The other two matches belonged to the Bundesliga.
Dortmund and Bayern München—both through to the semi-finals.
The final four: two Spanish giants, two German powerhouses. La Liga versus Bundesliga for Europe's greatest prize.
Bayern's path had been undisputable. After losing the first leg 0-2, Juventus needed a miracle at home. They didn't get one. Bayern won 2-0 at the Juventus Stadium, 4-0 on aggregate, ending Juve's eleven-match unbeaten home European run and confirming their own second consecutive semi-final appearance. Italian football was eliminated totally.
Dortmund's journey? It was far more dramatic.
After a 0-0 draw at Málaga's La Rosaleda, the second leg was perfectly ready to begin. Dortmund needed to win; Málaga only needed a scoring draw to advance.
In the end, Dortmund won 3-2, but the manner of victory would be discussed for years.
Entering stoppage time, Dortmund trailed 1-2. Málaga were going through.
Then, in the ninety-first minute, Hummels launched a long ball from deep. Demichelis misjudged it completely. Subotić knocked it across goal, Santana's initial shot was blocked by Sánchez, but Reus followed up to slot home.
2-2.
Dortmund had a lifeline.
Two minutes later, Lewandowski delivered a cross from the left. In the ensuing scramble, Santana struck twice, this was the second attempt which finally found the net.
3-2.
And, Pandemonium.
Replays showed Santana might have been offside when he scored, only one Málaga defender was ahead of him.
The controversy would rage for weeks. But the scoreline was final.
Klopp's Dortmund had survived.
Just barely.
Julien leaned back after watching these familiar faces etch themselves into history. He knew what came next—the final at Wembley.
The first all-German Champions League final in history.
Bayern, scarred by last season's treble of runner-up finishes—domestic league, domestic cup, and that agonizing Champions League final at home, where Drogba equalized in the dying seconds and Robben missed a penalty in extra time before Chelsea triumphed on penalties.
Combined with the 2010 World Cup final heartbreak, Robben's big-match psychological burden had become the stuff of legend.
Julien couldn't recall every detail of the upcoming final, but he knew the ending: Heynckes' Bayern would defeat Klopp's Dortmund.
Klopp had truly built something special—a complete system based on ferocious high pressing, a young squad burning with ambition, a charismatic manager channeling their energy. After conquering Germany, they'd set their sights on conquering Europe.
But fate had other plans.
Seven years at Dortmund, and Klopp never lifted the European Cup. He'd have to wait until Liverpool to claim his first Champions League trophy.
Still, what he built at Dortmund was undeniable. Alongside Hitzfeld, he stood as one of the two greatest managers in the club's history.
Julien exhaled slowly, feeling his heart rate settle.
The Champions League. The ultimate club prize.
How many players finished their entire careers without ever touching it? How many stood beneath the giant trophy, knowing they'd come so close but never close enough?
How many trained day after day, year after year, for the simple chance to compete on that stage?
He took a deep breath, pushing down the surge of ambition rising in his chest.
'What will come, will come.
There was no use rushing.'
Right now, the target in front of him was more realistic: the Europa League.
Focus.
One step at a time.
The next day, as Champions League headlines faded, Europa League battle lines were drawn once more.
Basel.
St. Jakob-Park.
The stage was set.
Afternoon light shone through heavy cloud cover, casting shadows across the city. The wind off the Rhine carried a sharp edge, cutting through clothing but unable to disperse the growing roar building around the stadium.
The streets had been claimed by deep red and blue—Basel's colors, tonight's only faith. Team flags snapped violently in the wind like battle standards. "FCB - Für Ehre und Wunder!" (Basel FC - For Honor and Miracles!) appeared on banners, walls, scarves held in the air by thousands of hands.
Supporters flooded in from every direction, like rivers converging into a crimson ocean. Most wore the red and blue kit, faces painted in war colors, eyes reflecting anxiety, hope, and something approaching desperate determination.
There was no casual laughter today, no lighthearted banter—only low hymns of team songs and firm hands gripping shoulders in mutual encouragement.
Scattered through the red tide like islands were the away supporters from Bastia. A small group, deliberately segregated by security into designated sections. Their red and blue stood out starkly and provocatively against Basel's deeper crimson.
They smiled simply, conversing with relaxed confidence, their body language was a stark contrast to the tension radiating from the home crowd.
As evening fell, the stadium lights blazed to life like a fortress preparing for siege.
Supporters poured through the gates, filling every seat, standing in every available space. In the cold wind off the Rhine, forty thousand people held their collective breath.
Waiting for the whistle that would signal the beginning of the end.
Nine o'clock.
Both teams stood in the center circle, formations tight, eyes focused.
Tweeeeet—
The shrill blast cut through the night.
Kick-off.
The Basel supporters roared as one, their voices crashing over the pitch in waves despite the daunting scoreline. On the field, their players charged forward with the desperate intensity of men fighting for survival.
But Bastia had seen this movie before, had played this role against bigger clubs than Basel.
The script was familiar: drop deep, absorb pressure, wait for the inevitable mistake, then strike with precision.
Simple tactics but devastatingly effective.
12th minute.
Bastia had been moving with cautious slowness since kick-off, content to let Basel exhaust themselves chasing ball. Then came the moment they'd been waiting for.
A misplaced pass in Basel's midfield. Kanté pounced like a predator, intercepting cleanly and immediately accelerated forward.
De Bruyne received the ball, drawing three Basel players toward him as he shaped to drive forward. Then, without breaking stride, he slipped a perfectly weighted through ball between Basel's center-backs.
The stadium erupted—first in anticipation, then in horror.
Lukaku was already moving, bursting between the two defenders, his explosive pace was leaving them scrambling in his trail. Schär desperately tried to keep pace, his legs were pumping furiously, but the Belgian striker had the angle.
This is Bastia's first real attack—and it's already lethal.
Sommer rushed off his line, trying to narrow the angle.
But Lukaku in space against weaker opposition?
This was his specialty—the reason "flat-track bully" became a tired cliché.
He barely broke stride before unleashing a thunderous shot.
BOOM.
The net bulged.
0-1.
Aggregate: 5-1 to Bastia.
For a second or two the moment seems to be on hold, St. Jakob-Park fell completely silent. Forty thousand people were stunned into muteness, the impossibility of their situation suddenly became concrete and undeniable.
Every Basel player, every supporter, every person in that stadium understood simultaneously:
It was over.
Twelve minutes.
That's all it took for Bastia to kill the tie completely.
The dream hadn't just died—it had been executed with ruthless efficiency, a single devastating counter-attack extinguished the last flicker of hope before it could even catch flame.
In the away section, the Bastia supporters erupted in celebration.
On the pitch, Lukaku rolled away, arms spread wide, while De Rocca and De Bruyne jogged forward to congratulate him.
On the Basel bench, Yakin sat motionless, staring at the scoreboard.
The numbers didn't lie.
They never did.
5-1.
The impossible task had become exactly that—impossible.
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