Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca Chapter 365: Chapter-365 The Rumors {BIG-CHAPTER}

Monday.

With the Chelsea second leg looming, Bastia held the season's final fan open day, inviting two hundred supporters into the training ground to watch practice, et players, get autographs, and take photos.

Local dia were also invited. There would be a Q&A session afterward—standard procedure for most clubs. At this critical juncture in the season, Bastia needed to project unshakable confidence to their supporters.

After training concluded, players and staff gathered on the pitch to face the fans directly.

Supporters sprinkled Hadzibegic with questions, which the manager answered patiently.

But overwhelmingly, fans wanted to hear from Julien.

Julien didn't make them wait long. He stepped forward but instead of a Q&A format, he delivered an impromptu speech.

Standing at the edge of the training pitch, facing supporters and dia, Julien dispensed with grand gestures. His gaze was calm, steady, sweeping across the crowd. His voice was restrained but crystal clear.

"Hello, everyone."

"I know you have many questions for . But ti is short, so rather than answer them individually, I'll address the most important one directly."

The unexpected opening caught supporters off guard but their anticipation only intensified.

"Recently, there's been a lot of discussion about , about my future. Nas have been ntioned, possibilities debated. I know—this is part of football."

He paused, his eyes sincere. "But today, I want to talk about now. About here."

Julien pointed at the ground beneath his feet.

"Corsica. Bastia. This isn't just my club—this is my second ho. This is where I truly grew from a boy into a man. Manager Faruk Hadzibegic gave his trust, put on this pitch. My teammates walked with step by step from Ligue 2 to where we are today. And all of you—every single fan—your voices, your passion, you've carried us through every match."

He tapped the badge on his chest. "This connection, this sense of belonging—it ans more to than anything."

Applause erupted. The lucky supporters who'd won spots at today's open day were beside themselves.

This was exactly what they'd co to hear.

"Yes, my agent—my father has spoken with about clubs interested in signing this sumr. I understand their intentions. I'm grateful for the recognition.

But right now, my intentions are clear. My heart isn't elsewhere—it's here, at Bastia. My responsibility isn't in the future, it's right now, this season. We still have road to travel."

His voice grew firr. "Ligue 1: four matches remain. We're six points clear. But we need to stay grounded, take it match by match, point by point. The championship trophy is within reach—but we have to earn it with our own hands.

The Europa League: we've reached the semi-final. This Thursday night, Chelsea cos to our ho. The first leg's draw and our two away goals give us a chance—but not a guarantee. We need focus. Unity. Our absolute best performance."

Each word carried weight. Julien's tone wasn't urgent, but every syllable resonated with power.

The Bastia fans hung on every word, eyes locked on him.

"Last season, together, we won the Ligue 2 title and the Coupe de France. At the start of this campaign, we added the Trophée des Champions. These honors—they're chapters we wrote together. But this season's story isn't finished yet.

The dream of a Ligue 1 championship. The hunger to go deeper in the Europa League. They're still ahead of us. I cannot—I will not—talk about leaving at this mont."

Julien turned, glancing at his Bastia teammates, at Chataigner and the staff. Then he continued, unhurried,

"I made a promise: to walk this road to the end with my brothers. I promised to fight for this badge, for Corsica's hopes, until the final whistle. So please, rest assured. The outside noise won't distract .

Every ounce of my energy is focused on one thing: helping this team win every remaining match. Win Ligue 1. Go as far as possible in the Europa League—all the way to the trophy. Complete this season we started together with the perfect ending. That's what I want to say.

Thank you for your unwavering support. So, let's keep writing our story together. When we reach the finish line, then we'll talk about what cos next."

Julien finished with a smile, then stepped back into formation with his teammates.

The fans' response was deafening—applause, roars, chants.

"JULIEN!!"

"JULIEN, WE BELIEVE IN YOU!"

They'd never expected Julien to stay at Bastia forever. But hearing him commit fully to this mont, this season—it filled them with gratitude and joy.

