Back at the Stade Armand Cesari, the TF1 commentator's voice soared:
"Remember last week at the San Siro? That heartbreaking night for the Nerazzurri!
A hat-trick! One man storming the fortress, crushing a five-man press, scoring from an impossible angle—these are the labels written on Julien's résumé, and tonight he's added this otherworldly bicycle kick to compose Inter's funeral dirge!
Two legs, four goals—each one worth its weight in gold!
Each one a dagger to the heart!
He's announced to the world in completely different ways—Julien was BORN for the big stage! He IS the ultimate weapon!"
The 1-0 scoreline held, and the TF1 commentator's tone grew increasingly triumphant.
French clubs rarely enjoyed such dominance—especially against the treble winners from three years ago, Internazionale Milano.
As Inter continued failing to break through Bastia's defensive structure, the commentator continued:
"But the glory doesn't belong to Julien alone! Look at our STEEL DEFENSE! Look at the tireless N'Golo Kanté! His coverage area must be driving Inter mad—he's running the distance of two players combined!
He's the Great Wall of our midfield!
And Virgil van Dijk! He stands in the penalty area like a mountain peak! Every aerial duel carries the force to shatter everything in his path! Every block is fearless sacrifice!
Then there's Angoula, Martínez—they've built Corsica's most impenetrable fortress with their own flesh and blood!
Inter Milan's bombardment has crashed uselessly against this defensive line forged in Ligue 2's crucible!
Kanté, Van Dijk, Angoula—they're the silent foundation, Julien's most reliable support! They've weathered the storm, allowing Julien's blade to strike the decisive blow!
This is Bastia!
A blue army composed of a genius blade and an iron fortress!"
It truly was a steel defense.
Both Bastia and Inter supporters—in the stadium and watching worldwide had to acknowledge the sheer resilience of Bastia's backline.
On the pitch, as the match passed the half-hour mark, Inter's players felt their energy reserves plummeting. Most had played the weekend match against Bologna.
They were burning everything they had left, desperate for a goal.
But Bastia's defense rejected them again and again.
As Inter's attacking intensity waned due to fatigue, Bastia's defense found its rhythm, becoming increasingly impenetrable.
37th minute.
Rothen launched a long counterattacking pass. Julien collected and accelerated. Kovačić had no choice but to haul him down, receiving a yellow card.
The Croatian midfielder didn't argue, didn't protest—just hung his head and retreated silently to his defensive position.
This was the reaction of most Inter players now.
The longer they played, the more their spirit drained away.
De Bruyne helped Julien to his feet, patting his shoulder. "Want to take the free kick?"
Ever since Julien's last direct free-kick goal, most teammates seemed to view him as a set-piece specialist.
Julien shook his head slightly. "Too far. You take it."
He only possessed that instinctive feel for free kicks within shooting range.
De Bruyne's delivery into the box found Van Dijk rising majestically to power a header toward goal.
Handanović couldn't react in time.
But the Stade Armand Cesari crossbar played traitor, Van Dijk's effort clanging off the woodwork and bouncing clear for Inter to scramble away.
Grooooan!
The collective disappointment from the home supporters was palpable. Meanwhile, Inter players and fans alike felt their hearts nearly stop—three goals was already a desperate mountain to climb, but four?
That would extinguish even the faintest mathematical hope.
Fortunately, fate had left Inter one last thread to grasp.
Bastia quickly retreated into their defensive shape. They preferred no goal to conceding one.
After all, they held the lead.
Attacking now was merely a deterrent.
If not for Julien and Lukaku's presence up front maintaining the counterattack threat, Inter's assault would be even more relentless.
Soon, the final minutes of the first half ticked away.
The 1-0 scoreline held until the whistle.
TWEEEEEET!
Hearing that sound, Bastia's players exhaled with relief. A brief respite.
Especially the defenders.
Julien was probably the freshest player on the pitch—no defensive responsibilities, limited counterattacking opportunities. His stamina was in excellent condition.
