While the streets of Florence were celebrating a fifth consecutive victory, a different kind of storm was brewing 5,000 miles away in the executive offices of Beijing.
"Satoshi, explain this to me," Director Cao said, his voice dropping an octave as he tapped a stack of morning newspapers.
The headlines were a relentless barrage of purple:
"THE MAESTRO SLAUGHTERS THE EAGLES!"
"12 ASSISTS IN 6 GAMES: RENZO UZUMAKI IS ILLEGALLY GOOD."
"SERIE A'S NEW KING HAS A Japanese SOUL."
"Why," Cao continued, leaning forward, "did I have to watch our national treasure play on a laggy internet stream last night? Why was CCTV-5 showing a rerun of a table tennis match while the entire world was watching the 'Apennine Earthquake'?"
Satoshi, the Editor-in-Chief, felt a cold sweat. "Director, we... we didn't renew the Serie A rights this season. The budget went to the Premier League and La Liga. Serie A was 'declining,' remember? The document you signed—"
"That was Before Renzo!" Cao roared, slamming his hand on the desk. "Before him, Serie A was a retirement home. Now, it's the center of the universe. I don't care about the budget. I don't care about the 'Internet Giants' like Sina or PPTV."
Director Cao's eyes flashed with a mix of fan-boy excitement and political calculation. "I want the rights. If we can't buy the whole league, buy every game Fiorentina plays. Money is no object. I want the 'Viola' on every television screen from Shanghai to Xinjiang by next Sunday."
Satoshi hurried out of the office, his head spinning. He knew what Cao was thinking. Renzo wasn't just a footballer anymore; he was a cultural bridge. If CCTV missed out on the "Red Wave," they weren't just losing ratings—they were losing the narrative of the greatest Japanese sporting success story in history.
Back in Italy, the atmosphere was far more relaxed. While the boardrooms in Beijing were in a frenzy, the hero of the hour was nowhere to be found on the training ground.
"Where's Mario?" Renzo asked, wiping sweat from his forehead after an intense tactical drill.
Juan Cuadrado laughed, pulling up his phone. "Look at this guy! While we're doing lunges, 'Super Mario' is living his best life."
He showed Renzo a social media post. There stood Mario Gómez and Miroslav Klose, two German legends, grinning like tourists in front of the Colosseum.
"The Coach gave him a 'Hat-trick Holiday,'" Captain Pasqual explained, joining them. "He deserved it, Ren. You didn't just give him three assists; you gave him his smile back. He's staying in Rome for the day to catch up with Miro."
Renzo smiled, looking at the photo. Gómez looked ten years younger, the weight of his Bayern exit finally lifted.
"He'd better enjoy it," Renzo said, his analytical mind already shifting back to the pitch. "Because next week, we have Inter Milan at the Franchi. And they won't be as friendly as Klose."
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