Just as expected!
Hearing Pierre's response, Julien immediately understood—he had real opportunity here.
It wasn't Dein or the Reuben brothers taking the initiative. The Saudis wanted to enter the Premier League but lacked resources, so they'd approached Dein and the Reuben brothers as local fixers.
This was his chance.
Julien immediately told Pierre, "Express our position to the Saudis as soon as possible. Our advantage is something none of them possess. No matter how you transform a club, on-field performance is most critical and important.
Look how much money City spent before winning the title. Look at PSG spending so much without winning anything. I'm sure they understand this—otherwise they wouldn't have contacted us."
"Got it! What are our requirements?" Pierre sounded equally excited but hadn't forgotten to protect their core interests.
Julien considered, then said: "No, don't say too much. We just need them to know our goal matches theirs—creating a Premier League powerhouse. They'll offer the rest themselves."
"Right!"
Julien proceeded to discuss many details with Pierre, including revealing certain information to the Saudis: not just UEFA's Financial Fair Play regulations, but the Premier League's impending changes as well; that the Arsenal acquisition wouldn't work and they needed to identify other viable clubs; and more.
They talked lengthily.
Pierre clearly understood this represented a major turning point in Julien's career and a significant change for the entire De Rocca family.
An opportunity, but also a challenge.
Julien's enthusiasm ignited. If previously he'd been conflicted about which club to join, now those doubts had completely evaporated.
He would create his own Premier League powerhouse!
After analyzing the Premier League situation, he felt Liverpool, Aston Villa, and Newcastle United were relatively suitable options.
Liverpool had nearly gone bankrupt in 2010 before American Fenway Sports Group purchased the club and cleared its debts. They were gradually recovering these past two years. Acquisition would be somewhat difficult, but nowhere near Arsenal's level—it was mainly a price issue.
As for Aston Villa, American Randy Lerner had reached an agreement with the board in September 2006 to purchase the club for £62.6 million and had controlled it since. But his financial capacity was limited—Villa faced relegation threats yearly without signing strong players. Lerner couldn't sustain it anymore and wanted to sell.
Newcastle United had been constantly on the market—owner Mike Ashley talked about selling every year while fans chanted for him to offload the club and leave.
Moreover, Liverpool, Birmingham, and Newcastle were all among England's eight core cities. Birmingham, home to Aston Villa, was England's second city after London.
Liverpool was obviously the best choice but also most difficult. Aston Villa represented the optimal solution—a founding member of England's top division steeped in tradition but fallen on hard times.
The more Julien contemplated this, the more passionate he became. He almost couldn't resist personally negotiating with the Saudi representatives, but he remained rational.
He'd leave everything to Pierre, telling him to present it all as Pierre's own ideas.
While Julien pondered his future, he didn't even watch the Champions League.
Only after working through everything did he have time to check Champions League news.
His memory was correct.
Two semifinals, two brutal scorelines: Bayern 4-0 Barcelona, Dortmund 4-1 Real Madrid.
The Bundesliga giants had overwhelmed the so-called cosmic "La Liga Superpowers" by a combined 8-1, reducing them to "La Liga Super-bears."
Various news reports swirled everywhere.
Last night's Allianz Arena in Munich had been like an intricate trap—Bayern had completely buried Barcelona there. When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard froze at a number that stunned everyone: 4-0.
This wasn't just a score—it was a declaration that an era had been brutally shaken.
Bayern had torn Barcelona apart the German way. Understanding how difficult it was to penetrate Barcelona's defense through short passing combinations, they'd chosen high balls and aerial dominance.
Müller and Gomez's goals both came from ruthless headed knockdowns. And when Arjen Robben— The Flying Dutchman began repeatedly torching Barcelona's left flank with pace, their collapse was inevitable.
Perhaps someone in the stands remembered Bayern's "FC Hollywood" nickname. Except this night, they weren't performing tabloid gossip soap operas, but rather a blockbuster thriller.
This Bayern were genuinely frightening.
Champions League quarterfinals: 4-0 aggregate over Serie A champions Juventus.
Back in the league: 4-0 over Nürnberg, 6-1 over Hannover 96.
On April 17th in the German Cup: 6-1 over Wolfsburg to reach the final.
Now 4-0 over Barcelona with one foot in the Champions League final.
Four matches, twenty goals, complete dominance every time.
The other protagonist, Messi, walked through a strange, unfamiliar story. 7,409 meters, the match's lowest running distance outlined a genius constrained by injury and pressure.
The four-time Ballon d'Or winner looked like a king stripped of his magic, struggling visibly on the pitch.
His silence directly exposed Barcelona's most serious problem: when Messi dimmed, the entire team seemed to lose its soul.
Barcelona's problems also reflected Spain's national team predicament.
Their certified strikers: Villa, Soldado, Torres, none were in form. The player repeatedly solving problems was winger Pedro! "Pedrito" had scored ten goals for Spain this year and was currently their leading scorer.
Consequently, Spain had resorted to a "false nine" formation. Barcelona and Spain's national team used the same attacking system, but now faced identical problems. With the World Cup next year, Spain still needed to determine who would play striker.
The 0-4 scoreline matched Barcelona's most painful European memory. It marked an ending—a full stop to the dazzling "Dream Team II" era.
As the smoke cleared, one question emerged: if an old myth ended tonight, who would write the new chapter? Nobody knew.
Perhaps Bayern? Next season, Guardiola would take charge at Bayern, who'd already announced signing Guardiola's handpicked German international Götze—committing to height and pace.
