Lukaku had pounded his chest and guaranteed he would score, his face full of confidence. But the moment he walked out of the player tunnel, his face turned dark.
Flares.
What he saw were fireworks engulfing the entire stadium, endless red flares and smoke filling the stands.
Was this even a football match?
It felt more like a battlefield.
Some say a professional footballer needs to experience at least two hundred professional matches before truly maturing.
Although Lukaku hadn't reached two hundred matches yet, he had played close to a hundred for Anderlecht and more than ten for Chelsea.
He thought he had matured. Yet at this moment, he felt nervous.
Lukaku kept his head down as he followed the team, hearing nothing but the roar of Ajaccio fans in his ears.
It was unsettling.
Then he lifted his head and saw the number ten at the front of the line: Julien.
Lukaku suddenly calmed down. He paused briefly.
"Why are you stopping? Too scared to go on?"
Behind him, De Bruyne patted his shoulder and walked past him onto the pitch.
Lukaku snapped back to reality, and his eyes filled with determination.
When your teammates are all top-class players, you can't afford to fall behind.
The pre-match ceremony proceeded through the smoke.
Julien couldn't even see the fans in the stands. He had no idea what the fans had paid to watch.
Playing football like this felt like real-life CS, laying down a smoke screen without any cover.
Thank God Ligue 1 didn't allow flashbangs.
Otherwise, who could even see where the goal was? Nothing but white light everywhere.
Boom!
Boom boom!!
Drums thundered in the stands as the Ajaccio faithful sang their anthem with all their might.
The song pierced through the smoke, reaching the pitch:
"ALLEZ AJACCIO! ALLEZ! (clap-clap-clap)
ALLEZ AJACCIO! ALLEZ! (clap-clap-clap)
OH-OH-OH-OH-OH-OH!
AJACCIO! AJACCIO!
AJA-AJA-AJACCIO!
AJA-AJA-AJACCIO!
OHH-OHH-OHH-OHH!
ROUGE ET BLANC! *Stomp-stomp*
ON LÂCHE RIEN! *Stomp-stomp*
ALLEZ LES OURS! *Stomp-stomp*
ALLEZ ALLEZ! *Stomp-stomp*"
The players on the pitch could only hear the voices of Ajaccio supporters—not a single shout from Bastia could be heard.
Ajaccio had been cunning.
Not only had they given Bastia just fifty tickets, but they'd also assigned these fifty seats to a diagonal corner at the top of the stadium.
On both sides were Ajaccio's hardcore ultras, with flags and banners waving everywhere.
Even the stand in front of the Bastia fans was filled with Ajaccio supporters.
They had Bastia completely boxed into a corner.
Surrounded on all sides by Ajaccio voices, Bastia had no space to make themselves heard.
Seeing this scene, Modoso's face darkened. "Damn it, wait until the return leg in Bastia—we'll show you!"
In a derby, they couldn't be bothered with such petty tricks.
But Modoso didn't give up shouting. He still firmly raised the Bastia battle cry: "FORZA BASTIA!"
Whistle!
Soon, through the smoke, the referee blew the whistle to start the match.
Ajaccio kicked off.
Facing Bastia, currently second in the league table, Ajaccio wasn't rushing to attack.
Instead, they stabilized their formation first.
They knew Bastia's front line was brimming with talent, so they had to get their defense right first.
On the sidelines, Hadzibegic looked relatively relaxed. He wasn't too worried about this match.
On the other side, Ajaccio's head coach Dupont had been frowning since entering the stadium.
The veteran coach had joined Ajaccio on short notice during the summer window.
Before that, he'd been out of work for two months, his last team being Brest.
The old coach had started his managerial career in 1984 with Dunkerque.
He could be considered a legend among French coaches.
His entire coaching career had been mostly with French clubs, except for two stints abroad in the Middle East, managing the Qatar and UAE national teams, earning himself some retirement money, which was understandable.
The veteran had plenty of promotion and relegation survival experience.
That was exactly why Ajaccio had brought him in. However, the pressure to avoid relegation was immense.
These past two months hadn't gone well for Ajaccio.
They were not what the board had hoped for.
Today, Ajaccio's executives were at the match, and they had even cordially invited Geronimi and Chataigner.
But both Geronimi and Chataigner declined, citing busy work schedules.
