The mont the players erged for warm-ups at Stade Armand Cesari, the atmosphere ignited. Songs rolled through the stands like thunder across the diterranean. The evening air carried the scent of the sea mixed with cigarette smoke and grilled rguez from the concourse below.
Everywhere you looked—an ocean of Bastia blue. Scarves waved like kelp in a current. Flags snapped in the coastal breeze that swept across the open stands.
The "Battle of the Blues" second leg had finally arrived.
Every touch by a Chelsea player drew venomous jeers that seed to rattle the steel of the old stadium roof. Every Bastia touch earned thunderous applause. But when Julien's boot made contact with the ball during warm-up drills, the stadium erupted.
Fans in the stands couldn't contain themselves, chanting his na in waves that crashed over the pitch and echoed back from the mountains visible beyond the stadium's edge.
The open training day speech from earlier in the week had only intensified their devotion. How could they not love a player like this? One of their own, who spoke their dreams aloud.
As warm-ups continued, supporters stread into the stadium through the narrow gates, creating blockages of anticipation at every entrance. The handful of executive boxes at Cesari gradually filled. In one particular box, a group with distinctly Middle Eastern face settled into the seats.
Bastia's leadership rolled out the red carpet—Chairman Chataigner personally escorted them, ensuring they received services unavailable in any other suite.
The reason was simple: these Saudi visitors had, upon arrival in Bastia, casually signed a sponsorship deal for the training kit sleeve patches. Normally, training kits only carried chest sponsorship—most fans barely noticed them, those throwaway designs worn in practice sessions and pre-match warm-ups. Often bundled with match kit deals as an afterthought.
But these Saudis? They opened with a flat offer: two years, one million euros, to print the PIF logo on Bastia's training kit sleeves. No negotiation. No market analysis. Just a number that made Chataigner's head spin.
The price was absurd. Essentially free money for advertising space that would appear in grainy training ground photos and the occasional warm-up shot.
But that's how they operated: simple and brutal.
They negotiated nothing. Contract signed the sa day, paynt cleared imdiately into Bastia's accounts before the ink had fully dried.
Absolutely ruthless efficiency.
Chataigner stood stunned, still processing it hours later. So this is oil money in action?
It reminded him of PSG's transfer approach—throwing around transfer fees, wages, and agent commissions like pocket change. Spending a million euros ant as much to them as Chataigner buying a glass of pastis at a café in the old town.
Actually, less—Chataigner at least noticed when pastis prices increased by twenty cents.
"Our main kit sponsorship expires next season," Chataigner ntioned to the Saudi group as they settled into their seats, unable to resist the opening. His businessman instincts were screaming at him. "With Bastia's current profile in European football, there's significant comrcial value—"
Staveley gently raised a hand, cutting him off with a skillful smile. "You know why they're here. The welco gift is sufficient. Don't push further."
Chataigner nodded, feeling like a child caught reaching for dessert before dinner. Of course he understood.
Julien had briefed him already during a private eting. The Saudis wanted to acquire a Premier League club—following the Manchester City and PSG playbook, using financial might to forge a superpower. And Julien was their target as the cornerstone superstar for the next decade, the face around which they'd build everything.
After Chataigner stopped his pitch, the delegation's leader, Abdullah Mohamd, proactively asked in fluent French that carried only the slightest accent, "What's the current top salary in Ligue 1?"
Chataigner considered, running calculations in his head. "Monthly wages around 800,000 euros? Ibrahimović at PSG, perhaps so others in that range."
"And Julien?"
Chataigner shook his head, so of his old player pride surfacing. "Mr. Abdullah, that's confidential player information. I can't disclose it. If you want to know, you'll need to ask Julien directly—with his permission."
Abdullah waved it off unconcerned, as if Chataigner had rely pointed out a minor formality. "We're planning to offer Julien Premier League top wages. Over £300,000 per week."
Hissss.
Chataigner sucked in a sharp breath, the air whistling between his teeth. Others in the room showed little surprise—clearly, they'd discussed these figures before but Chataigner couldn't help his reaction. He'd never witnessed anything like this, not in his playing days, not in his years as chairman of a modest Corsican club.
