Outside Anfield, Gerrard's heartfelt words still lingered in every ear. He had just finished his final line—"Liverpool are champions!"—when he slowly bent at the waist and bowed, deep and long.
It was a bow of tremendous depth. Full of boundless devotion—to the fans, to the city, to Liverpool itself—he stayed bent for a long, long time before straightening.
Below, the fans kept roaring, wave after wave.
On the stage, the players were swept up in the moment too. Many of them were young, watching the way Gerrard was cherished by Liverpool, they couldn't help but envy him.
They, too, longed to become a symbol of a city like this.
At last, Gerrard slowly straightened. His eyes were still rimmed red, but his face had settled into a smile of release.
He waved to the fans in a temporary farewell, and stepped back into the line of players.
Then he passed the microphone to Julien beside him.
Julien took it, and for a moment, looking out at the sea of celebration below, he didn't quite know what to say.
But—under the expectant gaze of the fans, he finally spoke. "Thank you. Every single one of you—every Liverpool fan out there."
He paused. Then continued, "Ever since I came here from France, I've never hidden what I came for. I wanted the title. I wanted to stand at the very top, together with this club, together with all of you."
Clap, clap, clap!
The moment the words left his mouth, the fans below burst into applause, chanting his name.
Julien went on. "I'm not going to pretend I don't want more. One Premier League title isn't enough. I want to lift more trophies with my teammates; I want the glory of Liverpool to shine into every corner!
This is only the beginning—not the end.
At the FA Cup final, I will give everything I have to bring that trophy back to Anfield, back to you.
And next season, in the Champions League—trust us. Trust this Red Army. We will give our all, we will chase after even greater glory, and we will not let you down!
My dream has always been the title!"
The words fell silent.
And the ground shook with a deafening roar: "Julien! Julien!" echoing up into the sky again and again, without pause.
The fans' eyes were full of worship and trust. Of course, they believed in this generational talent who'd come from France—this player who had scored sixty goals in the league this season alone, who had carried the team through every battle on his back.
They believed he would keep his word. That he would lead Liverpool into an even brighter future.
Julien handed the microphone to the teammate beside him and stepped back.
But the cheering didn't stop.
The sun still hung warm in the sky, and the red flags snapped and rippled in the wind.
Liverpool are champions!
The words echoed on and on above Anfield.
The whole ceremony lasted a long while—all the way until evening before it finally ended.
The fans lingered, looking reluctant to leave, before slowly dispersing.
The players returned to the training base, where a celebration dinner awaited them.
Night began to fall.
At the Melwood training ground—the club's management had all turned out in force. Abdullah, Dein, and the rest of the core leadership wore faces full of satisfaction.
The coaching staff, every player, every member of the club's staff—all were gathered together.
Laughter and cheer filled the room. Cheers and conversation wove together in the air.
As the mood in the room built toward its peak, Abdullah stepped to the front, took the microphone, and gave a light cough.
The room gradually fell quiet.
Every eye turned to him.
He looked around at everyone and said with a smile, "Tonight, we gather together to celebrate the birth of Liverpool's first-ever Premier League title.
To every player, every coach, every member of staff—I want to say one thing: I am proud of you."
Clap, clap, clap!
The room erupted into applause.
Abdullah raised a hand for silence and continued. "Since our Fund took over this club, in just a single season, you've proven yourselves—and proven that our judgment was right.
This season, you overcame countless difficulties, gave everything you had, and with win after win, you made real a dream Liverpool had held for years. You brought glory to this city.
This title belongs to every single person who gave something to Liverpool.
Don't worry—when it comes to the championship bonus, there will only be more, never less.
Everyone who contributed will get what they deserve.
And one more thing—I promise you all: once the World Cup is over, everyone goes on holiday. The club will cover every cost. All you need to do is put down your exhaustion and enjoy the vacation you've earned."
Abdullah's speech was met with thunderous cheers across the room.
He finished, and stepped back down.
