the right way, but Julien's placement was too perfect—the angle was too critical, the velocity too fierce. The keeper's outstretched fingers couldn't reach it.
3-0.
The scoreline sent Cesari into absolute pandemonium once more.
The celebration was universal, uncontainable.
Julien spread his arms wide and sprinted toward the touchline, already sensing the ticket to the final being delivered into Bastia's hands.
The TF1 commentator's voice cracked with emotion: "Julien converts from the spot! 3-0!
Bastia extends their lead to three goals in the 55th minute of the second half!
The aggregate score is now 5-2!
Chelsea have been pushed off the cliff completely!
Look at that penalty! Absolute confidence, absolute power!
Julien's run-up showed no hesitation whatsoever. Facing world-class goalkeeper Čech, he chose pure force—a thunderbolt into the absolute top corner!
The angle, the power, the velocity—all executed to perfection!
Even with Čech guessing correctly, he was utterly helpless! This is a textbook penalty, the mark of an elite striker!
This goal is effectively a death sentence for Chelsea!
They now need to score at least three goals in the remaining 35 minutes without conceding again to overturn this tie.
It's practically an impossible task. Benítez's team stands on the very edge of elimination."
On the touchline, Benítez seemed to deflate, all his energy was draining away in an instant.
As the ball exploded into the net, all his anxiety, fury, and vigorous gesturing froze, then dissipated like smoke.
He didn't rage. He didn't protest. He barely moved at all.
The noise surrounding him—the Chelsea bench's despair, the Bastia fans' jubilation, all felt separated from him by thick glass.
He existed in a vacuum of failure.
He knew it was over.
Though his departure from Chelsea had long been confirmed, Abramovich having already decided not to retain him, he'd still wanted to prove himself with a Europa League trophy.
Now, this brutal scoreline had written a bitter punctuation mark on his Chelsea tenure.
Just beside him, Hadzibegic's reaction couldn't have been more different.
The moment Julien's penalty hit the net; he exploded from the bench as if electrocuted!
He thrust both fists into the air toward sky, unleashing a guttural roar that had been building inside him—
"Beautiful!!!"
His face twisted with overwhelming joy as he crashed into bear hugs with his assistant coaches and substitute players, pounding their backs with fervent enthusiasm.
But the raw celebration lasted only ten or fifteen seconds.
He wrenched himself free from the celebrating huddle, his expression was shifting instantly from euphoria to sharp, calculated focus. He strode quickly to the touchline, cupping his hands around his mouth to roar at his players, who had relaxed slightly during the celebration:
"Stay focused! The match isn't over! Watch your defensive shape! Defense!"
After completing his celebration and returning to the center circle, Julien continued pumping his arms toward the stands, stirring the crowd into even greater fervor.
"Julien!"
"JULIEN!!"
Tweet!
The match resumed.
Time ticked mercilessly forward. The 3-0 scoreline hung over every Chelsea player like a tombstone, breeding desperation and panic in equal amount.
They pushed everyone forward, launching wave after wave of increasingly frantic attacks. But the same old problem persisted—poor finishing.
Plenty of possession, no goals.
Making matters worse, Bastia's counterattacks grew more frequent and more dangerous. Chelsea's backline was running on empty, shuttling back and forth until their legs felt like lead.
65th minute.
Benítez made his first substitution, withdrawing Lampard and sending on Oscar.
The change baffled not just Chelsea supporters but the commentators as well. "At a time when they need height and aerial presence, taking off Lampard seems questionable. Does Benítez really have that much faith in Oscar's ability to break down a defense?"
By the 70th minute, the evidence became clear—Oscar wasn't up to the task.
In his direct matchup with De Bruyne, he couldn't produce any meaningful threatening passes. Worse, defensively, Oscar looked like he'd already played ninety minutes, his legs were heavy, unable to keep pace with the game's intensity.
73rd minute.
Oscar sent another pass attempt in the attacking third. His slightly overhit ball rolled straight into Bastia's defensive zone, where Rothen intercepted before Hazard could reach it, immediately releasing De Bruyne.
David Luiz hounded De Bruyne, who feinted, spun, feinted again, creating just enough space.
Thump!
He launched a long diagonal ball, searching for Julien.
Moses sprinted desperately toward Julien, but as the ball dropped, Julien simply flicked it over his head with a deft touch, then spun away, leaving Moses completely stranded.
Moses might have had pace, but against Julien's technical mastery, he looked utterly outclassed, completely crushed.
In the next second, Julien accelerated to maximum velocity, driving the ball straight toward Chelsea's exposed backline which was left vulnerable with so many committed forward!
This was the perfect counterattacking opportunity.
A clear run on goal!
Ramires, as the last midfield barrier, instinctively sprinted back at full speed.
He knew he couldn't let Julien through. But in his mind flashed the referee's face and that glaring yellow card already in his pocket. For a split second, he hesitated.
No more hesitating!
As Julien was about to break completely free into the danger zone, Ramires's eyes flickered with desperate determination and resignation.
He knew what this meant, but he had no choice.
Ramires grabbed Julien's shoulder, yanking him back by the arm.
