After the embrace ended, Julien stepped back among his teammates. Chataigner composed himself and continued:
"Of course, this isn't only about Julien! This is about N'Golo, about Kevin, about Romelu, about Emiliano, about our Coach Faruk, about everyone who bled and sweated for this team!"
Chataigner shouted out every first-team player's name.
Then he carefully caressed the trophy on the stage.
"This trophy belongs to everyone who ever shouted at Stade Armand Cesari! To everyone who never abandoned blue for thirty-five years! To every Bastia soul who believed in miracles!"
"FIGHT ON, BASTIA!!"
The crowd continued its euphoria.
Chataigner's voice lowered, filled with deep emotion: "The football world is always coming and going. The future will bring changes. But some things never change."
"The history we created together—no one can take that away!"
"These joyful tears we've shed for this championship—no one can wipe them away!"
"This pride of being Bastia's in our hearts—no one can steal it!"
"So today! Under the watchful gaze of Emperor Napoleon himself!"
He pointed toward the statue at the square's center.
"Let us tell the world: The heart of Corsica will never walk alone! Bastia—champions forever!"
He thrust the microphone toward sky, surrendering himself completely to that thunderous blue wave of tears and cheers below.
Chataigner had ignited the crowd.
Next, Hadzibegic spoke briefly, thanking everyone before screaming hoarsely: "This championship belongs to you! To every Bastia person!"
Then the microphone reached owner Geronimi's hands.
He was already in tears—his finest investment ever.
He could barely speak, finally managing only: "You are the greatest fans!"
When captain Julien took the microphone and stepped forward, the square's decibel level hit its peak.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!"
Tens of thousands chanted his name in unison, the sound wave threatening to tear the sky apart.
He surveyed the endless human tide below, silent for several seconds, as if absorbing this incredible scene.
"Thank you!" His opening words were simple.
"Thank you, Bastia! Thank you all for your support! This championship belongs to everyone here!"
Before he could continue, massive cheers drowned him out.
"Two years ago when I arrived, I was... lost. Monsieur Chataigner gave me trust. The coaching staff gave me patience. Your every chant, your unwavering loyalty—you pulled me from the mud, taught me how to run again, how to shoot again, how to love football again.
Some say this trophy is my farewell gift to Bastia. No—you're wrong.
This trophy is a gift we gave ourselves!
It's the perfect answer to these two years we shared—all the sweat, all the effort, all the perseverance!
I'll never forget the boy who told me my dribbling was like sea wind—Antoine.
His father is here today.
I want to tell him: Sir, your son didn't choose the wrong person.
This trophy—Antoine has a share in it too."
Staff had positioned Antoine's father in the front row. Julien walked to him, embracing him.
Everyone witnessed the father's tears, moved beyond words.
Thunderous applause erupted.
Julien patted the sobbing father and returned to the stage.
"I'll never forget the melody of 'Allez Bastia.' This time has been the happiest, most joyful period of my life."
Julien paused, his tone becoming resolute.
"Yes, everyone knows—my next destination is Liverpool. It will be an entirely new challenge in my career.
But please believe me: no matter which club's shirt I wear, I'll always be that kid who emerged from Fontenay-sous-Bois's gravel pitches. My heart will forever beat for Bastia blue!
This isn't goodbye. This is just 'see you later.'
Just like I wrote in my post online—someday, after experiencing everything the wider world offers, I'll return here. I'll finish my career as a Bastia player.
Beginning at Bastia. Ending at Bastia.
That's the career I've planned for myself.
So today—let's not cry!
Let's celebrate! Let's party! Celebrate this incredible miracle we created together!
Because Bastia will never walk alone!
I love you! Long live Corsica! Long live Bastia!"
After nearly shouting these final words, Julien lowered the microphone. Facing the entire crowd, he bowed deeply, nearly ninety degrees and held the position for a long moment.
When he finally raised his head, tears flowed down his face.
The atmosphere reached its absolute zenith—crying, laughter, shouting, and applause fused into one overwhelming surge.
Julien wiped his tears, his voice choked: "I said no crying—today's for celebration! Come on—BASTIA ARE CHAMPIONS!!"
He shouted again.
The crowd echoed him in unison: "BASTIA ARE CHAMPIONS!"
