Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca

Julien felt warm by his teammates' gestures.

In previous seasons, the club had been in chaos. Mismanagement from the boardroom had trickled down like poison through every level of the club.

Player relationships had fractured beyond repair—teammates barely speaking, factions forming in the dressing room, and trust evaporating.

The inevitable result was relegation.

But resurrection had come in the form of a returning legend. Châtaigner's homecoming had been like a master chef entering a kitchen ravaged by fire.

The sweeping changes he orchestrated: veteran players who had lost their hunger were shown the door, fresh talent was scouted and signed, and experienced fighters who still burned with ambition were brought in to provide leadership.

The result was spectacular: a dominant Championnat National title that restored Bastia to Ligue 2 like a phoenix rising from ashes.

This season had been a symphony of success. Victory songs echoed from the stands week after week, the team united in purpose and execution, their position at the summit of the league table feeling as natural as the Mediterranean breeze.

The contrast with the national team drama was obvious.

France, Netherlands, Belgium—these footballing powerhouses had squads glittering with world-class talent and carried the frenzied expectations of millions.

Yet they regularly delivered crushing disappointments, their potential was squandered on the altar of ego and internal politics. The soap opera of their dressing room conflicts had become a source of endless entertainment for neutral observers, a cautionary tale of how individual brilliance meant nothing without unity.

Despite the current harmony at Bastia, Julien couldn't bring himself to accept his teammates' generous offer. He wouldn't allow himself to disrupt the delicate ecosystem they had built.

"No," He said, his voice carrying quiet conviction. "If I only reach the golden boot by padding my stats with penalties, I'd rather not have it at all. I'll work my socks off to score for the team and for myself, but you don't need to sacrifice your opportunities for me. Besides,"

He added with a self-deprecating smile, "I'm hardly Platini from the spot—don't waste good chances on my mediocre penalties."

Rothen's face creased into a grin. His hand landed firmly on Julien's shoulder.

"Good lad, you've got proper spirit!" Rothen said, "Work hard in the upcoming matches, and I'll bust a gut to feed you the kind of service that makes strikers' dreams come true. Using just over ten matches to claim the Ligue 2 golden boot without penalties—now that would be top-quality stuff!"

The following morning brought another surge of positive press coverage.

Local newspapers splashed Bastia's latest victory across their front pages, with Julien's consistent performances earning glowing reviews that read like love letters to the beautiful game.

Every sports journalist on the island seemed to be running out of superlatives.

For Bastia supporters, these were the golden days they had only dreamed of during the dark years.

Every week delivered fresh reasons for optimism, every match performance filled with genuine excitement rather than the dread that had once branded their relationship with the fixture list.

This was a feeling they hadn't had in the past few years.

When Bastia fans gathered, their talk inevitably turned to the team's performances. Mention Julien's name, and faces would light up with the kind of pride usually reserved for discussing a family member's achievements.

Some fans, encouraged by their team's success, were already looking ahead to settling old scores.

"Ajaccio better not get relegated this season," one fan said over his morning coffee with anticipation. "When we get promoted to Ligue 1, we'll show them what's what!"

"Too right!" his friend agreed, slamming his cup down. "They used to be so bloody arrogant, looking down their noses at us. Let's see if they dare mess with us when we're back where we belong!"

The Corsican derby wasn't just a football match—it was a cultural earthquake that divided families, friendships, and entire communities. For Bastia supporters, it represented the ultimate opportunity to restore the natural order of things.

Over breakfast, Julien absently scanned the morning newspaper, his coffee growing cold as he absorbed the mixture of legitimate journalism and sensationalized fiction.

The sports pages were filled with proper match reports and tactical analysis, but the margins were messy with fabricated transfer rumors and player gossip that had little resemblance to reality.

The papers from outside Bastia showed a different picture. Some articles scoured up his past with the relish of investigators exposing a scandal, while others went further, branding him with labels like "criminal" in headlines designed to grab attention.

The criticism rolled off him like water off a duck's back.

He glanced at the publication location: Reims.

 A wry smile crossed his face—they were clearly still stinging from last night's defeat.

The morning training session came.

Following yesterday's match, Hadzibegic had mercifully granted the squad a rare day off, allowing tired bodies to recover and minds to reset.

 The training ground felt almost eerily quiet without the usual noise of shouted instructions, studs on turf, and the thud of ball against boot.

Their next Ligue 2 match would come on March 2nd—an away trip to face Boulogne.

