"Goal! A clinical finish by Mario Gomez!"
"Fiorentina takes the lead as expected!"
"It's Renzo! Another assist for Renzo Uzumaki!"
"That's the partnership we've come to expect, but the execution was a total shock! A long-range missile from Renzo!"
Since becoming the heartbeat of Fiorentina's midfield, Renzo had rarely looked for the long ball. But this strike was a thing of beauty—a guided laser that left the commentators breathless.
The shock rippled far beyond the press box. In Japan, fans watching the late-night broadcast were frozen in front of their screens.
[Is that really Ren-kun? A long-ball assist?]
[Unreal! That pass was surgical. From the center circle straight to Gomez's feet!]
[I've followed every game since he moved to Italy. His long passing was never this high-level. Is he evolving in real-time?]
On the San Siro's massive monitors, the replay looped. Renzo's effortless strike from the center circle had left the Milan squad looking like statues. They stood in a daze, clutching their hips. In every tactical brief, every scouting video they had studied to prepare for the "Japanese Maestro," there hadn't been a single clip of him doing this.
How does a kid shake off a veteran like Nigel de Jong and deliver a sixty-yard pinpoint pass in a split second?
Filippo Inzaghi stood frozen on the touchline. The legendary striker turned coach stared at the pitch, his face a mask of pure bewilderment even minutes after the restart.
In the opposing dugout, Vincenzo Montella's expression was the polar opposite. There was no surprise, only the fierce, burning satisfaction of a man whose secret weapon had just detonated perfectly.
Riccardo Montolivo, still reeling from Pasqual's earlier barbs, watched Renzo with a sinking feeling in his chest. De Jong was no slouch—he was one of the most feared enforcers in the league. For Renzo to use his ball control to find space was one thing, but that following pass was a death blow.
Montolivo prided himself on his range. As the supposed heir to Pirlo, he believed his long passing was the one area where he still held the advantage over this teenager. But seeing the velocity and the backspin on Renzo's ball, his scalp tingled. He knew, deep down, he couldn't have placed it any better.
Keisuke Honda was faring even worse. Suffocated by Badelj's relentless marking, he watched Renzo's masterclass with a heavy heart. When did his countryman's range become this terrifying?
Inzaghi tried to regain control, barking orders to stabilize his shell-shocked team. He told himself it was a fluke—a desperate tactical gamble that happened to pay off.
But as the game restarted, Milan's nightmare only intensified.
Montolivo tried to spark a response, but the gap in quality was evident. While the Milan captain was a fine playmaker, his passes lacked the lethal edge Renzo provided. He played it safe, unable to thread the needle through Fiorentina's disciplined lines. Consequently, Milan was forced to the wings.
El Shaarawy remained stubborn, repeatedly trying to burn Pasqual on the flank. The veteran fullback didn't budge. Out of four one-on-one attempts, the "Little Pharaoh" found success only once, and the resulting cross was so poor it nearly sparked a Fiorentina counter through Marcos Alonso.
"Stop trying to be a hero! Move the ball!" Inzaghi's voice was hoarse.
In the 33rd minute, the pressure snapped. Badelj executed a perfect crunching tackle on Honda, stripping the ball cleanly. He laid it off to Marcos Alonso, who looked for a lane before recycling it to Renzo in the center.
The Milan defense held their breath, expecting Renzo to drive forward. Instead, Renzo didn't even take a second touch. He caught the ball on the half-turn and unleashed another soaring curve.
This ball was launched from even deeper than the first. It traveled across the San Siro sky like a heat-seeking missile, dropping perfectly into the path of Mohamed Salah.
Salah didn't need to break stride. His explosive speed, combined with Renzo's vision, tore the Milan backline to shreds. Salah cut inside, ignored the closing defenders, and rifled a shot into the near corner.
2-0.
Salah sprinted toward the corner flag, pointing a finger back at Renzo in a gesture of pure respect. The cameras took a long time to pan back to the playmaker because the pass had been launched from so far away.
[Again?! Another long-ball assist!]
[When did he become a sniper? This is insane!]
Inzaghi was officially panicking. This wasn't the team he had scouted. No short-pass penetration, no intricate through-balls. Just two long-range strikes that bypassed his entire tactical structure.
He looked at Montella, who stood calm and composed, as if the destruction of Milan was merely a scheduled event.
"De Jong! Get on that brat!" Inzaghi screamed. "I don't care where he goes! Don't let him breathe!"
De Jong, the midfield anchor, felt the weight of the task. He was used to protecting the box, but now he was being told to hunt Renzo across the entire pitch. He had to venture deep into Fiorentina's half just to disrupt the supply line.
It was a hellish physical demand, but he complied. He pushed up, trying to intimidate the boy.
He didn't realize he was walking into a trap.
In the 54th minute, Renzo received the ball deep in his own half. De Jong lunged in immediately, looking to bull through him. Renzo feinted, passing backward to recycle the play. De Jong felt a surge of triumph, thinking his presence was working.
But when Renzo got the ball back, he didn't look for safety.
As De Jong pressed high again, Renzo didn't panic. He waited for the veteran to commit, then gently flicked the ball with a delicate touch. The football sailed over De Jong's head, dropping into the massive void he had left behind.
Aquilani was already there, bursting into the space.
The San Siro gasped. By dragging De Jong out of position, Renzo had ripped the heart out of Milan's defense. Aquilani drove forward with predatory smoothness.
"Cover the middle! Close him down!" Inzaghi's voice was a desperate shriek.
Mexes, terrified of the momentum, abandoned his mark on Mario Gomez to stop Aquilani. It was exactly what the Italians wanted. Aquilani slid a perfectly weighted through-ball into the gap Mexes had vacated.
Gomez made the run. He shook off his remaining marker with a shrug of his shoulders and unleashed a thunderous strike into the top corner.
3-0.
Montella pumped his fists, a rare display of raw emotion. This goal was the sweetest of all. It proved that Renzo's long-range threat had fundamentally broken Milan's defensive logic.
Renzo had become a tactical enigma. Long pass or short pass—he could kill you with either, and the opposition had no answer.
As the third goal hit the net, a heavy, lingering silence fell over the San Siro, broken only by the traveling Fiorentina fans. The local supporters could only sigh in despair.
The boy they had feared had become something more. The talented teenager was no longer just a prospect; he had officially become the Reaper of San Siro.
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