"WE ARE CHAMPIONS!"
Simultaneously, countless blue streamers erupted from all sides of the stage like a blizzard, instantly blanketing the entire square.
Through the speakers, Bastia's anthem began playing.
The crowd exploded into frenzied jumping, singing, weeping, embracing.
No conductor. No rehearsal.
The players linked arms, standing shoulder to shoulder in a line across the stage. Together with tens of thousands below, they became one massive entity, launching into that anthem already fused into their bloodstreams.
The singing wasn't perfectly synchronized—choked sobs, raw cries, and voices cracking from sheer force constantly joined in, making the melody rough but extremely real.
Lukaku's massive arm pulled Julien and De Bruyne tight against his shoulders. Head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming from the corners—yet still he sang with full power.
De Bruyne abandoned his usual composure. One hand thrust high, punching the rhythm with fierce intensity, as if carving this final melody into his heart.
Julien stood at center, left hand pressed firmly over his chest where the badge lay. Each shout made his body tremble slightly.
Ten minutes of singing felt like an entire century compressed.
When the final note finally trembled away into the air, the square sank into brief, heavy silence—only the sea wind rustling through flags.
The players faced the East Stand.
They gave a deep bow.
They rose, turned toward the South Stand.
Another deep bow.
West Stand.
North Stand.
Each bow received roaring responses mixed with crying from that section.
After the final bow, Julien as captain stood at the forefront. He pounded his right fist hard against the badge on his left chest and held it there.
Every other player mirrored the gesture.
Finally—
It ended.
The ceremony concluded.
But the celebration didn't. People in the square didn't immediately leave.
Many remained standing in place, gazing up at the empty stage, at Napoleon's silent silhouette, at the sky gradually filling with clouds—as if still savoring the song's warmth that hadn't yet departed.
When the sea wind finally dispersed the blue smoke lingering all around and dried the tear-tracks on countless faces, an era had ended in the most glorious fashion possible.
The team bus eventually returned to Bastia's training complex, shutting out the clamor.
Only the daily churning of seawater could be heard.
Stepping off, Julien glanced back toward the facility's main gate.
The deafening chorus still seemed to buzz in his ears—like the lingering echo of a dream he didn't want to wake from.
His hands still retained the sensation of countless touches from when he'd tossed scarves into the crowd—scorching, rough, carrying Corsica's distinctive vitality.
"It's over."
The thought struck without warning.
He suddenly realized: his Bastia story had truly ended.
Not through failure. Not through regret. Not through a quiet departure.
But in the most extreme, most glorious, most unforgettable way—at the absolute peak, it ended abruptly.
A sharp ache surged through his nose. Everything in front of him blurred into wavering watercolor.
He remembered everything.
Goals. Cheers. Teammates. Fans. Passion. Promotion. Championships. Celebrations.
Countless fragments like Bastia's summer storms hammered violently into his mind.
He knew the newspapers outside had already blazed with headlines: "Liverpool's New Core," "Record Transfer," "New Era."
But in this moment, that clamorous future felt distant.
Occupying his entire soul was only this rough seaside training ground beneath his feet, the salty dampness saturating the air, and that blue ocean before him that had boiled and wept for him.
He realized the purest, most passionate, most recklessly loving and beloved journey of his life was about to be permanently sealed into memory.
This wasn't failure. This was blessed loss.
He'd achieved the perfect ending every player dreams of.
The price: he had to leave the place that created it all.
Beneath this surging tide of parting sorrow, an entirely different scorching undercurrent began churning in his depths—
The burning desire for what lay ahead. The call of "You'll Never Walk Alone" about to echo around Anfield.
The unstoppable ambition to prove himself in the world's most elite league.
He'd lost a blue ocean.
But he was about to conquer a red mountain range.
He drew a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the surging attachment and melancholy trying to overflow, replacing it with a resolve mixed with sadness.
One last look at Bastia's training pitch.
One last look at this land where he'd fought for two years yet felt like a lifetime.
Then Julien turned and walked toward the dormitory.
He didn't look back.
Because he knew: some stories must close their final page at the most glorious moment to become legend.
His Bastia story had ended.
But the Anfield story awaited—ready for him to write an even more magnificent opening chapter with the same passion and sweat.
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