Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca

"We will definitely defeat them."

Jires was in his hotel room in Bastia, fiddling with his phone as he texted his younger brother.

The reply came back quickly: "No, you won't necessarily win. I told you, De Rocca is very strong."

"Tomorrow you'll see my performance."

After sending this message, Jires tossed his phone onto the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling.

A thought surfaced in his mind—he absolutely had to defeat De Rocca!

Because he had discovered that his younger brother Kylian Mbappé, who had always followed behind him since childhood and treated him as an idol, was now repeatedly mentioning De Rocca's name in front of him.

From the gleam in Kylian's eyes, Jires understood that his brother's idol was no longer himself.

This was somewhat disheartening. Therefore, Jires needed to fight for his position as his brother's idol. He had to prove he was stronger!

That night in his dreams, Jires' mind was hazily filled with echoes of De Rocca's name.

When Jires joined his teammates for warm-ups on the hotel rooftop, they could already see all of Bastia coming alive.

Streets stretched out like blood vessels, connecting to the Stade Armand Cesari.

Countless fans, wearing blue jerseys like blue blood, were being pumped toward the Cesari stadium.

The blue of the Mediterranean Sea had spread onto land, spreading throughout Bastia and the Cesari.

"Mon Dieu," whispered one of the Rennes players. "Look at them all."

The players' eyes showed surprise as they looked at each other.

A Ligue 2 team with such cohesion!

This scene deeply moved Antonetti, who had once been part of this place.

He understood better than anyone the passion that flowed through these streets, the loyalty that had sustained Bastia through relegations, financial troubles, and years of heartbreak.

"En enfer comme en Ligue 1," He murmured to himself, the words carrying a thousand memories. Whether in hell or in Ligue 1—the motto that had become Bastia's battle cry.

Even when the club had plummeted to the third division, when sponsors fled and players left for greener pastures, the fans had remained. They had stood in the rain, sung in the cold, and dreamed of nights like this when their beloved team would once again walk among giants.

The blue waves below continued their march toward the stadium, and Antonetti couldn't help but feel a stirring of something that might have been pride, or perhaps nostalgia

This was Bastia.

Like the blue waves of the Mediterranean eternally flowing.

Six o'clock in the evening.

When the Rennes players boarded the bus to the Cesari stadium, they felt Bastia's "hospitality" even more intensely.

The moment the bus entered the city center, it was as if they had driven into the heart of a storm. Bastia supporters, their faces painted in blue and white, their voices hoarse from hours of singing, surged toward the vehicle with a passion that bordered on frenzy.

The sound of fists pounding against the reinforced windows created a thunderous beating that seemed to shake the souls of those inside.

"Rennes has no balls! All cowards!" The chant was taken up by dozens, then hundreds of voices, creating a wall of sound that penetrated even the bus's soundproofing.

"Get on the ferry and leave! Go back to your mediocre Brittany!" Another voice rose above the crowd, followed by laughter and more pounding on the windows.

Inside the bus, the Rennes players sat in various states of composure. Some stared straight ahead, their faces showing professional calmness. Others couldn't help but glance out at the sea of hostile faces, their eyes wide with uneasiness.

The younger players, those for whom this level of intensity was still new, gripped their seats a little tighter.

"We will knock you out like in 2002!" came another shout, this one accompanied by a banner that had been unfurled across the street, forcing the bus to slow to a crawl.

The reference to Bastia's famous 2-1 victory over Rennes in the French Cup sent a wave of discomfort through the team.

Other fans also shouted "professional runners-up," mocking Rennes for losing the French Cup final five times.

There were also many personal attacks and trash talk.

The roads were congested with the blue tide.

The Rennes bus was banged so loudly that Bastia's police could no longer remain idle—fun was fun, but work was work.

Officers in riot gear formed human chains, pushing back the crowd just enough to allow the bus to continue its journey.

But the Bastia supporters were far from finished. As they were dispersed from the vicinity of the bus, they began to sing—not the raw, aggressive chants of moments before, but something more organized,.

The melody was familiar to the Rennes players, a twisted version of their own team anthem, but the words that resounded through the air were pure poison:

"Cry, Rennes! In gray old Brittany, your past crumbles—

Corsica rises, the trophy is ours.

You fall again… Bastia stands tall.

Crawl back to your mothers, back to your beds,

1965 was your last thread.

Final after final, your courage breaks—

Even Ligue 2 makes your legs shake.

Oh Rennes, the red fades to pale—

Forever second, doomed to fail."

The voices rose and fell in perfect harmony, accompanied by the clapping of thousands of hands. More and more fans joined in as the song spread through the crowd like wildfire.

The small groups of Rennes away supporters, vastly outnumbered but not outmatched in spirit, fought back with their own chants: "We're in Ligue 1, you're in Ligue 2!" and "Ligue 3 is waiting for you!"

But the Bastia fans in their numerical superiority and home advantage, had a response that was both simple and devastating. They began to chant just one word, over and over:

"Rien! Rien! Rien!"

Nothing.

Rennes sounds like "Rien," and in French, "Rien" means nothing—no trophies, no glory, no hope.