Walking back toward the tunnel, Julien encountered Zanetti.
He immediately called out in English: "Javier, can we exchange shirts after the match?"
Zanetti hadn't expected Julien to request his jersey, but he almost never refused such requests—especially from Julien.
Despite being beaten several times, setting aside their opponent status, Zanetti had to admit Julien was an absolute top-tier talent, a genuinely elite player. His destructive capability on the pitch was extraordinary.
"Of course!"
Zanetti immediately removed his number 4 shirt. Julien handed over his number 10 in exchange.
After swapping jerseys, Zanetti smiled. "I won't let you get past me so easily next time."
Julien smiled back. "Maybe."
They walked toward their respective dressing rooms. Julien glanced once more at the shirtless Zanetti.
He genuinely liked this Inter legend and captain.
If you removed Zanetti's nationality from the equation—his personality, his playing style, his conduct on and off the pitch—he seemed nothing like a typical Argentine player.
His loyalty to club and family was absolute.
Inter was his first European destination and would be his last. Countless lucrative offers had been rejected—he belonged to Inter alone.
And his relationship with his friend since childhood to wife remained rock-solid. No scandals, no rumors. Outside football, his greatest commitment was the PUPI Foundation, providing aid to impoverished Argentine children.
On the pitch, his professionalism needed no explanation.
"Zanettinho"—Little Zanetti—maintained extreme discipline. There were countless amusing stories: attending his own wedding immediately after a training session, doing squats while carrying his wife during vacation, jogging circles at the airport during flight delays.
Julien watched Zanetti enter the away dressing room.
He caught a brief glimpse inside—every Inter player's expression was grim.
Julien pulled his gaze away, entering Bastia's dressing room.
The Inter changing room was a tomb.
The sour smell of sweat mixed with disinfectant and the bitter taste of defeat.
Zanetti placed Julien's shirt in his locker, grabbing a towel to wipe away sweat.
Stramaccioni's fingers gripped a whiteboard marker so tightly it was on the verge of snapping, his body was rigid as stone.
He surveyed the silent room—nothing but heavy breathing.
The air was suffocating, thick enough to wring out like a wet cloth.
Stramaccioni's gaze swept across each player's face. "Halftime score... 1-0. Aggregate... 4-1."
Each word seemed dragged from his throat, dry and cracked.
"We haven't played badly. They had one chance."
Another suffocating silence.
Stramaccioni's throat bobbed as if swallowing something unspeakable. Finally, he forced the words out: "I know what people are saying outside. I know what newspaper headlines are being prepared. I know... I know what's being attached to my name..."
The word sacked never left his lips, but everyone understood.
Another long, painful silence.
The veterans knew what they faced—they'd experienced scenes like this too many times before. This seemed no different.
The younger players lacked the courage to speak in such circumstances.
They simply looked on, confused—sensing somehow that massive change was coming to the club.
After what felt like an eternity, Stramaccioni spoke again: "Second half—defend first. Draw them out, then look for attacking opportunities."
"I know it's ugly! I know this isn't what Inter Milan should be! But hold the line! Don't let the scoreline get worse! For the badge on your chest... for the fans still singing our name—protect what dignity remains!"
Dignity. He pronounced the word with particular weight, as if it were the only thing left to cling to.
Stramaccioni had chosen the most conservative, most negative strategy possible: defend.
This wasn't tactical wisdom. This was a coach standing at the cliff's edge, driven by fear and self-preservation.
He didn't want the scoreline to become more embarrassing.
Stramaccioni looked at his players, bitterness welling inside.
He had ambitions! Dreams! But before he could implement them, he was already teetering on the brink of dismissal.
His mind drifted to that figure—Julien. One player. Four goals. Single-handedly dismantling Inter across two legs.
He could only sigh.
Zanetti sensed the atmosphere in the room, heard the unspoken resignation in his coach's words.
He exhaled slowly.
