Dawn broke gently over Corsica.
The first pale golden rays crept over the mountain ridges, casting their tender light upon Bastia—a city still wrapped in slumber.
After a night of almost delirious celebration, Bastia now lay in the grip of a collective hangover, radiating peace and quiet. The narrow streets bore scattered remnants of last night's euphoria: blue scarves draped casually over bench backs, empty bottles glinting in shadowed corners, a single shoe lying abandoned beside the plaza fountain—abandoned by some jubilant soul in the chaos of joy.
Clusters of supporters huddled in doorways and alleys, wrapped in flags, sleeping soundly with satisfied smiles still at their lips.
In the distance, the Mediterranean rose and fell with regular calm, its waves breathing as softly as the rare silence that had settled over the city.
But beyond Corsica's shores, the ripples of Bastia's dark horse miracle spread out in ever-widening circles.
The ferment had only just begun.
Football fans have always been drawn to the sport's dual narratives. They long to witness giant clubs forge unforgettable dynasties, to bask in the constant brilliance and glory built over decades. Yet they equally crave the sight of underdogs writing their own miraculous tales, cheering for dreams born in small-town streets and forgotten corners.
Football's most moving magic lies in its ability to carry both stories simultaneously.
And Bastia's story was the perfect script for the latter—proof that on any football pitch, miracles are always waiting to happen.
Across Europe, sporting directors and chief scouts were already deep in thought about Bastia's core players.
For the elite clubs, such miracles represented prime opportunities to inject fresh blood into their squads.
Without question, Julien De Rocca's name shone brightest among Bastia's constellation of talent. The 18-year-old captain had led his team into the history books.
But the directors of second-tier clubs understood the reality: a genius of De Rocca's caliber was beyond their reach.
So, they turned their attention to the others.
N'Golo Kanté. Kevin De Bruyne. Romelu Lukaku. Virgil van Dijk. Sadio Mané.
A single final had set the entire transfer market blazing. Scouts and directors who had watched the match now scrambled to compile reports, make calls, prepare offers.
Bastia had received numerous inquiries already—some tentative, others brazenly direct.
Chataigner found himself drowning in work.
He'd always handled the club's affairs himself. When Bastia was smaller, he'd managed everything, convinced his energy was limitless. But now, finally, he recognized the truth: human energy has its limits.
He'd recruited assistant coach Dominique to help manage the mundane tasks while he, Dominique, and Coach Hadzibegic grappled with the summer's crucial decisions: which players could be sold, which must be kept at any cost.
And more pressingly—how should they approach next season? After all, they'd be playing in the Champions League.
Chataigner had never imagined Bastia reaching European football's premier stage. But he also understood the harsh reality: the team couldn't make a genuine run in the Champions League, even with Julien leading them.
The club was buried under debt. They desperately needed to recoup funds. Forget making new signings for the Champions League—they couldn't even afford to keep their current squad intact.
Take De Bruyne's position alone—who could possibly replace him?
And keeping De Bruyne was impossible. His performances this season had elevated his value to at least €30 million.
Even winning the Europa League had netted them only €6 million in prize money—less than Chelsea and Fenerbahçe had earned despite being eliminated, simply because those clubs had also collected Champions League payments.
Six million euros was significant for Bastia, certainly. But thinking they could strengthen the squad with that pittance? That was pure delusion. That money wouldn't even cover their loan repayments.
A single cup conquest doesn't transform a club's fundamental nature. Building a genuine powerhouse requires sustained investment, a continuous stream of talented players, generation after generation fighting for the badge.
Bastia had been fortunate once before, when they'd had Claude Papi. That generation had reached the UEFA Cup final.
Now they had Julien De Rocca—younger, and somehow achieving even more.
Europa League champions. A domestic treble. Things no one associated with Bastia had dared to dream.
Despite his exhaustion, Chataigner had bought nearly every sports newspaper he could find, eagerly devouring how the media covered their miracle.
The feeling was intoxicating.
Reading the gushing praise, Chataigner felt himself floating.
Near midday, as lunch approached, Chataigner finally lifted his gaze from the morning's news, looking satisfied.
He looked out at the sunlight streaming through his window, thinking life had never felt so beautiful.
Then his phone rang.
Initially, he considered ignoring it. He'd been fetching calls constantly—all with the same tedious script: "How much for player X? What about player Y?"
Like they were shopping at a fucking supermarket.
Not just elite clubs either. Mid-table and lower-tier teams from Europe's top four leagues were all circling, ready to carve up Bastia's carcass. At this rate, they wouldn't field a team next season.
But when Chataigner saw the caller ID—Julien—he answered immediately.
Julien was still in the Netherlands. The squad wouldn't return to Bastia until afternoon. After such lengthy celebrations, they needed rest. The final two league matches of the season meant nothing anyway, so Chataigner had granted them time off.
What Julien told him made Chataigner's mind go blank.
"What?! Liverpool?!"
The shock in Chataigner's voice was obvious even over the phone.
Julien understood the reaction. He continued calmly: "My father Pierre will contact you with details. The Liverpool takeover hasn't been completed yet, but it should finalize shortly after the season ends. They'll have a full summer window to work with. For now, don't confirm anything publicly—keep your statements vague if pressed. You can hint at uncertainty."
"No problem!" Chataigner agreed instantly, his thoughts racing.
Then Julien's next words made his scalp tingle.
"Regarding the transfer fee—the Saudi buyers are very serious. They're prepared to match my release clause figure."
"Good, good, good!"
Chataigner barely knew what he was saying. His mind went momentarily blank—what even was Julien's release clause? €80 million? €90 million?
After a few more brief exchanges, Julien ended the call. He had other matters needing attention.
Julien himself was shocked by the news, though he tried not to show it.
He hadn't expected the Saudi investors to move so decisively. After watching him lift the Europa League trophy, they'd apparently decided to stop negotiating with Fenway Sports Group and simply met their £700 million asking price outright.
Perhaps to them, such money was trivial—they merely had to wait for more oil to bubble up from the ground.
They wanted the deal concluded quickly.
When Abdullah's call had come through earlier, Julien had been stunned by the speed of their actions.
More than that, Abdullah had highlighted an ambitious picture:
"We're not buying Liverpool to play around. We're building a new dynasty—one that will dominate. And you'll be the foundation of that dynasty.
On the sporting side, our plan is simple and clear: win the Premier League within three years, conquer the Champions League within five.
This isn't empty talk—it's a commitment backed by concrete steps.
This summer, we'll offer you a contract making you the league's highest-paid player, alongside a transfer budget that will shock all of Europe. Every penny will be spent building around you.
We know elite players need elite environments. We'll completely renovate the Melwood training facility—investing over £30 million in a state-of-the-art recovery center with the most advanced sports science equipment, including Germany's latest underwater treadmills and cryotherapy chambers. Everything our players might need to prevent injuries and recover faster.
You came from Clairefontaine. You understand youth development's value. We'll comprehensively upgrade the Kirkby Academy. We want future generations of talent, players like you—emerging from Liverpool to conquer the world.
Finally, about your legacy. At Liverpool, you won't just win trophies—you'll define an era. Gerrard is aging. Anfield has been waiting for a new king, a new standard-bearer.
We can make you this city's hero. Your name will stand alongside Dalglish and Gerrard.
Imagine it—at Anfield, the most passionate stadium in world football, with 'You'll Never Walk Alone' echoing around you, leading this team as its absolute core. Making it all real.
This isn't a dream. It's a blueprint we'll build together."
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