As the bus finally reached the safety of the stadium complex, the sound of ten thousand voices chanting "Rien" followed them through the gates like a malicious spirit.

As the fans traded barbs, the bus drove into the stadium.

Soon, both teams' players came out to warm up. At this point, the North Stand of the Cesari stadium was almost completely filled with UB members.

They were making noise.

Every time Julien touched the ball during warm-ups, he received shouts from the North Stand fans.

"Julien!"

"The Prince of Cesari!"

Every shout reached Jires's heart, making him glance sideways at Julien—that slender player.

During warm-ups, the UB members in the stands raised many banners:

"Rennes: Your museum's bigger than your trophy room!"

"In Brittany, even the sheep have more guts than you!"

"1965 — How many centuries ago was your last title?"

The Rennes players on the field tried not to be affected by the Bastia fans.

Professional players should adapt to such away atmospheres.

Soon, they might be playing in a stadium full of smoke bombs.

This was normal in France.

In the locker room, Châtaigner stood in the corner, his expression showing slight nervousness.

Hadzibegic gave the final team talk, his eyes blazing as he surveyed the entire team:

"Look at the badge on your chest— It's not just a piece of cloth—it's Bastia's backbone, it's the heart of Corsica, it's the dreams of every child who has ever kicked a ball in these streets."

"Outside is the battlefield," Hadzibegic continued, his voice rising slightly. "When you walk out of that door. You become Bastia's warriors, the inheritors of every player who has ever worn this jersey with pride."

The room fell silent except for the distant rumble of the crowd above.

"Did you hear the fans' shouts just now?" The coach's gaze swept the room. "They're not just cheering—they're believing. They're dreaming. And I don't want you to be like Rennes, to be called cowards with no balls, to be remembered as the team that couldn't rise to the occasion when it mattered most."

His attention focused on Julien, who sat quietly in the corner.

"Julien," Hadzibegic said, his voice softening slightly but losing none of its intensity. "When you get the chance—and you will get the chance—don't hesitate. Don't think. Just go. Even if you make mistakes ten times, keep going on the eleventh. Their defense has never faced the kind of pressure you can bring."

Then his gaze swept across the entire team.

"And you," His voice rose again, addressing the entire team, "hold the line! Every tackle, every header, every sprint—do it like your life depends on it. Because tonight, in a way, it does."

"Forza Bastia!" Hadzibegic's voice exploded through the room, his fist raised toward the ceiling.

The response was thunderous, as if the room itself had been waiting for this moment: "FORZA BASTIA!"

Rothen, as captain, was the first to leave the locker room.

The other players followed. Everyone's face showed determination as they left, like soldiers truly going to battle. Ready to die for the cause!

As Julien left the locker room, he happened to see Châtaigner, who smiled at him and said, "Good luck!"

Julien nodded and followed his teammates.

In the tunnel, players from both sides didn't interact, everyone was carrying their desire for victory.

But Julien felt a gaze upon him. It came from the substitute players behind. When he turned around, he saw a player.

He smiled slightly. The player returned the smile.

Julien recognized him: Jires Kembo Ekoko, Mbappé's non-blood brother.

Today, Antonetti had arranged for Jires to start on the bench.

"Let's go."

Soon, the referee signaled to the players, and everyone walked out onto the field together.

The moment Julien's boot touched the grass of the Stade Armand Cesari, the stadium erupted.

BOOM!!

The moment Julien emerged from the tunnel, the Cesari stadium erupted in thunderous noise.

The Bastia fans' anticipated match was about to begin.

"Julien! Get past them!"

"You must score and take us to the final!"

"Julien, go for it! I love you! Our whole family are your fans!"

On both sides of the tunnel, Julien heard too many voices, and his heart inevitably stirred with excitement.

Tonight's match was being broadcast widely throughout France.

The further they went in the tournament, the more fans would be watching.

After Rothen completed the pre-match ceremonies as captain, they won the coin toss, and Rothen chose the North Stand as their attacking direction.

Then he led his teammates to the center circle, waiting for the match to begin.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

WHOOSH!

The next moment, fans in the other stands let out exclamations.

Even the players on the field were attracted by this spectacle, all looking toward the source of the drumbeats.

The UB fan organization in the North Stand instantly unfurled a massive TIFO.

Then came the gasp.

At the top of the image was a trophy.

Below, a row of players in Bastia jerseys. From the numbers and names, you could see Julien positioned in the center.

Only their backs were visible, facing the trophy in the image.

No text, just the image.

But everyone knew what it meant.

Just when everyone thought that was it, the massive TIFO suddenly began burning in places.

Flames instantly swept across the TIFO, revealing a new image underneath—Julien holding the trophy high, surrounded by other players clustering around him.

In the center of the image, a sentence was written:

"BURN, CHAMPION'S HEART!"

WHISTLE!

At the exact moment the image was revealed, the referee's whistle sounded on the field.

This French Cup quarterfinal officially began!

But the Rennes players had also been stunned by the North Stand's display. When the whistle sounded, Rennes forward Youssouf Hadji hesitated for a second before kicking the ball.

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