Across France, the noise echoed through television screens.
In Parisian living rooms, it became a heavy sigh. In Marseille's Old Port bars, it drew complicated, respectful glances. In Lyon's academy meeting rooms, it became fresh tactical study material. And in countless ordinary French homes, it moved people, reminding them why football mattered.
This wasn't just noise from a goal.
This was the roar of a century-old dream coming true. The declaration of a genius who'd scored 46 goals in a single season.
The TF1 commentator, after describing the goal, reflected:
"This isn't just a goal. I can say this with confidence, even though we're only twelve minutes in—it has all but locked up Bastia's first Ligue 1 title in 108 years.
Julien's 46th league goal of the season. He's pushed the single-season record to a height that will terrify anyone who dreams of breaking it. I don't know if I'll live to see that day.
More importantly, this goal once again shows the world why Julien is unique—his ability to decide a match in the blink of an eye. He is the undisputed king of this league."
On the sidelines, Montpellier manager René Girard stood with his hands deep in his coat pockets, watching Bastia's players celebrate wildly. Watching Julien being swarmed by his teammates.
He smiled—bittersweet, knowing.
This scene was painfully familiar.
Just last year, hadn't he and his Montpellier done the exact same thing? Defied expectations, played with fearless energy, and snatched the title from PSG's grasp?
Back then, they were the ones brimming with belief, the ones stunning French football.
But now the roles had reversed, and the irony stung.
His gaze drifted beyond the celebration, piercing through time. He could already see what would happen next. Last summer, Montpellier's title-winning squad had been dismantled by bigger clubs: Belhanda, Giroud, Mbiwa—the trophy's warmth hadn't even faded before the team was torn apart.
When Girard's eyes passed over Julien, Kanté, and the other young faces, he felt a pang of something close to pity.
How many of them will still be here next season?
He felt a strange kinship with them—a shared sorrow. Small clubs' glory was like seafoam: beautiful, fleeting, destined to dissolve beneath the waves of capital and power.
Julien, walking back toward the center circle, happened to lock eyes with Girard for a brief moment.
Girard nodded respectfully.
He admired Julien. Last season, in conversations with Jean-Louis Gasset and Laurent Blanc, when Gasset had asked if Blanc would call Julien up to the national team, Girard had already been impressed. He'd quietly recommended Blanc pay close attention.
Julien didn't know any of this. Blanc had never mentioned it. So, when he saw Girard's kind expression, he simply smiled back.
Julien also waved toward the VIP section—not just to the fans, but to Deschamps, Zidane, and Blanc.
Seeing the gesture, they all smiled. Zidane said, "This kid's progressing so fast. I met him over a year ago. I knew he'd be great, but I didn't expect this."
Blanc sighed with mock regret. "Yeah, and he's the one I brought up. Didier just swooped in and reaped the reward."
Deschamps laughed. "I wouldn't call it 'swooping.' I'll make sure everyone remembers your contribution, Laurent."
Blanc said nothing, but his mind was elsewhere. He'd been resting for a year, refining his tactical philosophy and man-management skills. PSG had already approached him with an offer.
He was considering it.
If Julien were joining PSG, Blanc wouldn't hesitate—he'd sign immediately. But Julien was leaving Ligue 1.
'Such a Shame.'
Blanc glanced at Zidane. "Is this Julien's last home match?"
Zidane thought for a moment. "I think so. They have three games left—two away league matches, and the Europa League final next week in the Netherlands. This should be his last game at Cesari."
Blanc nodded, then gestured toward the Ultras Bastia section. "I was wondering why they didn't do anything before kickoff. Look—there's something under their seats. I bet they're saving it for after the match. Big display's coming."
Zidane and Deschamps followed his gaze.
Indeed.
Suddenly, the crowd gasped.
Montpellier, trying to spark something offensively after the restart, launched a speculative long-range shot.
It flew miles over the bar.
The shooter, Cabella, shook his head and raised his hands apologetically to his teammates.
Bastia took the goal kick and calmly began building from the back. De Bruyne orchestrated the tempo with precision, moving the ball forward methodically.
The truth was, Montpellier's current squad was significantly weaker than Bastia's. The scoreline didn't surprise anyone paying attention. If this weren't a title decider, the match might not have drawn nearly this much attention.
And as Bastia grew more comfortable in possession, Julien became increasingly dangerous on the right flank. When Montpellier shifted their defensive focus right, Mané found space on the left.
Within ten minutes, Bastia fired off five shots: two from Julien, two from Lukaku, one from Mané. All narrowly missed.
27th Minute
Bastia struck again.
Julien received the ball in the right half-space, with both Bedimo and Utaka closing him down. He dropped his shoulder as if cutting inside, then flicked the ball wide with his right foot's outside, faking a cross.
But just as both defenders committed, he chopped the ball back inside with his right instep, burst forward with his left foot, and exploded through the gap.
A quick elastico—and he was through the double-team.