The opposition wasn't particularly intimidating; they had been regulars in the relegation zone since the season's opening whistle, their struggles making them one of the prime candidates for the drop.

The last time in October, they had a comfortable 3-1 home victory for Bastia.

As long as they approached the match with professional focus, completing the double over Boulogne should be straightforward business.

When Julien finished his training routine, Hadzibegic found him and told him. "You won't be in the squad for the next league match,"

Julien's eyebrows rose slightly, curiosity replacing the fatigue in his expression.

"The U21 national team sent an official email to the club," Hadzibegic continued. "They should have contacted your agent as well. They want you to report for duty the day after tomorrow to participate in two U21 friendlies in early March.

They also asked for our opinion regarding your league commitments, but Châtaigner and I are in agreement—since the next opponent is relatively weak, letting you go to the national team to gain experience might be the better option."

"Alright," Julien nodded, though internally he felt a flutter of excitement. He hadn't expected the call-up to come so quickly.

While friendlies didn't offer the victory points that competitive match provided, even beating a team like Boulogne would probably only yield five or ten points at most.

Better to seize this opportunity to establish himself in the national team setup and build his reputation on a bigger stage.

Besides, such friendlies were typically low-intensity affairs, unlike the full-blooded encounters that were on senior international football.

Hadzibegic's expression turned serious. "When you get to the national team, don't you dare come back injured. You must be careful with your movements and decision-making.

Sometimes it's better to ease off rather than chase every lost cause, and definitely don't let your emotions override your intelligence. Too many promising forwards have brief moments of brilliance before quickly withering away. I hope your career can last longer than most."

Hadzibegic pointed to himself with a knowing smile. "Back in my playing days, anyone who wanted to mess with me would get a good kicking in return. But Julien, don't think that because you're young now and injuries heal quickly, you can afford to be reckless. Always remember—those who get kicked always have shorter careers than those who do the kicking."

Julien understood this was Hadzibegic offering him private tutoring in the darker arts of professional football. Knowing when to ease off, when to pick your battles, and when to protect yourself was as much a skill as any technical ability.

At the end of February, Clairefontaine retained its winter bite despite the approaching spring. The outdoor air carried a crisp coolness that made the massive complex feel like a cathedral of French football, looking simultaneously inspiring and intimidating.

Mbappé sat on a bench behind the main entranc. Beside him, his Clairefontaine classmate Alain Maumeugou shifted uncomfortably, clearly questioning the sense of their early morning watch.

Players from various national team levels occasionally passed by them, entering Clairefontaine.

Clairefontaine was not only the cradle of French football talent but also the training base for France's various national teams.

"Who exactly are you waiting for? It's bloody freezing out here, and it's much more comfortable inside," Maumeugou complained, his voice carrying the irritation of someone who had been asking the same question for the past hour.

Clairefontaine operated on a strict hierarchical system, grouping new arrivals by age and perceived ability. Maumeugou and Mbappé were in the same group, both currently at the bottom of their group's pecking order.

Shared struggle had forged a natural bond between them.

For Mbappé, who had been at Clairefontaine for almost a year, the experience had been far from the triumphant journey his family had envisioned. He had arrived from Bondy carrying the hopes and dreams of everyone who believed in him, but the reality had been a harsh awakening.

Here, everyone was talented. Here, being special in your hometown meant nothing if you couldn't prove it against the best prospects in the country.

The adjustment had been brutal, leading to a series of poor performances that had shaken his confidence to its core. The problem had been manageable until he encountered that Corsican, De Rocca.

Watching him play, learning about his journey, had crystallized the growing sense of disparity that had been troubling at Mbappé's mind.

"I'm waiting for a guy from Corsica," Mbappé said, his voice carrying an odd mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. "He's made it to U21 level."

He couldn't fully explain why he needed to see De Rocca again. Perhaps it was because learning about the Corsican's experiences had filled him with admiration and a burning desire to understand how someone could overcome such obstacles.

Or maybe it was something else—the way a thirteen-year-old standing at a crossroads instinctively falls toward a successful example of similar age, hoping to absorb whatever magic made the difference.

"Napoleon?" Maumeugou asked with a confused frown, his knowledge of Corsica extending no further than its most famous son.

Mbappé nodded, his eyes scanning the approaching figures. "Yeah, he might become the Napoleon who sweeps across the European continent—"

"Hey! Kylian."

The familiar voice came like a warm greeting from an old friend. Mbappé felt his heart skip as he saw De Rocca approaching.

Relief flowed through him, washing away the anxiety that had been building all morning. "He still remembers me," He thought.

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