This wasn't an excuse. They really were busy.
Chataigner wasn't even on Corsica, he was in London, England.
He had just finished dinner with a young couple.
"Hey, Dibu, I think we had a wonderful conversation. Why don't we go to Gamma's shop and watch the Bastia broadcast? They should have the Ligue 1 signal here, right?"
Damian nodded.
Amanda didn't refuse either. "Let's go, Mr. Chataigner. Our shop isn't far from here."
When they said "shop," they actually meant the back room behind it.
The three sat on the sofa.
Chataigner couldn't wait to turn on the TV and search for the Ligue 1 broadcast. Bastia matches were now among the most popular in Ligue 1.
They were hard to find.
"A brilliant pass from De Rocca, but Lukaku's feet are a bit soft tonight. Three chances, and he couldn't convert any of them."
Just as they turned on the TV, Lukaku had missed yet another opportunity.
"Dieu!"
Chataigner exclaimed, sitting down next to Damian and explained, "Tonight is a very important match for Bastia: The Corsican Derby."
Chataigner talked them through it.
Damian's full attention was on the television. He had already decided to accept the challenge.
Before Chataigner came to find him, he'd met with Wenger, who said the choice was his to make.
At the start of the season, Damian still had hopes of playing for Arsenal, but as matches progressed, he realized he'd struggle to get game time at Arsenal in the short term.
Wenger understood this too, which was why he was willing to loan him out. But not sell.
After Giroud's repeated persuasion, Damian had been somewhat tempted, especially seeing Bastia's recent impressive form. They were not only second in Ligue 1 but also performing well in the Europa League.
Their Europa League development looked promising. So, when Chataigner approached him, Damian agreed.
"Julien!! No! That's a fucking foul! That should be a red card!!"
Chataigner got excited watching the match, he was completely immersed.
And Damian was already putting himself in the perspective of a Bastia player.
"Indeed, that foul was obvious. And he only got a yellow card, even though he showed his studs and stomped down." Damian echoed.
Chataigner slapped his thigh. "Right! Julien has suffered too many brutal fouls this season."
Damian watched Julien lying on the ground clutching his leg, and thought of various Argentine stars: Maradona, Messi. They got kicked around on the pitch too.
"Merde! You bastard! Are you trying to cripple Julien?! Well?! Look me in the eyes!!"
Seeing Julien go down, Rothen had clearly seen what the opponent's number four, Faty, had done.
He immediately grabbed the opponent's shirt collar, ferociously questioning him.
Faty knew he was at fault and didn't respond, and just tried to pry Rothen's hands off.
But Rothen held tight.
Other Ajaccio players rushed over, shoving Rothen.
Angoula, Choplin, and others also rushed in. Mané even collided directly with the opponent's striker, Eduardo.
The scene fell into chaos.
Players from both sides were shouting abuse and shoving each other.
"Fishermen! Go back to your harbor!"
"Sardine sellers, get lost!"
"Want to fight, eh?! We'll help you! We've been your whipping boys since 1794!"
"Booooo!!"
Ajaccio fans erupted in jeers, throwing debris onto the pitch.
Another wave of smoke rose. They hoped to use this to disrupt Bastia's rhythm.
Over the past ten minutes, Bastia's attacking unit had made Ajaccio's defense extremely difficult.
So, the more chaotic things got, the better for Ajaccio.
Julien got up with the physio's help.
"Damn it!"
He cursed under his breath. These Ajaccio guys had more dirty tricks against him than they had touches on the ball.
And they went for the man, not the ball.
Simply, they knew they couldn't stop him, so they let the ball through but not the player.
Julien's face darkened with displeasure. Since the referee was allowing a loose interpretation today, he didn't mind using some of those street football tricks from his previous life.
Julien had always maintained one principle: if you play clean, I'll be absolutely clean. But if you go low, I'll go lower.
"You, okay?"
De Bruyne patted Julien.
Julien shook his head. "I'm fine."
The chaos on the pitch gradually subsided. The referee pulled out two cards but didn't dare give one to Rothen.
Because if Rothen got carded, Faty, who he'd confronted, would have to get one too.
But Faty had already received a yellow.
So, the referee gave cards to the two strikers who'd been head-butting each other: Mané and Eduardo.
This chaos was actually an eruption of pent-up frustration from the previous ten minutes.
