Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca

The lights of the cramped press room casted shadows across the face of Hadzibegic as he settled into his chair, still wearing his dampened tracksuit from the touchline.

What followed stunned even the most seasoned journalists in attendance.

"Yes, we've temporarily become first in the league," Hadzibegic began, his voice carrying the gravelly tone of someone who had spent decades shouting tactical instructions from sidelines across France.

He paused, running a hand through his graying hair before continuing with humility. "We have no pressure because we only want to avoid relegation. The current situation is good, everything is under our control, and we want to continue moving forward."

The reporters exchanged glances, some struggling to hide their amusement at the coach's persistent refusal to acknowledge their achievement.

Here was a man whose team had just claimed the summit of Ligue 2, yet he spoke as if they were still battling in the relegation zone.

"Of course, every upcoming match is the team's most important game," Hadzibegic continued, his hands gesturing. "The last time we had such a high ranking in Ligue 2 was back in 1968. Good God, I was only an 11-year-old child then, dreaming of football while kicking a ball around the dusty streets of my neighborhood. So, we must keep our feet on the ground, take it step by step, and play every match well."

'Hadzibegic still talking about avoiding relegation!'

The thought went through the heads of press corps.

Several reporters bit their lips to suppress grins, while others shook their heads in bewildered admiration. Even Rothen, beside his coach found himself fighting back laughter.

Meanwhile, on the other side, Fournier, Reims' head coach couldn't laugh at all. It was just as he had expected.

The reporters had indeed brought up his previous statement—that declaration that he could prevent Julien from scoring—and now they circled like vultures, ready to pick apart his tactical miscalculations and pride.

Most reporters, had enough professional courtesy and experience to recognize a man on the edge, and held back from the most pointed questions.

However...

"Coach Fournier," a reporter began, his voice carrying the slight accent of the island, "you stated before the match that you could prevent Julien from scoring. How do you view his performance in this match?"

The reporter asking this particular question was from Le Quotidien de Bastia—a local journalist with nothing to lose and everything to gain from a headline that would sell papers across Corsica.

Fournier's face darkened like storm clouds gathering over the Mediterranean. The muscles in his jaw tightened, and for a moment, the room held its breath.

"Sorry, I have some urgent matters to handle immediately," He said, his voice clipped and professional.

Without another word, he pushed back his chair and turned and walked away from the post-match press conference, leaving behind a room full of reporters.

'Refusing to be interviewed!'

Fournier's departure didn't stump the Bastia reporter, whose mind was already racing with possibilities.

The headlines practically wrote themselves: "Pre-match boast about stopping De Rocca from scoring, post-match meltdown refusing interviews,"

or "Fournier left speechless by Julien's performance," or perhaps something more creative.

Either way, it was all about Bastia winning, and the reporter knew that his editor would be delighted with the copy that would soon flow from his keyboard.

The Stade Césari had witnessed many moments of triumph and despair over the decades, but tonight they seemed to fill with a special energy. The fans, hoarse from ninety minutes of singing and chanting, remained in their seats long after the final whistle, reluctant to let this magical evening slip away into memory.

Groups of supporters embraced strangers, tears of joy mixing with the evening mist that rolled in from the Mediterranean. Scarves were waved like banners of conquest, and the traditional songs of Corsican football echoed through the night air, carrying across the harbor where fishing boats dipped gently in the darkness.

Eventually, as the stadium lights began to dim and the ground staff appeared with their cleaning equipment, the ecstatic crowd began to disperse. But the celebration was far from over.

They flooded into the narrow streets of Bastia, streaming toward the taverns and bars that had been their gathering places through years of struggle and occasional glory.

Their team had reached the top!

The championship no longer seemed like just a dream.

"Could we really win the Ligue 2 championship this year after taking the Championnat National title last year?" asked Marcel, a dock worker whose face was flushed with wine and excitement. His eyes sparkled with the kind of wild optimism that only comes with unexpected success. "Then the Ligue 1 championship next year?! Haha, three consecutive promotions, three consecutive titles! That would be legendary!"

His friend Jacques, a fisherman looked at him with the expression of someone who had seen too many dreams dashed against the rocky shores of reality. "Has your wife's thigh squeezed your brain out? We can still hope for the Ligue 2 championship, but Ligue 1 championship? What are you thinking?"

"Hey, hey, you've got to have dreams," Marcel protested, raising his glass in a toast to impossible possibilities.

"I'd rather believe your son isn't your biological child than believe the team could win Ligue 1," Jacques replied with the brutal honesty that only close friends can share. "I love the team, but I'm not stupid."

A third voice, heavily slurred with alcohol, interrupted their philosophical debate: "Huh? wh-eat are uh talkin' bout."

"Hahaha!" The entire tavern erupted in laughter, the sound mixing with the clinking of glasses and the distant sound of waves lapping against the harbor walls.

The fans laughed heartily amid alcohol and victory, their joy was infectious and pure.

Tonight, in this moment, anything seemed possible. The harsh realities of professional football, the economics of the game, the vast gulf between dreams and reality—all of it faded away in the warm glow of triumph.

Back in the stadium's shower facilities, Julien stood under the pour of hot water, letting it wash away the sweat and dirt of battle. Steam rose around him, and his face was lit by a smile that seemed to come from somewhere deep within his soul.