Julien managed two more strides before reluctantly stopping.
TWEET!!
The referee's whistle shrieked across the pitch. He charged toward the incident, his right hand already reaching for his breast pocket.
Ramires didn't argue. He didn't even look at the Ref. He simply stood with hands on hips, head tilted back toward the night sky, looking utterly defeated.
He knew it was finished.
The referee placed himself directly in front of Ramires, first waving the second yellow card clearly, then raising the red card with decisiveness.
Two yellows. Red card!
Ramires sent off!
In this moment, for Chelsea, the 3-0 deficit had now compounded into the ultimate despair of playing a man down.
The match had completely lost all remaining suspense.
Ramires walked slowly toward the tunnel, head bowed, amid deafening jeers. Along the way, Chelsea teammates patted his shoulder or head, offering what comfort they could.
As he left the pitch, he didn't glance once at Benítez, heading straight for the dressing room.
The commentator shook his head. "This decision effectively issues Chelsea their death certificate. They already needed at least three goals in the remaining time to create a miracle, and now they must do it with ten men. This isn't just tactically devastating—it's psychological annihilation. To some extent, we can say the match is already over."
Hadzibegic didn't get carried away by the red card. His first instinct was to gesture insistently toward his players: "Defend! Stay compact!"
That was his priority.
Benítez slumped back into his seat on the bench, no longer interested in fighting the inevitable.
From the subtle shifts in the dressing room dynamics, he'd already sensed this squad had drifted away from him. They were united in name only.
Time continued.
Chelsea had abandoned all resistance. Before the match, absolutely no one could have predicted this outcome—Chelsea being completely dismantled, torn apart!
It was almost inconceivable.
As the 90th minute approached, the Bastia supporters in the stands could barely contain themselves, they were desperate to unleash their celebrations.
The volume of the club anthem being sung grew louder.
And louder still.
On the pitch, even Julien had stopped running. He glanced at the scoreboard, a smile was spreading across his face.
The Europa League final!
He didn't know yet whether their opponents would be the cursed Benfica—forever unable to win a European trophy or Fenerbahçe, the "Yellow Canaries" from Istanbul.
But he knew one thing with certainty:
He wanted to win this trophy. Bastia's journey was reaching its conclusion.
A farewell with silverware.
Perhaps the most beautiful memory he could leave this club.
London
Abramovich switched off the television.
He'd seen enough. It was infuriating.
He picked up his phone and dialed a number.
The other end answered almost instantly.
"How many have we discussed for the summer?" Abramovich asked curtly.
Granovskaia rattled off a list of names—Falcao, Schürrle, Eto'o, Willian among them.
Abramovich gave a noncommittal grunt. "Add De Rocca as a priority target. Get some rest."
He hung up.
Granovskaia was long accustomed to Abramovich's abrupt calls and sudden demands.
However, while he could issue instructions at any hour, she wouldn't task her subordinates at such a late hour. Instead, she composed an email and sent it off.
After hitting send, Granovskaia turned back to the television broadcast. The match had just concluded.
The cameras captured Chelsea players' devastation.
Bastia players' wild elation.
Julien, substituted off in the 80th minute, had already become the absolute focus point.
Granovskaia studied his close-up on screen.
Her gaze was intense, calculating.
She would bring him to Stamford Bridge. Abramovich wanted him, and what Abramovich wanted, she delivered.
The broadcast cameras could only show images.
Unless you were there in person, you could never truly understand the intensity of tens of thousands of people erupting in shared euphoria.
When the referee blew three long blasts to end the match, the entire Stade Armand Cesari detonated like a bomb, releasing the most raw, pure emotional energy capable of tearing through the night sky itself!
3-0!
5-2 on aggregate!
"WE'RE IN THE FINAL!"
The roar burst simultaneously from tens of thousands of throats, converging into an earth-shattering tsunami tinged with tears, instantly swallowing the Corsican night.
In the stands, that enormous prophetic TIFO unfurled once more, trembling violently in the fans' ecstatic hands. Julien's image, arms spread wide, seemed to come alive, ready to soar alongside the entire stadium.
The players were the most turbulent waves in this blue ocean!
They sprinted, embraced, roared hoarse.
Kanté and Rothen were locked in a fierce hug. Van Dijk pounded his chest. De Bruyne pointed to the stands, tears were glistening in his eyes.
And the focus of everyone's search was, without question, Julien.
That blue number 10 shirt gleamed under the floodlights like a banner of victory. He was this island's king, the legend who had led them across 35 years to touch the dream of a final once more!
From 1978's heartbreak to 2013's triumphant return—hope had never felt so real, so scorching.
Hadzibegic embraced Julien, saying nothing. His red teary eyes showed everything he felt in that moment.
In the executive box, Chataigner wanted nothing more than to rush down and join the celebration.
Abdullah smiled at Chataigner. "Congratulations."
He was thoroughly satisfied with the match. He'd witnessed not only Julien's exceptional talent but also the secret to Bastia's success. If possible, he wanted to poach several players from Bastia's starting eleven.
Chataigner beamed. "Thank you."
He was too elated to notice Abdullah's underlying intentions.
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