The deafening roar of over forty thousand fans at Parc des Princes hit a strange pocket of silence, not complete, but a vacuum of sound that hung in the air like held breath.
Paris players exchanged helpless glances; palms were turned upward. There was no one to blame. Everyone had witnessed how Bastia carved through their defense. When you give speed merchants that much space, there's only one outcome.
These wo players, Julien and Lukaku had torn their backline to shreds.
Especially Julien.
The way Paris players looked at him now carried a hint of wariness, almost fear. Maxwell was still gasping for air, his mind was replaying the counterattack frame by frame, analyzing every mistake he'd made against Julien.
After scoring, Julien pumped his fist and charged toward the sideline.
He ignored the momentarily stunned Paris players, spinning toward the cameras at pitchside. Arms spread wide, head tilted back slightly in a pose of pure defiance.
Click-click-click!
Camera shutters fired in rapid succession. Half the journalists already had tomorrow's headline written in their minds: KING ARRIVES IN PARIS!
The number ten on his back.
Burned into countless memories.
In the executive boxes, Nasser Al-Khelaifi and the Paris Saint-Germain management wore expressions that weren't exactly terrible, but certainly weren't good.
Especially Nasser. Julien was the player he'd personally identified as a must-have for Paris. They'd only just made initial contact, barely started the pursuit, and already Julien was showing no mercy at all.
Nasser's refusal to postpone this match—it was partly about this. If Julien had been willing to come to Paris, they could postpone a match. Hell, they could perhaps hand Bastia the title this season if it meant securing him.
But no. The kid had chosen to walk the path of opposition.
Nearby, French Football Federation president Noël Le Graët's expression was equally sour.
When Julien rejected French football's approaches, he hadn't just dismissed the offer—he'd publicly disrespected Le Graët's authority.
But here was the problem: Le Graët didn't dare retaliate.
Julien wasn't just another French player anymore. He was French football's future.
And the kid had made his position clear: Zidane left France and won the World Cup.
To most people, it was just a simple example. But these old foggies knew exactly what Julien was really saying.
He was invoking Zidane as his protector, signaling that powerful people backed him.
Zidane's influence in French football was immense.
Moreover, Le Graët suspected those words, that entire calculated move—it had to be Zidane pulling strings behind the scenes. Could an eighteen-year-old really be that politically savvy on his own?
So, while Le Graët had countless ways to pressure an ordinary player, with Julien he had nothing. No leverage. No angle.
He could only let Julien make his own decisions.
He sighed on the inside. The problem was Julien's rise had been too meteoric. But of course, if Julien weren't this brilliant, Le Graët wouldn't be so desperate to keep him in Ligue 1 in the first place.
It was a paradox.
He was too strong—he couldn't control him.
He was not strong enough—he wouldn't want him.
After a brief moment of frustration, Le Graët's face smoothed back into a diplomatic smile.
What else could he do? But wait and see.
While he pondered, the match resumed with Paris laying siege to Bastia's goal.
Julien and Lukaku dropped deeper, but they weren't just parking the bus. Pure defense would only invite disaster. Every time Paris lost possession, Bastia launched dangerous counters.
That threat kept Paris's defensive line from pushing too high, giving Bastia precious breathing room.
Kanté and Van Dijk anchored a defensive display that felt Champions League-level in its intensity.
Ibrahimović felt more frustrated than he had in actual Champions League matches.
Even Beckham was starting to understand why Kanté had scoffed at his earlier comments. The truth was, even if Beckham were five years younger, he probably still couldn't get past Kanté.
The Frenchman's coverage was superhuman, he was everywhere at once.
This rendered Beckham nearly ineffective, and Paris's attacks, while dominating possession, created little genuine danger.
It was classic dominance without penetration.
And every Bastia counterattack sent Paris fans into fits of anxiety.
De Bruyne looked unassuming, but he kept threading passes that connected to Lukaku and Julien up front with surgical precision.
Ahhhh!
Another unified groan erupted from Parc des Princes.
Ibrahimović had just squandered Paris's best chance to equalize before halftime.
From a set piece, Beckham's delivery picked out Zlatan in the crowd with his trademark accuracy. The Swede attacked it powerfully, but prioritized power over placement—the angle wasn't sharp enough. Martinez was well-positioned and picked it cleanly.