Victory points!

Another hundred accumulated, bringing his total to a satisfying 110. In this match against Reims, he had earned 20 points—possibly because he had scored the only goal.

Without hesitation, he made his choice: the Victory Chest. His current focus was on ability enhancement rather than expanding his limits. After all, he hadn't even reached his current attribute ceilings yet, and there was still so much room for growth.

[Exchange successful!]

[Victory Points -100, Remaining Victory Points: 10]

[Obtained: Victory Chest x1]

A rush of anticipation coursed through him as he chose to open the chest immediately.

[Opening Victory Chest x1]

[Obtained random ability enhancement—Speed attribute receives additional enhancement!]

What followed was information that made his heartbeat quicken with excitement:

[Speed Enhancement +1: Additional effect, gained secondary acceleration ability. When speed reaches maximum, can overdraw stamina for secondary acceleration, speed increases by 10%, calculated based on speed attribute.

Note: When speed attribute drops below 60, this enhancement effect disappears; the longer the acceleration duration, the greater the stamina consumption, and the faster the body enters fatigue state. Forcibly using secondary acceleration while fatigued increases the probability of muscle and ligament injuries.]

[Gained secondary acceleration ability! Enhanced related synergistic attributes: Speed +2, Strength +3, Flexibility +1]

As Julien absorbed this dense information, his smile widened. Not only did he gain some synergistic attributes, but he also acquired the secondary acceleration ability.

The secondary acceleration ability was like having a secret weapon, a burst of speed that could leave defenders away when they least expected it.

'This was a breakthrough technique!'

He could already visualize the applications: counter-attacks where opponents thought they had matched his pace, only to watch in panic as he found another gear, as suddenly accelerating would definitely catch them off guard.

Of course, he was mindful of the warnings embedded in the enhancement.

The overdraw came with risks—stamina depletion, increased fatigue, and the potential for muscle and ligament injuries if misused. Like any powerful tool, it would require wisdom and restraint to use effectively.

The Victory Chest was impressive!

Each enhancement brought abilities that weren't just numerically superior but primarily different. These were percentage improvements that would continue to scale as his base attributes grew, creating a compounding effect that made every point of improvement more valuable than the last.

This realization significantly increased his motivation to continue grinding attributes. Two chest-opening experiences had taught him that each attribute enhancement brought related improvements, creating synergistic effects that made the whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Now he was increasingly looking forward to Victory Chests!

Unfortunately, he was beginning to understand that victory points were becoming harder to obtain. The matches were getting more competitive, the opposition more prepared, and the margins for exceptional performance narrower.

"It seems the only way to get large amounts of points now is still through the Coupe de France," He thought, thinking of the cup.

He then examined his updated attribute panel, noting the changes:

[Dribbling (+1): 83 (89); Passing: 78 (85)

Shooting: 76 (88); Heading: 40 (63)

Speed (+1): 70 (76); Strength: 66 (70)

Jumping: 55 (72); Stamina: 71 (82)

Defense: 20 (40); Tackling: 12 (33)

Flexibility: 64 (70); Ball Control: 90 (95)]

His defensive abilities had declined further, a natural consequence of his increasing specialization as an attacking player. His offensive capabilities, however, continued their steady upward trajectory.

Julien wasn't troubled by this imbalance. With his current stamina levels, he simply couldn't manage the physical demands of contributing significantly at both ends of the pitch. The energy required for his attacking runs and pressing already pushed him to his limits, typically allowing him only sixty to seventy minutes of peak performance.

It was a trade-off he was comfortable with, understanding that modern football increasingly valued specialists who could excel in specific areas rather than generalists who were just competent across all aspects of the game.

Soon after, Julien finished his shower and returned to the dressing room, where the lingering scent of victory still hung in the air.

His teammates were scattered around the room in various states of undress, some still buzzing with adrenaline while others had settled into the satisfied exhaustion that followed a hard-fought win.

When they saw Julien enter, their faces lit up with genuine warmth and admiration.

Rothen was the first to speak.

"We were just talking about you, we looked at this season's league scoring chart, and with 13 rounds remaining, you've entered the top twenty! And the gap between you and the two players currently tied for first is only 3 goals!"

Other teammates immediately began offering their congratulations, thumbs up, and playful slaps on the back.

Julien really hadn't paid attention to this information and didn't expect the gap in the top twenty scorers to be so small.

He said, "It's just good luck. Everyone's form has been rather ordinary this season."

Vincent jumped in with a grin. "Hehe, the two tied for first happen to be from our opponents today—Reims' two forwards, Faure and Ghilas. Haha, we kept them scoreless this match!"

"Go for it, Julien! You have a real chance at the golden boot this season!" someone called out from across the room.

Thirteen rounds.

Chasing three goals might be difficult for other players, especially given the generally low-scoring nature of this particular season. But among his Bastia teammates, there was absolutely no doubt about Julien's scoring ability.

David, the team's regular penalty taker and a player whose own scoring record was respectable, made a gesture that stunned the room into momentary silence.

"I'm out of the running, the golden boot is all up to you, Julien. If the team gets any penalties going forward, I'm willing to let you take them."

Maolida, the team's second penalty taker, immediately followed suit. "Me too,"