Looking at Bastia's current squad spread across the documents in front of him, Hadzibegic had to admit with hand pressed against his chest as if taking an oath that it was already remarkably impressive.
Yet every time a microphone was thrust in his face, every time a journalist leaned forward with that hungry look in their eyes, Hadzibegic spoke the same mantra: relegation survival. Fight for points. Stay in Ligue 1.
Why? The answer was simple, brutally so. That was his working reality, carved into his career like grooves worn into stone.
The teams he'd managed had all been relegation candidates, clubs clinging to the edge of the cliff. When people hired Faruk Hadzibegic, they weren't dreaming of glory, they were fighting to avoid catastrophe.
That's what the job was. That's what it had always been.
He glanced through the scouting list again, his finger trailing down the page. "Most of these are Eredivisie names?"
Chataigner nodded, settling back in his chair with a weary expression. "After all, many players won't consider our Ligue 1. We're not Paris, we're not Lyon, we're not even Nice."
He gestured vaguely. "Those who do come to Ligue 1 to Corsica specifically are either young players wanting to use us as a stepping stone to bigger things, or veterans who can't play in the top four leagues anymore. So, take a good look. Quickly. Once you have ideas, discuss them with me and we'll make contact early. The winter window doesn't wait for anyone."
Hadzibegic nodded slowly, his mind already calculating positions, strengths, weaknesses.
Chataigner leaned forward, his voice dropping. "I'll be frank with you: after two consecutive Europa League wins, Geronimi is really going for it this time." He paused, seeming to weigh his words. "He's found someone to work things out, using Julien's new contract as collateral to secure a loan."
Hadzibegic's eyebrows rose slightly.
"But I don't know exactly how much money that is yet," Chataigner continued. "Geronimi hasn't said. He only mentioned that we can spend more on the defensive line and goalkeeper positions, but less on midfield and attack."
Hadzibegic's surprise was obvious now, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern.
Chataigner waved his hand dismissively, though his eyes showed his own unease. "I know what you're surprised about. Don't ask how the money came—when there's a will, there's a way. Or so they say."
He shrugged. "Anyway, you find the players you want first. I'll make contact and report to Geronimi. Don't worry about the rest, just focus on managing the team well."
"Alright," Hadzibegic said quietly.
He understood perfectly well what wasn't being said. While the team now looked prosperous and flourishing on the surface, riding high in the table, winning matches, capturing imaginations, in reality the club was extremely fragile like a house of cards built on leveraged finances.
They were mortgaging tomorrow for today's glory, and if the wind shifted wrong, everything could collapse.
Julien and the others weren't aware of the team's precarious financial situation, and perhaps that was for the best. Ignorance, in this case, was protective. They were immersed in training every day, their world bounded by the pitch, the gym, the tactical boards covered in Hadzibegic's scrawled diagrams.
In a lazy little city like Bastia, where time seemed to move at Mediterranean speed—unhurried, sun-drunk, perpetually on the verge of siesta, the days had a dreamlike quality.
The ancient Genoese buildings casted shadows across narrow streets. Fishing boats bobbed in the harbor. Life continued as it had for centuries, indifferent to the drama unfolding at Stade Armand Cesari.
After dinner in the evening, when the heat of the day finally broke, Julien would run to the seaside with De Bruyne, Lukaku, Kanté and the others. They'd find their usual spot on the stones above the water, watching the sunset sink into the horizon.
"Ahh!" Lukaku would roar at moments like these. With his build, he looked exactly like a villain boss from a video game, some final encounter waiting at the end of a quest. The others had long since stopped being startled by these outbursts.
This evening, Rothen suddenly spoke. "After this crazy run with you guys, I'll probably retire. Maybe next year."
Julien wasn't too surprised. He'd suspected as much.
According to the timeline he remembered, Rothen would retire next year due to injuries and psychological burnout. Before joining Bastia, he'd already been resting for a year, in a semi-retired state.
Lukaku patted Rothen's shoulder with his large one hand. "Hey, old man, you're in such good form, retiring now would be such a waste. Why not fight for another season or two? You've still got it."
Rothen shook his head with a small smile. "Bastia will be my last team."
He looked at each of them in turn: Julien, De Bruyne, Lukaku, Kanté, the others gathered close and smiled with a carefree expression that somehow made the moment more touching.
"To chase a championship at the end of my career, that already surprised me greatly. When I came here, I thought I was just buying time, you know? Postponing the inevitable." He laughed softly. "Of course, most importantly, I should thank God for letting me meet you all."
Everyone tried to persuade him to stay, their voices overlapping with reasons and promises, but Rothen held up his hand.
He gazed at the sun gradually sinking toward the waterline, turning the waves in colors of gold and amber. "I'll fall like that sunset," He said softly.
Rothen stood there, his fingertips rubbing unconsciously at the team crest on his training kit that stylized Moor's head that represented Corsican identity. The sea breeze carried the saltiness of the Mediterranean along with the rhythmic crashing of waves against rock.
Julien walked to his side, placed his hand on Rothen's shoulder, and said softly, "Though the sunset will fall, the moment before it falls is the most beautiful."
Rothen turned to look at Julien, really look at him, and smiled. "Sometimes I really feel like you're not eighteen. Otherwise, you'd be too monstrous. But it seems you really are that monstrous, aren't you?"
Then, as if Julien's words had performed some small magic, Rothen's melancholy lifted. His voice seemed strengthened.