Ibrahimovic shook his head in frustration.
That was Paris's final chance of the half. Stoppage time was nearly up.
Sure enough, as Martinez launched the ball toward midfield—
PHWEEEEET!
The referee's whistle shattered the tense silence among Paris supporters.
Halftime.
Paris Saint-Germain 0, Bastia 1.
The TF1 commentator's voice carried genuine surprise: "Halftime at Parc des Princes! An atmosphere of disbelief hangs over this stadium as Paris Saint-Germain trail league leaders Bastia 1-0!
This scoreline has defied every pre-match prediction! The statistics tell one story—Paris with nearly seventy percent possession, shots galore, corner after corner. But statistics don't score goals!
Chances aplenty, yet that final touch keeps fleeing them. Or Bastia's desperate defending snuffs them out. Meanwhile, Ancelotti's face tells the whole story. His team controls the match but can't convert, and they've been cut down by the opposition's sharpest blade.
These next fifteen minutes are crucial for Paris. They need to solve their efficiency problem, find the key to unlock Bastia's packed defense, and most importantly—contain that number ten who could strike again at any moment."
On the pitch, Bastia players were still exchanging fist bumps as they walked toward the tunnel.
"Well done, lads! More of the same second half!"
Every face radiated fierce determination. Against Paris, they'd grown stronger with each passing minute.
The Paris dressing room, by contrast, felt heavy.
Several players wore expressions of frustration and confusion.
Ibrahimović's face was like stone.
Ancelotti began in his slow Italian-accented English: "Heads up. We should be satisfied with how we controlled most of that half. We had the initiative.
Bastia has two weapons: pack the box, and wait for De Rocca or Lukaku to sprint. In terms of limiting those threats, we've done well. Remember, other teams concede multiple goals to them."
His tone shifted. "But efficiency? Where's our efficiency?
Against a defense that deep, what are our passing options in the final fifteen meters? Where's the decisiveness in front of goal?
Van Dijk is quality—his physicality and aerial ability neutralized most of our crosses."
Ancelotti's gaze swept briefly over Ibrahimovic and Lavezzi before moving on. "Kanté covers enormous ground. Their other players defend with total commitment. Yes, that's why Bastia leads the table—they have excellent players.
But that's no excuse for our wastefulness! We need faster transitions, bolder runs into the channels, and most critically—when chances come, be ruthless. They can't defend for ninety minutes without making a mistake!"
He pulled over the tactical board, and began sketching quickly. His halftime adjustments: increase tempo, add penetration, exploit width, circulate possession more rapidly.
Paris players nodded. On paper, they were far superior to Bastia. They had well-known stars; Bastia had a bunch of kids.
In Bastia's dressing room, things were simpler.
Hadzibegic gave brief defensive reminders, then quickly had the physios work on loosening tight muscles.
There were no speeches.
Just rest.
Why weren't Bastia counterattacking more aggressively? It wasn't lack of opportunity—it was physical exhaustion.
The intensity was dropping. Only the players themselves knew how much slower Julien and Lukaku were running now.
Only Julien's dribbling skill was still creating set-piece chances in advanced positions.
As the break wound down, Hadzibegic said, "Forty-five minutes left. Get through this and we've won. Even a draw works—we'd still have a one-goal cushion.
No pressure, lads.
We're seven points clear!
They're the ones who should be worried!"
"Come on!"
Hadzibegic extended his hand in the center of the room. Julien was first to rise and place his hand on top. The others followed.
In unison: "One, two, three—"
"FORZA, BASTIA!"
They marched out like soldiers heading to battle, faces set in determination.
As Mané passed, Hadzibegic clapped his shoulder. "Warm up properly. Second half, you're our spark."
Julien walked back into Parc des Princes. Still a sea of Paris blue, but his eyes found the away section, that patch of white flags bearing the black Moor's head.
He'd noticed during the first half: Bastia's traveling support had gone all out, holding their flags in the air for the entire forty-five minutes.
Only at halftime did they lower them. Now, as the second half approached, they raised them again.
This was Bastia.
As Julien looked away, his eyes met Ibrahimović's.
