"I... I didn't see that wrong, did I?"
"The kid... how is that even possible?"
"They said Rui Costa only managed 22. This kid... is he actually better than the Legend?"
For the Fiorentina veterans, Rui Costa wasn't just a former player; he was a monument. To even suggest a sixteen-year-old loanee from England could surpass the passing grace of the Portuguese Master felt like heresy. Yet, the glowing red 29/30 on the scoreboard was an undeniable, digital truth.
Captain Pasqual stood silent, his eyes fixed on the targets. He had joined the club five years after Rui Costa's departure and had spent a decade listening to the trainers speak of that era in hushed, reverent tones. He had always regretted missing the Golden Age. He never imagined he would see its successor born on a cold Tuesday afternoon in Florence.
The squad looked at Renzo Uzumaki as if he were a glitch in the matrix. They realized now that his earlier "arrogance" wasn't hubris—it was a simple statement of fact. He wasn't being cocky; they had just been ignorant of what true genius looked like.
Daniel, the team manager, was equally stunned. "I remember Edwards at Liverpool telling me the kid's passing was 'very good'... I thought it was just executive politeness. I didn't think he meant 'supernatural'."
Montella turned to Daniel, a predatory, joyful grin spreading across his face. "Very good? Daniel, that's like calling the Renaissance 'a decent art movement.' This is world-shattering."
As a coach, Montella was a romantic. He had come of age during the height of Guardiola's Tiki-Taka revolution and had spent his coaching career trying to bring that aesthetic beauty to the Artemio Franchi. He had been a "9.5" himself—a striker with the soul of a playmaker—and he valued ball retention above all else.
Under his guidance, Fiorentina had become the most attractive side in Italy, consistently ranking in the top three for possession. But they had a fatal flaw: they were all foreplay and no climax. They could pass in circles for days, but they lacked the "killer" who could thread the final, vertical needle.
Borja Valero had been that man, but even he was a tier below the elite. With Valero injured, Montella had feared his season was over. But looking at Renzo Uzumaki, the coach felt a surge of adrenaline. The fire in his heart, cooled by weeks of tactical despair, was suddenly a roaring inferno.
"Ren! Incredible! Simply incredible!" Montella shouted, rushing onto the pitch. "I knew Liverpool wouldn't scout a dud, but this? This is luck beyond belief for us!"
The coach's radiant smile was enough to cut through the winter chill. Daniel watched from the sidelines, bemused. The man was calling the kid a 'waste of space' in my office an hour ago. He changes faces faster than a politician.
The players swarmed Ren. "Ren, that right foot... was it kissed by God?" Cuadrado laughed, clapping him on the back. "Compared to you, I'm just kicking a bag of rocks!"
"Alright, enough talk!" Montella barked, though his eyes were twinkling. "We still have the intra-squad match. Group up! I want to see this in motion!"
Montella was desperate. Training drills were sterile; he needed to see if Ren could find those "hoops" when a 90kg defender was trying to snap his shins.
Following standard protocol, the starters were in one group, the substitutes in another. Ren was placed on the "B-Team" alongside another winter arrival: a lightning-fast Egyptian winger named Mohamed Salah.
"Ren, find me today," Salah said, a shy but expectant smile on his face. He had seen the passing display; as a man who lived on the shoulder of the last defender, a passer like Ren was a dream come true.
The whistle blew. Predictably, the starters took immediate control. In Serie A, the gap between a mid-table starting XI and the bench is a chasm. For the first twenty minutes, the substitutes were pinned back, defending for their lives as the first team moved the ball with practiced ease.
But then, the rhythm broke. The substitutes intercepted a stray pass. The ball found its way to Renzo Uzumaki's feet in the center circle.
The first-team defenders stepped up, expecting the usual sideways safety-pass. Instead, they saw Ren's head lift. The atmosphere of the match shifted instantly. The "B-Team" was about to stop defending—and start hunting.