The players grinned—this was exactly the kind of speech they loved. No wasted words, straight to the one thing that mattered most: money in their pockets.
After that, Dein and the other executives came up one by one, each giving a brief address—congratulating the team on the title, praising everyone's effort, or looking ahead to future glory.
The formal part of the celebration wrapped up smoothly.
Everyone rose from their seats, clinking glasses, embracing, talking about what was to come, savouring the joy of victory to the fullest.
With the next match still a week away and a league match at that—quite a few players allowed themselves a bit to drink that night.
Julien, though, didn't touch a drop.
He went through the crowd with a drink in hand, offering brief replies to the congratulations coming his way.
When his gaze drifted toward the restaurant terrace, he spotted a familiar figure right away.
Kevin De Bruyne.
Without much hesitation, Julien carried his drink over, slowly, and pushed open the glass door.
The night air held a touch of cold, carrying away the noise of the restaurant behind him.
"What's wrong, Kevin?" Julien asked gently, coming to stand beside him.
De Bruyne turned at the sound of his voice.
Seeing it was Julien; a faint smile appeared on his face. Then he turned back to look out at the distance, and let out a soft sigh. "Nothing, really. Just feeling a bit sentimental all of a sudden. It all feels like a dream.
You know, Julien—last season we were fighting side by side at Bastia, and we won the Europa League together.
I never imagined that this season, I'd end up stuck the way I was—barely getting a single minute at Chelsea, day after day just grinding away on the training pitch alone, even starting to wonder if I'd ever get to stand on a top-flight pitch again, if I'd ever touch a trophy again.
Then—" he paused, turning to look at Julien, "—thank god you reached out. You called me here, told me there was a place for me, a chance for us to win together again.
Honestly, all I wanted was a chance to play.
I never imagined that half a season later, I'd be lifting a Premier League title with this club.
It's unbelievable. Just like last season at Bastia—we never dared hope we'd win the Europa League either.
A little over a year. From fighting together at Bastia, to me hitting rock bottom, to you pulling me back up, bringing me here, winning the Premier League—sometimes I really can't quite believe it's real.
Life is a strange thing, isn't it…"
Julien listened silently, without interrupting, his eyes were on the distant view.
When De Bruyne finished, he spoke slowly. "I understand exactly how you feel, Kevin.
We fought side by side at Bastia. I know your quality better than most—I knew you didn't deserve to be buried on a bench, which is why I called you.
But understand this—none of it was luck. It was your work, day after day, your refusal to give up, that earned you what you have now."
He turned to face De Bruyne directly. "Kevin, this is only the beginning. We've won this club's first-ever Premier League title, we've made it to the FA Cup final—there are more trophies ahead of us, more chances to build something that lasts.
Come with me. Let's build a new era together.
An era of the Red Army that makes the entire Premier League tremble."
Julien held out his hand.
De Bruyne froze for a moment, looking at him. The distant, dazed look in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by something firm.
He reached out too, and gripped Julien's hand tightly.
"Alright. With you—let's build a new era for this club. Just like last season at Bastia. Side by side."
The two of them exchanged a smile.
The night wind drifted past, and in the distance, Liverpool still blazed with light, the faint sound of celebration was still drifting on the air.
The two figures stood together on the terrace, side by side, saying nothing more that night.
The next day, the entire Liverpool squad had off.
The club had earned itself a rare week of rest.
Over that week, the Premier League news cycle churned with tangled and endless stories.
Among them, headline after headline about Liverpool dominated every back page in the country.
Liverpool became the single focal point of football across England, across all of Europe. And the coverage of Julien, above all, was relentless with wave after wave of praise, without end.
England's biggest outlets scrambled to cover this talent from France, crowning him, without hesitation, the undisputed best player in the Premier League.
Some went further still, calling him the best footballer active in the world today.
Every key statistic he'd produced was, by any measure, historic.
A player like this was destined to become the absolute centre of attention.