Ajaccio's tackles had indeed been aggressive.
As captain, Julien pressed both hands downward toward his teammates, signaling them to calm down.
But his eyes communicated with his teammates. They understood each other.
Before Julien arrived, Bastia had been the ones dishing out the rough stuff.
Many Ligue 1 teams didn't want to play against them.
This season they'd brought in new signings with talent and started playing technical football.
But the physical game? Rothen, Angoula, and the others hadn't forgotten a thing.
The foul on Julien by Faty resulted in a free kick.
De Bruyne and Rothen stood over the ball.
In the box, players from both sides were grabbing and holding each other. Defender Medjani directly found an opportunity to body-slam Angoula.
Angoula went down exaggeratedly, slapping Medjani across the face as he fell.
"Ahh!"
Both cried out in agony simultaneously.
The referee's pressure was increasing as emotions were running high on both sides.
This would really test his ability to control the match. Sweat poured down his face.
Both Angoula and Medjani lay on the ground, one clutching his waist, the other his face.
After brief hesitation, referee Pocci decisively pulled out a yellow card.
Pointing at both Medjani and Angoula.
"Calm down! Calm down! No more of this behavior, or I'll keep issuing cards!"
Pocci's tone was firm. But the players weren't buying it. Ajaccio's goalkeeper, Mexico's Ochoa, spread his hands toward referee Pocci.
"No, Medjani didn't pull! They hit Medjani!"
Actually, Ochoa, who'd transferred from Mexican club América to Ajaccio last summer, felt Ligue 1's intensity was less than Liga MX.
Not in terms of fitness or technique, but physical challenges.
This level of contact wouldn't even get a whistle in Liga MX.
Pocci stood firm on his decision and told the players again, "Calm down!!"
Then he blew the whistle, signaling for the kick.
This time both sides didn't create any more drama. The successive yellow cards had cooled them down slightly.
But Medjani felt he'd gotten the raw end of the deal. 'Damn, that slap to the face really hurt.'
He felt like his nose was out of alignment.
Medjani didn't yet know Angoula used to practice Muay Thai. If he knew, he might have thanked Angoula for holding back.
Boom!
De Bruyne sent the ball into the box. Players from both sides competed for headers in a chaotic scramble.
Through the confusion, the ball came to Medjani's feet. He sent a long ball toward midfield!
Unfortunately, he mishit it.
It went High but not far: the ball was still near the edge of the box. Lukaku pulled out to hold off his marker, and as the ball dropped, he threw himself up, attempting an overhead bicycle kick.
However, he kicked the defender Mejjani behind him. Mejjani, under pressure from Mané, quickly cleared the ball, sending it out of the box.
Outside the box, De Bruyne and Julien both ran toward the ball. After De Bruyne received it, they ran a crossing pattern.
Julien cut inside toward the center, and De Bruyne back-heeled the ball to Julien. With just this cross, De Bruyne had drawn two defenders away from Julien.
The penalty area was packed with players. Faty immediately moved to block Julien's path.
Julien pushed the ball forward.
No wasted movement.
Right in front of Faty, the defensive midfielder who'd fouled him repeatedly, he took a shot!
Boom!
Julien's left foot curved the ball beautifully. All Ajaccio players watched the ball's flight.
Heading for the far corner!
The top corner!
Clang!
The ball hit the bottom of the crossbar and bounced into the net.
Ochoa's reaction was lightning-quick, but his body was average. Even though he'd guessed the right direction, his outstretched hand came up short.
He could only watch the ball hit the net.
He was helpless.
In the nineteenth minute, Julien finally broke the deadlock for Bastia away from home.
Bastia took the lead!
"Bastia!!"
"Julien!"
In the moment the Ajaccio fans were stunned, Modoso and his group's voices finally pierced through all the barriers and reached the pitch.
The instant he scored, Julien sprinted toward the sideline, his left hand pulling up the collar near his team crest.
His right hand kept pointing at the badge.
Facing the noisiest Ajaccio section, he shouted, "Bastia, we are Bastia!!"
"Boooo!"
The Ajaccio fans responded with jeers. Julien cupped his hand behind his ear in a listening gesture.
"BOOOOOOOO!!"
The sound grew louder.
Julien loved this look of impotent fury from opponents. Their jeers, their anger, it was the greatest compliment to him.
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