Julien met Rothen's gaze, absorbing every word, every ounce of emotion behind them.
His chest tightened.
Old soldiers never die. They just fade away.
The face in front of him that was usually energetic with jokes, always ready with an exaggerated gesture to soothe dressing room tension, the first to laugh when beaten by a younger player in training and slap them on the ass with a grin—
Rothen wore his cheerfulness like armor. His constant refrain of "no big deal" masked deeper tides. On the pitch, he'd always be the first to defend a teammate in confrontation.
But all of that was performance. The role of the wise veteran.
Beneath it lived the truth: dreams still flickered. Hunger still gnawed.
Otherwise, why would a player without a club for an entire year wash up on this Corsican Island?
Otherwise, why would someone drifting through the twilight of his career still burn for glory?
Rothen's career read like a melodramatic football film—Monaco's peak, the plunge into valleys of anonymity, resurrections and disappointments in equal amount.
He could have retired gracefully years ago, his legacy was secure: former international, Champions League finalist.
Instead, he'd chosen one more roll of the dice.
Julien extended his hand—not for a casual dap, but gripping Rothen's firmly, their eyes were locked in implicit contract.
"Yes. Absolutely."
Two simple words, yet they hit like an oath.
Light blazed brighter in Rothen's eyes.
Not quite a promise. But also, completely a promise.
De Bruyne watched Julien's response with zero surprise. He knew Julien would carry this weight willingly.
Not just for Rothen.
For all of them.
For every person in this dressing room.
For the entire island.
The silence lingered, not the silence of defeat, but of shared resolve clearing into something harder than steel.
Hadzibegic broke it pragmatically, clapping his hands twice.
Like a stern schoolmaster refusing sentimentality, he cut through the emotion. "Alright. Final talk is for when we reach the final. Right now, we need to focus on the next forty-five minutes."
Rothen nodded slightly at Julien, then returned to his spot.
The others turned their attention to their manager.
Hadzibegic's gaze swept the room before he launched into tactical adjustments.
"...We must control the tempo. When we win possession, no blind long balls. De Bruyne, Kanté, Rothen—you three in midfield, use your passing to stabilize. Recycle possession. Back passes, lateral passes, keep the ball glued to our feet. Make them chase. Exhaust their patience and their legs.
Control space defensively. Two compact lines. Stay tight, compress the channels Basel's forwards want to exploit. Kanté—you shadow their number 10 like you're his reflection. Don't let him breathe, don't let him dictate.
Finally—control the counter. When they push forward, space will open behind them. That's our kill shot.
Julien, Lukaku, Mané—you three up top, stay alert. The instant we win it back, explode. Fastest possible transition, simplest possible passing, rip them apart on the break.
Julien—I trust your finishing one hundred percent. When the chance comes, bury it."
After running through the tactical details, Hadzibegic's eyes returned to Rothen.
"The next forty-five minutes are the first gate on the road to the Netherlands. Protect this 3-1 lead. Better yet—extend it. Coldest heads, most resilient defending, deadliest counters. We pin Basel down right here at Cesari. Don't give them hope for the second leg."
Time passed swiftly.
After the halftime interval, both teams re-emerged onto the pitch. The break had visibly transformed body language and mindsets.
What remained unchanged: the eternal thunder of Stade Armand Cesari.
Like Mediterranean waves, the sound rolled in continuous, relentless swells.
As players gathered in the center circle, the atmosphere condensed with intensity.
The broadcaster's voice carried new energy: "The second half is about to begin. Bastia return with a commanding 3-1 advantage—a scoreline that reflects both the gulf in quality and Julien's individual dominance. Two goals in the first half, almost single-handedly dismantling Basel's defensive structure!
Looking at the season holistically, Bastia are flying high in Ligue 1 and have eliminated quality opposition throughout this Europa League campaign. Their overall strength and current form clearly exceed that of Basel, a mid-table Swiss Super League side. In the first half, whether judging midfield control, forward penetration, or transition speed—Bastia dominated every phase.
Basel face desperation. They must push forward, take risks. But the critical question remains: how do you stop Julien?
They tried man-marking. They tried doubling up. Both failed! They may need even more extreme measures like constant dual coverage, tactical fouls to break momentum. Otherwise, he could score again at any moment and kill this tie completely.
Bastia, holding a two-goal cushion, will likely emphasize tempo control. Expect Kanté and De Bruyne to dominate midfield possession while keeping Julien's pace in reserve for lethal counters. Protecting this result is paramount.