He'd never been the fiery, passionate captain type—critics had long accused him of lacking the charisma to inspire Inter in big matches. He didn't motivate with words; he led by example.
Zanetti had already decided he would retire either at the end of this season or the next.
But as long as he wore the armband, he remained Inter's captain.
"The coach is right—we can't concede again. Defense is the baseline. But brothers, we're not defending to preserve 0-1 until the final whistle."
Just that one sentence.
His teammates understood Zanetti's style completely. Heads nodded.
After all, Zanetti preferred late-game surging runs to inspirational speeches—his legs did the talking.
Zanetti's mind suddenly conjured Julien's image, replaying those moments of being beaten again and again.
But the match isn't over yet.
Compared to Inter's oppressive gloom, Bastia's dressing room crackled with battle-ready intensity.
They were walking the path toward history.
Hadzibegic repeatedly urged his players to stay calm: "Watch your challenges—don't get injured. If the opportunity presents itself, waste some time. I'm confident our fans won't mind a little 'tactical lying down' when necessary. But most importantly—MAINTAIN THE DEFENSE! Stay sharp! Don't lose your marks!"
He didn't rehash tactics lengthily—everything had been covered before kickoff.
Right now, rest was paramount.
De Bruyne noticed Julien returning with Zanetti's shirt and grinned. "If we win the trophy, I'm calling dibs on your shirt from that night."
Julien laughed. "Deal. I'll even sign it for you."
Meanwhile, in Turin, Italy
In his home study, Marotta had just finished watching the first half of the Europa League semifinal.
His fingers traced the edges of a scouting report—Leonardo's comprehensive evaluation of Julien.
This report had landed on Andrea Agnelli's desk immediately after Bastia's crushing victory at San Siro, after Julien's hat-trick performance.
But the report had been returned to Marotta's hands.
The implication was clear: Andrea had essentially said, Impossible.
Moreover, before tonight's kickoff, Andrea had sent several items to Marotta's email. First, Fiat's Q1 financial report showing a net loss of €83 million—a dramatic reversal from the previous year's €35 million profit.
Second, news coverage of Fiat's final stages in the complete acquisition of Chrysler.
Third, reports about EXOR Group's further capital injection into Fiat—primarily for Ferrari F1 research and development budgets, plus the Maranello wind tunnel expansion project.
EXOR had been formed in 2008 through the merger of two Fiat Group holding companies. EXOR held controlling stakes in Fiat Group and exercised control over subsidiary operations including Juventus Football Club and Cushman & Wakefield in the United States.
Clearly, Andrea was sending a message about why a major signing wasn't feasible.
Because at this stage, Juventus wasn't the priority in the Agnelli family's vision. Resources needed to flow toward the critical automotive business.
Despite securing their stadium in 2011, Champions League success remained elusive. After substantial investment that hadn't yet yielded returns, finding money for a transfer whose combined cost would exceed €100 million was nearly impossible.
The ongoing Eurozone sovereign debt crisis had caused Fiat—Europe's third-largest automaker to experience the worst domestic market slide in over thirty years.
More critically, Fiat's 2008 decision to acquire Chrysler during the global financial crisis remained incomplete, and the American venture was strangling their financial flexibility.
So, Andrea had told him: "Wait a bit longer. Give it two more seasons. We'll have abundant investment budgets. We'll make Juventus great again!"
Marotta understood that Juventus genuinely lacked significant funds at present.
But wait two more seasons?
Would Julien still be available for €100 million by then?
Marotta had absolutely no idea.
He could only place his hopes in this current season. They'd just demolished Celtic 5-0 on aggregate in the Champions League Round of 16, advancing to the quarterfinals.
April would bring a clash with the Bavarian powerhouse, Bayern Munich.
Both German clubs in European competition this season—Bayern Munich and Borussia Dortmund were performing frighteningly well.
This would be a brutal tie.
Marotta stared out at the quiet Turin night.
Hopefully we can advance.
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