They felt blessed to have a prodigy like Julien, even if just for this fleeting period. In barely more than one season, he'd delivered the greatest heights in Bastia's century-long history.

After Julien spoke, Chataigner stepped up briefly. He'd wanted to say more—much more but he held back. He was saving his words for the end.

So, he simply promised that the club would continue supporting the players with everything they needed.

The open day concluded amid joyous chaos.

As Julien and his teammates headed toward the canteen for lunch, De Bruyne caught up to him with another question: "You're really not going to Chelsea?"

Julien saw the longing in Kevin's eyes. He decided to give him information that was... slightly different from the public version.

Draping an arm over De Bruyne's shoulders, Julien leaned close and murmured, "That question? I can answer it. I won't be going to Chelsea. But if you ask where I'm going? I can't answer that because I genuinely don't know yet."

Disappointnt flickered across Kevin's face.

But Julien continued, "Listen, Kevin. Chelsea is changing intensely. Mourinho's returning. I don't think he'll appreciate your type of midfielder. If you go back and don't get opportunities... if you decide you want to leave... co find ."

"Huh?" Kevin looked confused.

Julien smiled. "I told you—I don't know where I'll end up. But I will make sure that club signs you. Trust . Unless you don't want to play alongside ."

"Really?" De Bruyne asked, suddenly serious.

Julien inclined his head. "Really. I'm Julien De Rocca—a man of my word."

"What do you an?"

"It's an old proverb," Julien said softly. "A gentleman's word is his bond. Like a knight's vow—you don't break it."

"Okay. Then I'm a gentleman too. If I can't get playing ti, I'll co find you."

"Good."

That sa day, Bastia Daily published coverage of the open day—naturally, Julien's statent took center stage.

It ignited a firestorm across Bastia.

Supporters couldn't stop talking about Julien, about how he'd stepped forward at this critical mont to steady the team, to declare his commitnt.

Bastia fans grew increasingly convinced: this season, they were destined for sothing extraordinary.

On the Bastia supporters' forum, amid countless threads previewing the Chelsea second leg, discussions about Julien's speech multiplied exponentially.

One post in particular—titled "An Old Fan's Confession" received the most upvotes by far:

The wind at Stade Armand Cesari carries the familiar scent of sea salt, sweeping through the stands and across my face—weathered by twenty years of Corsican sun and diterranean air. Twenty years. I've sat in these stands through the mud of the lower leagues, through the heartbreak of relegations and the fleeting joy of promotions, through stars arriving like cots and departing like ghosts, through hope that flickered and sotis died completely.

Bastia—this island's club—has always had stubbornness running through its veins, but also a kind of stoical calm born from isolation. We grew accustod to sailing through storms alone, to celebrating every small victory as though it were a championship, to holding our heads high against giants even when defeat seed written in the stars.

Until Julien De Rocca arrived.

This kid burst onto our world like lightning tearing through dark clouds, illuminating a landscape we'd grown too used to seeing in shadow. He brought silverware, yes—the Ligue 2 trophy, the Coupe de France, the Trophée des Champions. He brought that jaw-dropping brace at Stamford Bridge that silenced one of Europe's great fortresses and sent shockwaves across the continent.

But more than trophies, he brought sothing we'd nearly forgotten existed: possibility.

The possibility that a club like ours—small, islanded, perpetually underestimated—could stand center stage in Europe and make the arrogant giants break out in cold sweats. He made "Bastia" more than a footnote on a map, more than a picturesque curiosity. He turned it into an exclamation point that makes the football world hold its breath.

So when the rumors began to swirl—ga-clubs circling, oil money dangling, contract offers that could set up generations—of course I was worried. I'm not naive. I know money's pull. I understand what top-tier temptation ans for a young genius. I've watched too many shooting stars arc brilliantly across Corsica's sky, only to vanish into brighter, distant galaxies.

But then Julien stood before us at that press conference. No flowery rhetoric. No politician's promises. Just those clear, steady eyes and that calm, heartfelt voice: "My heart isn't elsewhere—it's here, at Bastia. My responsibility isn't in so hypothetical future—it's right now, this season."