The swagger was gone now.
To Julien, this was just Zlatan being Zlatan—the arrogance, the soundbites that made him a cult hero, the "God" complex his fans loved.
But facts were facts: Sweden's greatest player couldn't get them to a World Cup.
At club level, he consistently wilted in big matches.
Was this a big match? Julien hadn't been sure.
But with Ibrahimovic involved, now he knew: yes, this counted as a big match.
Because once again, Ibrahimovic had gone soft.
Completely locked down by Van Dijk.
Ancelotti's gaze also lingered on Julien's back, still pondering what it would be like to sign him, to coach him. He'd worked with countless world-class talents, but Julien's profile fascinated him.
What manager doesn't love a player who delivers in decisive moments?
So many teams fail to win trophies simply because they lack someone who can provide that killer blow.
He saw Ibrahimovic's limitations clearly. The problem was—if not Ibrahimovic, who else did Paris have?
At least Zlatan could demolish weaker sides.
Soon
PHWEEEEET!
The referee's whistle launched the second half.
Bastia maintained their defensive structure. Paris made adjustments—their passing became even more frantic, probing for openings.
Back in Bastia, countless eyes were glued to television screens, watching this half that would decide everything.
At Sunset Café Bar, Martin was shouting: "Hold on! Just hold on!"
Every committed tackle, every lung-bursting sprint made them feel the blood pumping in their own veins. They wished they could be out there, giving everything for Bastia.
So even from their barstools, they were completely immersed, living every second.
"It's so hard. The players look a step slower. Are we really going to blow this lead in the second half?"
Worry crept into voices. The fixture congestion was killing them.
Players were human too, they also got tired.
"At least we scored one. Now we just have to hold it. Lukaku's dropped really deep—I think he's gassed. We should bring Mané on; he's still got fresh legs."
"JULIEN!"
A sudden shout snapped attention back to the screen.
De Bruyne eased a pass through, finding Julien.
Julien drove forward but two defenders swarmed him, giving him no space to escape. He was forced to recycle possession.
A promising counter was snuffed out.
"Damn it."
Fans exhaled heavily.
Julien was genuinely exhausted. Two high-intensity matches in quick succession, with a third coming midweek. Could the team survive this?
The clock crawled toward the sixty-fifth minute.
Bastia fans wished it would fast-forward to ninety-five.
PHWEEET!
The referee's whistle. He pointed toward the touchline.
Bastia's substitution!
Mané replacing the exhausted Lukaku.
The TF1 commentator observed: "Bastia aren't abandoning their counterattacking threat. They're not satisfied with a one-goal lead. Mané is another explosive speedster—Paris's backline faces a fresh challenge now."
The commentary was spot-on.
Five minutes after entering, at seventieth minute—Mané created an absolute golden opportunity!
Bastia intercepted the ball at Paris's feet and successfully launched a counterattack.
Julien pulled most of Paris's defensive forces to the right flank, then De Bruyne delivered a long pass, connecting directly with Mané on the left.
Mané, who had just come on five minutes ago, welcomed his first counterattack opportunity!
He faced one-on-one defense from Jallet.
In the past, Mané would have felt tremendous pressure facing Jallet—after all, Jallet was one of France's top fullbacks, an absoulute starter for both Lyon and Paris!
But now, After nearly a full season of development at Bastia, especially learning so much from Julien, things were different.
After receiving the ball, he didn't rush to break through but instead stopped to observe Jallet's movements.
Then, Mané suddenly accelerated, using his signature move—the "one-step pass."
His first step—no one in all of Bastia except Julien could keep up with it.
What Mané didn't realize was that even Julien could only keep up by using his cheat abilities.
Whoosh!
With just that one step, Mané shook off Jallet by half a body length, and immediately the entire Parc des Princes erupted in gasps of astonishment.
Some Paris fans couldn't help but hold their heads, shouting, "What kind of freaks are these Bastia players?! Why are they all speed demons?! This club's recruitment must have some sort of fetish—they only like fast forwards!"
They had good reason to be shocked—Mané's sprint was equally spectacular to watch.
In an instant, he left Jallet behind, driving the ball straight toward the penalty area. Alex came to defend, and Motta was desperately chasing back, but it was the 70th minute after all, not the 7th, his stamina wasn't enough for him to chase at full speed.
