If Renzo Uzumaki's performance on the training equipment had piqued the team's curiosity, his two clinical assists in the scrimmage had turned that curiosity into a fever.
The substitute team—usually the sacrificial lambs for the starters' tactical drills—had actually beaten the first-team 2-1. It was an anomaly that had the entire training ground buzzing. Montella and Daniel stood on the touchline, their expressions shifting from shock to the kind of smug satisfaction one feels after finding a winning lottery ticket in an old coat pocket.
"So, Vincenzo," Daniel teased, nudging the coach. "Still want to complain to me about 'budget loans'?"
Montella didn't even look at him. His eyes were glued to the sixteen-year-old in the center circle. "His passing... it's a surgical instrument, Daniel. He doesn't just find the gap; he anticipates the defender's blink. To have that vision at sixteen? He's a freak of nature."
But then, Montella's brow furrowed. He watched Ren receive a heavy pass, take a slightly clunky touch to settle it, and then look for a teammate.
"It's strange, though," Montella muttered, his tactical brain ticking over. "His ball control and dribbling... they're just... okay."
In the dogma of modern football, passing and ball control are twins. To be a "Maestro," you must first be a "Mage"—someone who can dance out of a phone booth with the ball glued to their toe before delivering the pass. You have to keep the ball to pass the ball.
But Renzo Uzumaki was a paradox. In one moment, he was distributing like Andrea Pirlo, his passes possessing a divine weight and trajectory. In the next, his receiving and dribbling looked more like Filippo Inzaghi—serviceable, professional, but devoid of the "maestro" flair.
It wasn't that his control was bad. For a sixteen-year-old with zero pro minutes, Ren was actually quite polished. But compared to the 24-karat gold of his passing, his dribbling felt like polished brass. The disparity was jarring.
He's a specialist, Montella realized. An absolute ceiling-level specialist.
Renzo Uzumaki, however, was lost in his own euphoria. This scrimmage was the first real-world stress test of the Platini Passing Model, and the results were intoxicating.
On his System interface, "Short Passing: 99" had seemed like a dry statistic. On the pitch, he realized what "99" actually meant. It meant that any pass within twenty meters was no longer a game of chance; it was a foregone conclusion. The "ceiling of current football" meant that in this specific discipline, he was the gold standard for the entire planet.
I can see the lines, Ren thought, his heart racing. I can see where they're going to be before they even know it.
But the exhilaration brought clarity. He knew his weaknesses were glaring. If he got caught in a 1v1 physical battle or forced into a high-speed sprint, he'd be in trouble. He needed to improve his other attributes, and he needed to do it fast.
[Mission Objective: Appear in a Top Five League match.]
[Reward: Random Quality Treasure Chest.]
I need that chest, Ren told himself. I need to round out my game before the league defenders figure out my limits.
As the whistle blew to end the session, the "B-Team" erupted. Beating the starters was a rare treat, and they swarmed Ren with praise. Even the starters weren't bitter. Mario Gomez, the German target man who had struggled for consistent service all season, looked at Ren with hungry eyes.
Gomez was a finisher. He didn't need to dribble; he just needed someone to put the ball on his sixpence. Seeing what Ren did for the aging Gilardino had Gomez dreaming of a twenty-goal season.
Even Cuadrado, the Serie A dribbling king, was eyeing Ren with newfound interest. He had watched Salah tear the starters apart because of Ren's diagonal balls. If Cuadrado had that kind of service on the other wing, his market value would double by May.
Within sixty minutes of stepping onto the grass, the "Chinese kid" had gone from a roster filler to the most coveted asset in the Fiorentina dressing room. Everyone wanted a piece of the boy with the magic right foot.