If Bastia maintain composure and perhaps add one more on the break, advancing to the semifinals will be all but guaranteed. Their quality and form justify that confidence.
But football is round! If Basel can find a spark—a set piece goal, one clinical counter and claw one back, perhaps even two... this tie might retain some drama."
Yet the commentator's hypothetical "drama" was brutally extinguished barely ten minutes into the restart.
At 54th minute.
De Bruyne eased a perfectly weighted through ball into the channel.
The ball arrived at Lukaku's feet just as the Belgian shielded off Fabian Schär.
BOOM!
Lukaku unleashed an absolute thunderbolt, the shot was carrying the full force of his powerful body.
Sommer, hyper-alert, flung himself sideways.
His fingertips diverted the ball away from goal, excellent reflexes were preserving Basel's lifeline.
But as the ball rebounded into space—
Julien had already anticipated, and was already attacking the second ball.
Safari grabbed Julien's shirt from behind, trying desperately to obstruct him.
It made no difference.
Julien burst through to the loose ball, now facing Basel's covering center-back and Sommer scrambling to reset his positioning.
A hat-trick beckoned. But the angle was quite tight, Sommer was already narrowing it further.
Instead of forcing a low-percentage shot, Julien played the percentage pass—a crisp cut-back toward the penalty spot.
WHOOSH!
De Bruyne, arriving unmarked, side-footed into the gaping net.
4-1.
It was his second goal of the night.
He rolled away immediately, finger pointed at Julien, sprinting toward the supporters while pumping both arms toward the sky.
"KEVIN!"
"JULIEN!"
The crowd erupted again, joy cascading through the stands.
Lukaku barreled into both of them, laughter booming. "Yo! The three of us are UNSTOPPABLE! The DDL combo is taking over Europe!"
On the touchline, Hadzibegic threw his head back and roared with delight.
This scoreline didn't just secure tonight's match but it had also successfully decided the entire tie.
After that dressing room moment with Rothen, something had lifted in Hadzibegic's perspective.
After his celebration subsided, he turned to assistant Dominique. "We can genuinely dream bigger now."
Dominique nodded slowly. "Who could have imagined this at the season's start?"
"Haha! Exactly!"
Nearby, Yakin's expression was showing stark contrast, it was drawn, pale, and defeated.
He understood.
This match was finished.
Basel's players now carried the psychological burden of a mountain on their shoulders. After the restart, even Salah who'd been relatively quiet, threw himself into the press, desperately chasing the ball with his teammates despite the physical cost.
But Bastia's midfield control was simply superior, both technically and tactically.
Worse, Basel's aggressive pressing left space behind, and Bastia's counter-attacks continued slicing through with alarming regularity.
Each transition left Basel's backline swaying dangerously, constantly on the verge of collapse.
Yakin frantically signaled for his team to drop deeper, prioritize shape over ambition.
Conceding again would be catastrophic. We still have the second leg. Protect what's left.
The 4-1 scoreline allowed Hadzibegic to breathe easier.
When the clock struck the 70th minute, he made his move.
Julien and De Bruyne withdrawn, replaced by Fanser and Palmieri—two defensive midfielders to further solidify control and protect his key assets.
As Julien jogged toward the touchline, Stade Armand Cesari erupted once more.
"JULIEN!"
"KEVIN!!"
The chants were repeated endlessly.
Julien raised both arms, acknowledging the ovation with gratitude.
On the opposite touchline, Yakin watched the substitution with conflicted relief, feeling grateful the tormentor was leaving, yet deeply anxious about what awaited in the return leg.
How do we handle him at home?
He still had no answer.
Even with Julien and De Bruyne off, Bastia's counter-attacking remained dangerous. Mané and Lukaku provided pace and power, their physical threat was undiminished.
The finishing quality dropped slightly, but the menace persisted.
Basel, meanwhile, couldn't generate anything threatening. Not a single chance truly tested Martinez in the Bastia goal.
Finally—
BEEEEP!
The final whistle sounded.
Stade Armand Cesari exploded into euphoric pandemonium.
From the skepticism of the season's opening weeks to this: a powerful 4-1 quarterfinal first-leg advantage.
The journey itself felt miraculous. But beyond the result, what captivated supporters was how—the quality of football, Julien's brilliance, the emergence of De Bruyne, Kanté, Van Dijk, and other prodigies.
It was intoxicating.
"BASTIA!"
"BASTIA!!"
The roar shook the stadiums roof.
Bastia's players danced and embraced, celebrating with supporters who'd never stopped believing.