The crowd gasped again.
Cutting into the box, another center-back rushed over to block the shooting lane.
Julien raised his left leg as if winding up for a near-post rocket. The defender and goalkeeper both bought the fake completely.
But instead, his ankle flicked and he threaded a perfect, low diagonal pass through the forest of legs, right to Lukaku at the penalty spot, completely unmarked.
In the chaos Julien created, he'd spotted Lukaku's movement.
The ball arrived at Lukaku's feet. All he had to do was tap it in.
2-0.
Lukaku pointed at Julien, then charged toward the stands, mimicking Julien's signature celebration—arms spread wide, soaking in the adoration.
The fans roared even louder.
"2-0! 2-0!!"
They screamed the scoreline over and over, because it meant one thing: the trophy was almost theirs.
The stands seemed to pulse, the entire structure vibrating as 20,000 hearts beat in unison, as if the concrete itself had come alive.
The TF1 commentator echoed the sentiment: "Bastia are just one hour away from making history!"
On the touchline, Hadzibegic allowed himself a smile—one of deep satisfaction, of a plan coming together.
He turned and embraced his assistant coach, celebrating briefly.
Then, like flipping a switch, he snapped back into manager mode. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted toward Van Dijk and the defensive line: "Stay focused! Shape! Remember the shape! The match isn't over!"
But when his eyes found Julien, they were filled with undisguised pride.
This goal perfectly validated his tactical blueprint: use Julien's unmatched dribbling and vision to tear apart even the most organized defenses.
Against Benfica in the final, he'd do the same thing.
And most people still underestimated Julien's ability as a left winger. Hadzibegic hadn't given him many chances to showcase that yet.
He believed Julien would surprise everyone.
Bastia's celebration was brief.
TWEET.
The match resumed.
But the noise in Stade Cesari never dropped. If anything, it grew more relentless—every successful Bastia pass met with sharp cheers, every Montpellier touch drowned in mocking jeers.
A sense of inevitability hung in the air. The fans believed. The players believed.
We've got this.
Just seven minutes later, Bastia delivered the knockout blow.
Julien picked up the ball on the right and drifted infield, dancing past challenges like a matador, drawing three defenders toward him like moths to flame.
After two goals created by him, Julien was now Montpellier's nightmare.
Three players united.
But just before they closed the trap, Julien spotted the gap on the weak side. With his left foot's outside, he clipped a perfectly weighted curling pass back across the box.
The ball nutmegged Utaka, rolled across the penalty area, and found De Bruyne, who'd surged forward into space, completely unmarked.
De Bruyne didn't break stride. He met it first-time with his right foot and unleashed a thunderbolt.
The ball rocketed toward goal like a cannonball.
A recovering midfielder, Stambouli, threw himself into the path—
THUD.
The ball smashed into his back and ricocheted violently.
Goalkeeper Pionnier had already committed the wrong way. He could only watch as the deflection spun past him and bulged the net.
3-0.
Julien sprinted over and slapped De Bruyne's back. "What a strike!"
De Bruyne laughed, half in disbelief at his own fortune. He didn't celebrate extravagantly—just high-fived his teammates and waved to the fans chanting his name.
The roar in Stade Cesari was deafening.
The belief in the air was now a certainty: the title was coming.
De Bruyne stood there, absorbing the love pouring down from the stands, and felt something complex stir inside him.
He'd fallen in love with Bastia. But the season had only three matches left. Which meant his loan was ending. He'd have to return to Chelsea.
At the start of the season, he'd arrived from London feeling lost, viewing Corsica as a temporary stopover—a place to prove himself before moving on.
But now, his chest swelled with belonging.
He loved the sea breeze here. He loved the fans' unconditional, earsplitting passion. He loved the telepathic connection with Julien. He loved this team's fiery, unbreakable soul.
Here, he'd found a starring role, unwavering trust, and the joy of playing pure football.
But reality ticked like a countdown.
Three matches left: two league games after this, and the Europa League final. It felt like a beautiful dream on the verge of ending.
His loan would expire. He'd return to Chelsea—a place full of uncertainty, where he'd struggled and doubted himself.
So, his celebration carried a trace of melancholy.
He hugged each teammate tightly, as if trying to etch this moment into memory. He gazed at the stands, responding to their cheers, as if saying goodbye—or greedily soaking up every last drop of warmth.
Julien seemed to sense De Bruyne's emotions.
He walked over, draped an arm around his shoulder, and they strolled toward the center circle together.
Quietly, Julien said, "Kevin, enjoy this moment. Remember—no matter where you are, you'll always be my best partner. If the road in London doesn't work out, you know where I'll be. My door is always open. But right now, let's go win this trophy together."
De Bruyne didn't answer.
He just patted Julien's back.
TWEET.
The referee's whistle blew.
Play resumed.
But at 3-0, Montpellier's players understood the gap between the two sides.
Their spirit had crumbled.
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