He said our story isn't finished. This season's dream isn't complete. Every word struck my chest like a hamr against an anvil.

As soone who's witnessed two decades of Bastia's struggles, I know football's cruelty. I know players leave. I know ambition outgrows even the most loyal hearts. Maybe he could have left last sumr—maybe he should have, by the cold logic of career trajectories and market value. But he chose to stay. He chose to stand with us, to pour his talent, his sweat, his dreams into this blue jersey, onto every blade of grass at Armand Cesari.

That's enough. That has to be enough.

I won't trap him with demands of "forever." I won't chain him with guilt or sentint. I'll treasure now. I'll treasure that hunger burning in his eyes for the Ligue 1 trophy, that relentless drive to push deeper in the Europa League. I'll treasure every electric burst of pace down the wing, every impossible goal that saves us, every ti he points at that badge on his chest like it ans sothing sacred.

Let the transfer rumors swirl thick in London's fog, let the Spanish giants whisper their seductions, let the oil clubs wave their blank checks. Here in Corsica, at Stade Armand Cesari, surrounded by the salt air and the ancient mountains and the voices of thousand believers, I trust only in the clear-eyed, resolute young man who stood before us and chose this.

We're genuinely going for the treble.

And for once in my weathered, storm-tested life as a Bastia fan, I actually believe it's possible.

The treble: Trophée des Champions, Ligue 1, Europa League.

It was a goal no Bastia supporter had dared imagine at the season's start.

But now, under Julien's leadership, they were inching toward making it reality.

Comnts flooded the post constantly, refreshing by the second.

Everyone was wondering: after last season's dostic double, could they deliver Corsica—perhaps even French football—an unprecedented continental treble?

Julien's transfer situation wasn't just consuming fans—Chataigner was deeply invested too.

When they spoke privately, Julien simply told him: "By season's end, you'll have your answer."

Chataigner nodded. "As long as you know what you're doing. Once you decide, tell . We'll support you however we can."

Their conversation made no ntion of transfer fees—but both understood the figure would be astronomical.

Amid the swirling news and endless comntary, ti continued to pass.

The Champions League would determine its finalists first.

The second leg kicked off at the Santiago Bernabéu: Real Madrid hosting Borussia Dortmund.

Madrid dominated the opening 15 minutes, but their forwards squandered chance after chance. Dortmund's Götze went off injured. Then, from the 82nd minute onward, Madrid struck twice in seven minutes through Benzema and Ramos—a 2-0 victory. But the aggregate score read 3-4. Dortmund advanced to the final for the first ti in 16 years.

anwhile, both Bastia and Chelsea held pre-match press conferences.

Hadzibegic sounded cautious but confident: "We know our position and our advantages. In the first leg at Stamford Bridge, the lads showed extraordinary courage and discipline, bringing back a precious draw and two away goals.

That gives us a solid foundation. Back at Stade Cesari, with our ho atmosphere behind us, we're full of belief. We'll rely on what we always do: rock-solid defending, efficient counter-attacks, and tireless pressing across the pitch. Chelsea are formidable opponents, but we fear no one. We have one objective: reach the final. For Corsica. For this incredible season."

Benítez, perhaps already checked out, knowing he'd be gone regardless seed almost dismissive: "The situation is clear and severe. We must win to advance. There are no alternatives. The first-leg result was disappointing, especially drawing at ho and conceding two goals.

Bastia played well—De Rocca's performance was particularly outstanding. But this is a 180-minute tie. Now it's our turn to respond. We have the quality to win away from ho. The players know what needs doing. We'll give everything to bring back victory."

For now, dia attention on the Bastia-Chelsea tie remained limited to both clubs' supporters. Most neutrals were focused on the other Champions League semi-final.

Barcelona hosted Bayern Munich. Before kickoff, Piqué had confidently declared: "Overturning a four-goal deficit? Only Barca can do it."

Two hours later, every Barcelona soul fell silent.