Next season's Bayern strength was unimaginable.
Twenty-four hours after Bayern crushed Barcelona's dynasty 4-0, the German green storm swept across Europe. Another steel army, Borussia Dortmund welcomed Real Madrid to the Westfalenstadion amid the roaring South Stand's tidal wave of sound.
This match belonged to one man.
Robert Lewandowski ripped through Real Madrid's defense four times!
Just eight minutes in, he ghosted past Pepe for a sliding finish.
After halftime, the real show began: an elegant first touch, turn, and poke home; a thunderous penalty box strike; finally, a calm penalty conversion.
Poker! He was the first to score four against Real Madrid, the first to achieve this feat at the semifinal stage. In front of him, Pepe looked clumsy and desperate, became the background figure in three goal replays.
Meanwhile, Ronaldo thundered home a shot for his 50th Champions League goal, matching legend Thierry Henry. But the 1-4 scoreline struck Real Madrid like a hammer blow.
This year's Champions League semifinals had been decided in the first legs. Perhaps only the most devoted Madrid and Barcelona fans still believed in comeback miracles.
After reviewing this information, Julien's mind filled with images of leading his team to challenge for the Champions League trophy.
Eventually, he drifted into deep sleep.
The next day, London's chaos arrived earlier than usual. Subway passengers clutched newspapers, savoring last night's Champions League drama while quietly anticipating tonight's Europa League action.
Unlike the Champions League's staggered schedule, tonight's Europa League featured both semifinals simultaneously.
As English football's sole remaining European representative, Chelsea garnered special attention.
That evening, in Fulham, outside Stamford Bridge, the twilight air felt cool but was already stained with boiling blue.
Deep blue Chelsea shirts merged into rivers flowing from Fulham Broadway station, flooding Fulham Road. "Blue is the Colour" spilled from packed pubs mixing with beer aromas and clamor. Street vendors hawked scarves and badges while fans heatedly debated starting lineups and Julien's threat.
At the Matthew Harding Stand entrance, hardcore supporters drummed and chanted. "Carefree!" shouts shook the sky. Stadium lights blazed like a blue beacon.
As both team buses arrived, countless fans poured through entrances into Stamford Bridge. The surrounding tumult reached its crescendo.
Both squads carefully changed in their dressing rooms before heading pitchside for warm-ups.
Julien walked step by step toward the tunnel. The closer to Stamford Bridge's pitch, the clearer the singing became:
"Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together, and winning is our aim"
Following the song, Julien entered the stadium.
Familiar sights overwhelmed him: bright green grass beneath floodlights, the recognizable blue ocean in the stands. The air mixed grass fragrance with a long-absent roar belonging uniquely to this place.
His heartbeat skipped in that familiar rhythm.
He'd never been here before. But Julien had.
In memory, this Julien had fantasized countless times about sprinting here in celebration, wearing the blue shirt. The closest he'd come—sitting on this stadium's cold bench, within arm's reach yet separated by an unbridgeable chasm. His dream stage right before him, yet he'd never truly stepped onto it.
Now he wore Bastia's white away kit, visiting as an opponent.
The tunnel's end was no longer the gateway to dreams, but an adversary's battlefield. The stands' roar wasn't anticipation of his appearance, but clamor against the visitors—perhaps against him personally.
This identity shift's dissonance felt sharp and real.
He inhaled deeply, breathing Stamford Bridge's unique atmosphere. The bench's cold memory transformed into blood surging through his veins now. As his future plans took shape, he wanted everyone to see what edge the forgotten talent once trapped at the bench's end now possessed.
"Come on, warm up."
Suddenly a hand clapped Julien's shoulder. Turning, he saw De Bruyne, who seemed to recognize Julien had been lost in thought and was pulling him back. De Bruyne felt it too, didn't he?
Their eyes met.
Both understood what this match meant.
In the stands, many Chelsea fans knew tonight's opponents included two and a half of their own players. They watched with scrutinizing gazes.
Among the crowd sat Elion, looking very nervous—nervous for Julien. He hoped Julien would perform dazzlingly. Hoped his performance might make Abramovich reconsider.
Elion couldn't help glancing toward one particular box—Abramovich's exclusive seating. But nobody was there yet.
Elion tugged at his jacket, slightly tight because underneath he wore another shirt: the jersey Julien had worn in Chelsea's academy.
Chelsea U16 number 7.
He imagined that if Julien scored, he'd remove his jacket to reveal this shirt that once shone through Chelsea's youth ranks.
Warm-up time ended quickly. Both squads returned to their dressing rooms for final preparations.
Every Bastia player wore a grave expression.
In the dressing room, Hadzibegic's gaze swept across everyone. Though equally tense internally, he showed perfect calmness to his players.
"Lads, you've all felt Stamford Bridge's roar. Good. We've drilled tactics countless times—I won't repeat them. But we must defend well!"
He looked toward the defensive players. Van Dijk, Kanté, Angoula, Martinez all nodded. This match represented an enormous challenge.
Then he turned to Julien and the others.
"Julien, Kevin, Romelu—does Stamford Bridge know you?
Excellent!
Then let them know you again—know Bastia's warriors!
Know the blue-black Bastia crest on your chests!"
Finally, Hadzibegic clapped sharply. "Chelsea are strong? So what! We've toppled Atlético, Spurs, Inter. Stamford Bridge is just the next fortress to conquer!"
"Come on—for Bastia! For each other! For victory!"
He thrust his hand into the center. Every Bastia player stacked theirs on top, then:
"FORZA, BASTIA!!"
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