Basel's players became mere background figures, footnotes in someone else's story.
Mohamed Salah stood with hands on hips, standing rooted to the spot.
The young Egyptian winger found himself drowning in Cesari's endless celebration, staring at the final scoreline with blank confusion.
He'd created several dangerous moments in the first half; his pace and trickery were briefly threatening to ignite Basel's comeback. But after halftime, Bastia's organized defensive structure had frozen his efficiency completely.
Sweat and grass stains matted his curly hair. He lifted his gaze toward the jubilant Bastia supporters, then toward Julien being mobbed by teammates.
His eyes reflected complex emotions—frustration and disappointment, bewilderment at the chasm of quality, but also... something else.
Clarity. Recognition.
His expression toughened with determination—
Julien began walking toward him.
He walked slowly, with clear eyes showing no trace of victor's arrogance.
Salah instinctively straightened; complicated emotions were tightening into alertness.
Julien stopped about a step away, leaving some space, his head tilted slightly with an honest smile. His voice cut through surrounding noise:
"Mohamed, that moment in the first half when you accelerated down the right wing, the cut-back that beat Kanté—"
He mimicked the sharp directional change, nodding appreciatively.
"Spectacular. Kanté's the toughest defender I've ever seen. Breaking away from him at that tempo... you're genuinely exceptional."
Salah blinked, as he was clearly unprepared for praise. He managed a small nod, murmuring acknowledgment that got lost in his throat.
Julien smiled again, gesturing at his own shirt, switching to flawless English. "If you're willing—swap shirts?"
Surprise flickered across Salah's fac.
He nodded quickly, pulling off his number 22 and extending it. His voice emerged clearer now: "Your performance tonight... no one could match it."
Julien removed his own shirt, exchanging it while draping Salah's over his shoulder. "Thank you. Keep that explosiveness, Mohamed. Your speed, those cuts—they can tear apart any defense. Next time... see you in Switzerland."
Salah lifted his gaze, meeting Julien's eyes directly. "Second leg. See you then."
Julien nodded, offering a brief farewell before turning to join teammates heading toward the ultra-section for appreciation.
He walked calmly back into that blue sea of celebration.
Salah turned toward the tunnel.
He looked down at the shirt in his hands, studying that name, then back toward Julien's disappearing figure.
The frustration and confusion in his eyes gradually transformed into something hotter, sharper.
Brighter.
Both of them were right wingers. So, he understood Julien's level closely now.
That's the standard. That's what I need to become.
Cesari's celebration continued until the final player disappeared from view.
But the euphoria's aftershocks would ripple for days. Supporters flooded out still buzzing, dissecting every moment—Julien's brace, De Bruyne's brilliance, Kanté's dominance.
These were the kinds of performances rarely witnessed in Bastia's history.
It felt like hope, tangible and real.
Online forums were ignited and social media exploded once again.
Fans devoured every post-match article and interview.
When Hadzibegic's press conference quotes emerged, one response obscured everything else:
Reporter: "Early season, your stated objective was survival, establishing stability in Ligue 1. Where does that goal stand now?"
Hadzibegic: "Yes. Many people—including myself talked about avoiding relegation, finding our footing.
But football's beauty lies precisely here: plans never survive contact with reality.
When your squad includes a talent like Julien, when you have warriors like Kevin, Kanté, Lukaku burning with hunger, when you have someone like Rothen..."
He paused, voice dropping slightly.
"...a veteran igniting his final flame. Your objectives naturally evolve.
We are no longer merely a survival side.
We're maintaining significant breathing room in the Ligue 1 table. We're on the verge of Europa League semifinals with powerful advantages. Every step forward writes new Bastia history.
So why not dream bigger? Why not bring a trophy back to Corsica?!"
His voice strengthened, shedding the cautious tactician's cover to reveal burning conviction.
"We're not talking about survival anymore. We're talking about making history. We're talking about sustaining this volcanic intensity and unity through every remaining minute of this season. We're talking about forcing all of Europe to remember Bastia's youthful storm!
And those veterans who've endured Bastia's struggles—their hunger creates something special in our dressing room. This isn't just about winning matches. It's about redemption. Dreams postponed too long finally given oxygen.
That force will carry us forward."
He stared directly into the camera, his ambition was blazing.
"So yes—plans have changed. Survival? That's ancient history. Now we're chasing the highest possible league finish. And in Europa League—"
He paused for emphasis,
"We push as far as we possibly can.
For Corsica. For everyone who still believes in miracles."
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