If his mory served him right, back in his playing days twenty years ago, Liverpool's John Barnes held the Premier League salary record. French dia had covered it widely then; it was £10,000 per week. Staggering at the ti. Enough to buy a house every few months.
Even a decade ago, the Premier League's top earner, Manchester United's Roy Keane, made only around £90,000 weekly. Already astronomical, already incomprehensible to normal people.
Now, of course, United's Rooney earned approximately £300,000—the current benchmark. The wage that made you the highest-paid player in English football.
But since the oil clubs entered the scene, everything had spiraled into madness. Manchester City and PSG wages were astronomical, distorting markets across Europe. Arsenal's Nasri had jumped ship to City purely for the paycheck, abandoning a club he'd supposedly loved. Few could resist that kind of money. Who could?
Why do players play football? Middle-class kids might talk about honor and glory, about the badge and the history. But for those who climbed out of poverty from the streets, who rembered going hungry, whose mothers cleaned houses to keep them in boots? They played to secure a better life. To escape. To never go back.
After his initial shock, Chataigner quickly composed himself, straightening in his seat, and nodded. "Julien is worth that salary."
Abdullah was about to discuss potential transfer fees, opening his mouth with the kind of casual expression that suggested eight-figure sums would follow, when sothing on the pitch seized their attention—
BOOM! BOOM-BOOM!
The Ultras Bastia section had broken out their massive drums, the deep drumming punching through the ambient noise like cannon fire, pounding a rhythm that captured the entire stadium's focus.
The players had erged from the tunnel for pre-match ceremonies, two lines of n in contrasting blues—one bright and hopeful, one dark and imperial.
Beyond the drumbeat, banners unfurled across the stands with choreography. Fans hoisted enormous portraits of Julien, painted with admiration on bedsheets and canvas, so stretching three ters tall. His face was reproduced a hundred tis in crude paint but careful detail.
Anyone could see from the atmosphere how beloved Julien was in this place.
A joke circulated on social dia: "Want to befriend soone from Bastia? Talk about Julien. Tell them Julien will beco the king of football. If your new Bastian friend happens to be a fisherman, congratulations—you'll receive a free sea bass."
Sea bass, the "king of diterranean fish"—tender white flesh, exquisite flavor, worth twenty euros per kilo in the markets. Fishern rarely kept them for personal consumption, always selling for profit.
It was obviously, a joke, but it illustrated Julien's status in Bastia. Not just respected. Adored.
The drumbeat intensified, growing frantic, the tempo was accelerating like a heartbeat before battle.
WHOOOOSH!
A collective gasp rippled through eighteen thousand throats as the Ultras section unveiled their tifo—Bastia's sacred pre-match tradition.
A gigantic portrait of Julien appeared across the entire stand, assembled from hundreds of individual cards held in the air in perfect coordination. Just his upper body, head tilted back toward the Corsican sky, eyes, arms spread wide like wings. Between his outstretched arms: five trophies, rendered in gold and silver.
The first three rendered solid and complete, shining fully realized. The final two outlined in half-sketches, their hollow centers containing numbers painted in bold red: 4 and 2.
Most observers wouldn't recognize these specific trophies—Bastia had never had occasion to see them before, had never even dread of so of them. But everyone understood their aning, could read the visual language:
Ligue 2 championship.
Coupe de France.
Trophée des Champions.
Ligue 1 championship.
Europa League trophy.
Five championship trophies.
The numbers 4 and 2 represented matches remaining to claim the final two: four league rounds left in their incredible Ligue 1 title challenge, and if they survived Chelsea tonight, one Europa League final waiting in Amsterdam.
"The night wind of Bastia blows through Furiani's ground
Cesari's stars shine bright—hear that battle sound
Blue shirts like harbor, hearts surging like waves
Number 10's silhouette—fate of the brave"
As the tifo spread before thousands of eyes, the supporters launched into their anthem.
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