This gave Mané a one-on-one opportunity against Alex.
On the other side, Julien was also doing his best to keep up. However, before he could get into position, Mané, facing Alex, went straight at him!
Man and ball were separated!
Mané attempted to force his way down the baseline past Alex, and he actually managed to squeeze through!
Alex was clearly flustered, constantly using his body against Mané, but Mané used just a feint, he suddenly stopped and pulled the ball back, looking to cut inside.
As soon as he cut inside one step, Alex reached out his foot to intercept the ball. But because Mané had given himself good lead time, Alex not only failed to touch the ball but actually hooked Mané's foot instead.
"Ah!'
Mané cried out and fell in the penalty area.
"Hiss!"
Immediately, all the fans in the stands gasped, in that instant, the stadium fell into a vacuum of silence.
This is it!
Sure enough, the next moment, the referee's whistle blew!
Tweet!
The referee pointed to the penalty spot.
A penalty for Bastia!
The Paris players immediately began to protest and appeal, while the Bastia players' hearts surged with excitement.
After being heavily pressed for nearly half an hour, the pressure was unimaginable, this penalty swept away all their fatigue, filling them with excitement.
Palmieri came up to celebrate with a chest bump with Mané, and others hugged him too, constantly praising him.
As team captain, Julien needed to ensure the penalty decision stood.
He rushed between the referee and the Paris players, pushing the Paris players away to prevent them from contacting the referee, saying, "Don't push the ref! That's a yellow card!!"
The referee seemed to hear Julien's reminder and immediately became serious, firmly waving both hands at the Paris players, signaling them not to approach.
"This is a penalty!"
The referee's words were very certain, he was right there in front of Mané and Alex, and he had seen it very clearly.
The TF1 commentator grew excited: "Oh! Paris has attacked for so long without scoring, only to have the just-substituted Mané create a penalty!
For Paris, there are still twenty minutes left. While that's enough time, it seems difficult, especially given their attacking efficiency over these seventy minutes has been truly abysmal.
Paris's forwards—I really think Ancelotti should make adjustments. For this match, he could put up a missing person poster to find where Ibrahimović is.
Aside from a few headers, he's had almost no impact."
On the field.
Julien picked up the ball and walked to the penalty spot.
He placed the ball down.
He looked at Sirigu, his face full of confidence.
He had just taken a penalty against Tottenham, and besides, as a breakthrough-style player, penalty practice was essential.
Both sides' players took their positions.
Tweet!
The referee blew his whistle.
After his run-up, Julien unleashed a powerful shot!
Bang!
The ball flew straight toward the inside of the post, rebounding into the net. Sirigu had guessed the wrong direction from the start.
He could only watch the ball hit the net. But even if he had guessed the right direction, he would have had no chance.
0-2!
Bastia had extended their lead!
Julien's face instantly filled with an unrestrained smile as he rushed to the sideline, pumping his fist with all his might.
This time, he ran right to the corner of the away section, facing the Bastia fans in the stands, pointing at them with one hand while patting the club crest on his chest with the other.
"Julien!!"
The Bastia fans had been holding up their jerseys for nearly half an hour in the second half. They had never wavered. But now, With Julien's goal, every piece of that complete picture began to shake.
The cameras captured it all.
Hadzibegic pumped his fist even more excitedly, it was a huge advantage, a huge advantage!!
In the stands, Nasser's face had turned black, looking like he wanted to stab someone, he was absolutely furious.
Beckham and others kept clapping toward their teammates, signaling there was still a chance.
Ancelotti also finally made personnel adjustments after the restart, substituting off both Beckham and Pastore.
He brought on Menez and Verratti. However, they were powerless against Bastia's resilient defense.
Attack after attack, Disappointment after disappointment.
Instead, Bastia's counterattacks kept them on edge. Fortunately, Julien had far fewer opportunities in the second half.
Otherwise, they felt 0-2 wouldn't be the end.
Finally, after another wild shot from Ibrahimović, Paris ran out of time.
After three minutes of stoppage time, the referee even gave them several dozen extra seconds, nearly four minutes in total but he finally blew the whistle to end the match.
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