Barcelona 0-3 Bayern Munich. Combined with the first leg's 0-4 shellacking, Barca suffered a humiliating 0-7 aggregate annihilation. Bayern had shown no rcy—serving up a "seven-goal slaughter."

ssi never left the bench. In this do-or-die match, he remained seated the entire ti. In the second half, after Bayern scored again, ssi even put on a down jacket to stay warm—showing zero signs of warming up to enter.

Manager Tito Vilanova's explanation: ssi was injured and wouldn't be risked. "If we'd seen a realistic chance of advancing, he might have played a few minutes at the end."

No realistic chance = no ssi.

The Champions League final would be an all-Bundesliga affair.

Legendary manager Jupp Heynckes had announced his retirent from Bayern. Back in January, the club had confird on their official website that forr Barcelona boss Pep Guardiola would take over starting next season on a three-year contract, with Heynckes stepping down after this campaign.

But no one had anticipated the outgoing manager crafting such a glorious swan song: shattering Bundesliga records by clinching the title six matchdays early, demolishing Barcelona 7-0 on aggregate to reach the Champions League final.

Bayern's opponent was their extrely familiar rivals Borussia Dortmund. Their chances of lifting the trophy had never looked better.

This marked Bayern's third Champions League final appearance in four years. Though the previous two had ended in heartbreak, those painful lessons would surely make this year's team more cautious, more determined.

Regardless, this season marked a new era for the Bundesliga. In 2000, 2003, and 2008, La Liga, Serie A, and the Premier League had each achieved the sa feat of monopolizing both final spots. Now, twelve years after Bayern's 2001 triumph, a German club stood on the brink of European glory once more.

It also offered a glimpse into German football's resurgence—perhaps a preview of next year's World Cup in Brazil.

After Barcelona and Madrid beca Spain's "twin bears" rather than its twin powers, the Europa League semi-finals moved into the spotlight.

The Fenerbahçe vs. Benfica tie drew minimal interest—neither was from a top-five league. Apart from their own supporters, virtually no one cared.

But Bastia vs. Chelsea's attention skyrocketed, partly due to the Saudi-Arsenal-Julien rumors swirling around the tie.

Ti flew by.

The next afternoon, Stade Armand Cesari—Bastia's beating heart transford into an erupting volcano.

Even before dusk fell completely, the stadium's periter was drowning in a surging tide of blue. Bastia flags whipped and cracked in the wind. The air mingled sea salt with grilled sausage smoke and the almost tangible frenzy of supporters—anticipation, pride, defiance, all rolled into one overwhelming emotion.

At the stadium entrance stood a massive portrait of Julien, finger pointing at the badge, eyes burning with determination. Below it, bold letters proclaid: "JULIEN DE ROCCA: OUR HEART, OUR KING!"

Fans wore blue shirts, faces painted, voices already roaring into the sky. Thousands sang in unison, sound waves crashing against the stadium walls like a tsunami.

Riot police stood at attention, ready for anything. They knew their fellow citizen too well—there was genuine concern Bastia supporters might "engage physically" with Chelsea fans. Literally.

Journalists laced through the edges of the frenzied crowd, trying to capture the suffocating atmosphere. Occasionally, Chelsea supporters' chants would rise—only to be instantly drowned by louder songs and slogans.

"JULIEN! JULIEN!" The chant echoed with religious fervor from every corner surrounding the stadium.

When Bastia's team bus arrived, the atmosphere exploded into pure madness.

"JULIEN!!"

"FORZA, BASTIA!!"

The packed street parted miraculously, fans were creating a pathway for the bus. Die-hards scread themselves to hoarse, waving shirts and scarves, unfurling banners with slogans, hoisting enormous portraits of Julien over their head.

Inside the bus, Bastia's players sat with grim determination, staring out at the ocean of blue. Even Lukaku, usually the ultimate jokester found himself taking deep breaths, trying to control his emotions.

Julien gazed out the window. The fire in his eyes burned hotter by the second.

If he wanted to deliver Bastia a European trophy, if he wanted to complete the treble, he had to get past Chelsea.

The bus pulled into the stadium.

Kickoff was approaching.

The battle was about to begin.

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