As the private jet hummed over the Alps, Renzo sat in the back row, staring at a floating interface.
[Ability Merged: PEAK COMPETITIVE STATE MAINTENANCE (Permanent)]
[Status: ACTIVE 🚀]
A sensation like liquid nitrogen and lightning poured through his veins. Every pore opened; his mind cleared of the week's fog. He felt like he could play another ninety minutes right now. He let out a low, involuntary roar of excitement.
"Renzo? You okay?" Montella asked from the front, looking worried.
"Great! Never better!" Renzo beamed. Montella and the Team Manager exchanged a look. They had just been discussing his "burnout," and here he was, looking like he'd just had a week at a spa.
In Germany, the pride of the Bundesliga media had suffered a total collapse. Before the match, they had dismissed Renzo as "Italian Media Hype." Now?
Kicker: "The Viola Miracle: Renzo Uzumaki dismantles the Wolves."
Bild: "A 16-year-old King. De Bruyne outshined at home."
They had to praise him. If Renzo was a "God," then Wolfsburg losing 3-2 was an "Honorable Defeat." If Renzo was "Average," then Wolfsburg was a disgrace. To save their own faces, the German press officially crowned Renzo the "Midfield Emperor of the Europa League."
While Florence celebrated, London was burning. Specifically, the Tottenham Hotspur and Liverpool social media accounts were being carpet-bombed by angry fans.
[Tottenham's Youth Director should be fired into the sun! How did we lose this kid?!]
[Liverpool is just as bad! Giving away a genius for free while our midfield is a retirement home!]
Even Chelsea was dragged into the mud. Jürgen Klinsmann's post-match comments—pointing out that De Bruyne, Salah, and Renzo all had Premier League ties—made the English media ask: "Is the Premier League's scouting system broken, or just stupid?"
Inside the Tottenham boardroom, the air was cold enough to freeze water. Daniel Levy, the man who counts every penny, sat at the head of the table. His face was a mask of granite.
Mauricio Pochettino (Manager) and Franco Baldini (Sporting Director) sat nearby. Bill Vance, the Youth Training Director, walked in, his shirt already damp with cold sweat.
"Bill," Levy said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Renzo Uzumaki. You're familiar with the name?"
Vance tried to play his last card. "Yes, sir. A violent kid. We had to let him go for the safety of—"
"Stop," Baldini interrupted, cutting him off like a butcher. Baldini looked at Levy. "Mr. Levy, as Sporting Director, I accept responsibility. We lost a player who, according to my latest reports, is worth at least ÂŁ40 million in today's market. And we got... zero."
Pochettino added the final dagger: "He would start for me tomorrow. He has single-handedly given Fiorentina eight straight wins. We didn't just lose a player, Bill. We gave our rivals a nuclear weapon."
Levy finally looked up. His eyes weren't those of a football fan; they were the eyes of a banker who had just found out an employee burned a vault full of cash.
"Baldini, we will discuss your failure to oversee the academy later," Levy said. Then he turned his gaze to Bill Vance. It was the look of a predator. "But now, we need to talk about the man who personally walked a generational talent out of our doors because of a 'disciplinary' grudge."
Vance's knees shook. In the world of Daniel Levy, there is no sin greater than losing money. And by losing Renzo, Bill Vance had just cost Daniel Levy the biggest payday in Tottenham's history.
"You aren't just fired, Bill," Levy whispered. "I'm going to make sure every club in Europe knows exactly why you're unemployed."
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