"Yes! Though it will fall, now is the most beautiful time!" He repeated it.
The others all gathered closer, forming a tight circle.
De Bruyne said simply, "Let's win a championship."
"Alright."
"Come to think of it, I don't have a single European trophy in my career," someone said.
"Who does among us?"
"It's everyone's first time."
The seven of them stood in a row then, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sunset completely disappear into the horizon.
After taking a deep breath, Rothen's gaze remained fixed on that thin line where sky met sea. His voice, when he spoke again, had a tone confession. "At nineteen I was playing in Ligue 2, at twenty-five I became Ligue 1's assist leader. Back then I thought I was walking on cloud nine, invincible, destined for greatness. The world was mine."
He paused. "But you know what? Talent is the most poisonous honey wine. It lets you taste the sweetness of the peak early, then makes you watch yourself fall from the cliff in slow motion."
No one responded. Everyone was quiet, standing witness. There was only the sea breeze blowing steadily and waves gently rolling against the shore.
"The lights of Paris devour talent," Rothen continued, his voice rougher now. "I got lost there, searched for myself there. I became irritable, angry at everything: at coaches, at teammates, at myself most of all. I lost the joy of football, the pure thing that made me fall in love with this game as a child."
He sighed deeply, and when he spoke again, his voice was different—louder, fiercer. "But this damn football—"
His voice rose, almost as a shout. "Let me meet you all! Let this be the final season—let's fight for it! Let's fight for something real!"
Night fell quickly, the way it does in the Mediterranean autumn. The sea was rising with the tide, the roar of waves crashing against rocks growing more firm in the darkness.
Whoosh~~
A particularly large wave crashed against the rocks below them, the spray reaching high enough that they could taste salt on their lips. The sudden fierceness of it startled a flock of seabirds into flight from their roosting places.
The birds crossed the faint skyline in silhouette, their wings beating in unison. Among the flapping and the wind and the waves, words seemed to echo faintly, as if carried from somewhere distant: "champion" and "victory."
Perhaps it was only imagination. Perhaps it was prophecy.
October 9th. Stade Armand Cesari, 8 PM.
Bastia's eighth league round brought Troyes to Corsica, another promoted side, though one having a vastly different experience of Ligue 1 than their hosts.
The stadium was packed, the crowd a sea of blue and red, their voices raised in Corsican songs. The air hummed with expectation.
Bastia's starting lineup won without suspense in the first half, dominating possession and chances. They led 3-0 at halftime. Julien with a goal and an assist. De Bruyne with two assists, his vision picking apart Troyes' defensive structure like someone untying knots. Lukaku with a brace. The match was basically sealed before they'd even returned to the dressing room.
Even the commentators noted the disparity.
"Compared to Bastia," one of them said during halftime analysis, "Troyes fit people's imagination of what a promoted team should look like: after seven league rounds, they've only earned two points, ranking dead last. They look doomed already. Meanwhile, Bastia look like they belong in the Champions League."
However, football has a way of punishing complacency.
In the seventieth minute, Hadzibegic made his substitutions, pulling off Julien and De Bruyne to preserve them for the coming fixtures. His reasoning was good: why risk injury in a match already won? but the effect was different.
Troyes, desperate and with nothing to lose, capitalized on counterattacks. Bastia's defensive line, always their weakness, made mistakes that better finishing would have punished earlier.
A breakaway goal first, their striker running onto a long ball that caught the defense square. Then, minutes later, a clumsy challenge from Choplin in the box, the penalty was converted to goal.
Suddenly it was 3-2. Suddenly there were fifteen minutes left. Suddenly the stadium had gone quiet, anxiety replacing celebration.
Bastia held on, but only just. The final whistle was a relief.
After the match, the TF1 commentator's voice carried a mix of excitement and warning. "In tonight's earlier Ligue 1 featured match, the national derby between Marseille and PSG, the two teams ended 2-2. With this result, as Bastia wins, they're now just two points behind league leaders Marseille! After eight league rounds, just two points from the top, they could create the Bastia miracle!
A promoted side challenging for the title! It's the stuff of fairy tales!"
His co-commentator nodded, then added the counterpoint.
"However—
Currently Bastia's squad has serious shortcomings. The defensive end is much weaker compared to the attack. Anyone watching can see that. The two goals conceded tonight were entirely due to defensive mistakes like individual errors, poor positioning, a lack of organization when pressed. These are vital issues.
Besides that, Bastia's bench depth is too shallow. You can see clearly that when De Rocca and De Bruyne came off, Rothen alone simply couldn't maintain midfield control. He tried, give him credit, but one aging playmaker cannot replace two world-class talents. Neither Ilan nor Vincent from the bench have proven capable of handling Ligue 1's intensity after being tested repeatedly.
If Bastia wants to keep pace in the second half of the season and maintain their current momentum, they absolutely need to strengthen the squad in the winter window. They need defensive reinforcements, they need depth, they need players who can step in without the team collapsing."
He paused meaningfully. "But given Bastia's financial situation and we all know the rumors about their finances, it seems difficult to make any meaningful adjustments. The miracle may be unsustainable."
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Author's Note: I tried and added many details and enriched dialogues in this chapter which almost increased its usual length by 800 words. After this is a chapter, I would usually write and post. Can you guys compare and see if this chapter feels significantly better. It took me more time on this chapter.
Any response is appreciated.