The media replayed, again and again, the miracle of Julien's season: sixty league goals, it was a terrifying number—carrying Liverpool's entire attack almost single-handedly, never once faltering in the games that mattered.
And it wasn't only that.
Julien could do more than score—the threat he posed to opposing defences went far beyond the goal column alone.
It wasn't just about the numbers.
At the same time, in his very first season at Liverpool, he had led the club to its first-ever Premier League title. In a single season, Julien had conquered Anfield, conquered every Liverpool fan, conquered the entire Premier League.
A season like that was rare in the entire history of the sport.
You could say it plainly—Julien was a phenomenon.
Plenty of outlets were already calling him the overwhelming favourite for this year's Ballon d'Or—so long as France didn't completely collapse at the World Cup, the award was practically his to lose.
Several of England's most authoritative sports outlets ran pieces declaring: "Julien De Rocca's arrival has redefined what a Premier League striker can be. His pace, his technique, his instinct in front of goal—every part of it is elite. There is no one in the game today who can match him."
Beyond the near-total adoration for Julien himself, the press had high hopes for Liverpool's future as a club.
Prediction after prediction pointed the same direction: once Liverpool stepped into the Champions League next season, all of Europe would see just how fearsome this Red Army truly was.
The reporting described a Liverpool squad that was now complete, its tactics fully matured.
This was a Red Army that hadn't just swept through the Premier League—it was a squad capable of standing toe-to-toe with any powerhouse in Europe, and more besides.
The coverage went on and on, in every direction.
Soon enough, the week passed in a blur of noise, and April 26th arrived right on schedule.
The day before Liverpool's home match against Chelsea.
Both sides held their pre-match press conferences.
On Chelsea's side—the moment Mourinho appeared, the reporters' questions cut straight to the point.
They all knew there was something worth digging for with Mourinho.
And besides—Mourinho was never one to hold his tongue.
He was exactly the kind of manager reporters loved.
The most-anticipated topic, by far, was De Bruyne.
One reporter was the first to ask: "José, De Bruyne barely got any playing time under you in the first half of the season—he could barely even make the matchday squad. But after his winter move to Liverpool, he quickly became the core of their midfield, and now he's won the Premier League with them. How do you see that? Do you regret not giving De Bruyne more chances?"
Mourinho's expression didn't shift in the slightest as he answered. "What do you want me to say? That I regret it?
No.
I never regret any decision I make about a squad.
In football, there's no such thing as 'missing out'—there's only whether a player fits or doesn't.
Kevin is a talented player, I've never once denied that. But Chelsea's midfield setup, our tactical system—it didn't fully match what he does best.
What I need are players who fit into the team's system, who fit the rhythm we play at.
That's why he didn't get much playing time. It was a decision made for the good of the team as a whole—it had nothing to do with his ability as a player.
His move to Liverpool was, for him personally, the right decision. Their system suits him better, and he seized the opportunity. He's proven himself with his performances, he's won a title, and I'm happy for him.
But that doesn't mean my decision back then was wrong.
Every manager makes choices based on the reality of their squad. Everything I do, I do for Chelsea's victories.
That's just how football works—the right player, in the right place, is where you get the most value out of them."
Then, another reporter asked: "Tomorrow, you're away against a Liverpool side that's already wrapped up the title. What's the mentality heading into it? The opponent has no pressure to win anymore, and Chelsea aren't under pressure to hold onto fourth either—will you really go all-out just for second place?"
Mourinho shook his head. "It doesn't matter whether the opponent has already won the title. It doesn't matter how much the result affects the league table. The moment Chelsea steps onto that pitch; we go all out—that's our bottom line.
It's also respect—for football, for our opponent, for the fans.
Liverpool's season deserves every bit of applause they're getting. They've earned that title. But that doesn't mean we'll just roll over for them at Anfield.
We still have our own goals.
And we're going to prove Chelsea's quality with a performance worth watching…"
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