"Renzo! Your footwork today is on another level!"
"Those two turns in the box were filthy. Where have you been hiding that?"
"Confidence is a hell of a drug, isn't it? One good debut and the kid thinks he's playing in his backyard!"
As the intra-squad scrimmage wound down, the Fiorentina players huddled by the touchline, draining water bottles and trading grins. The praise directed at Renzo Uzumaki wasn't just teammates being polite—it was the genuine shock of professionals seeing a peer level up in real-time.
"It's not just the confidence," Captain Pasqual noted, his eyes narrowing as he watched Renzo juggle the ball nearby. Pasqual was a veteran of a thousand battles; he noticed the nuances. "His touch is tighter. When he first arrived, he was a bit heavy-handed—or heavy-footed, I guess. Now? The ball is glued to him."
Cuadrado laughed, slapping Renzo on the back. "I told you! A passing genius doesn't just have vision; he's got the hands of a surgeon in his feet. He just needed ten days to find his rhythm in Italy. A genius is a genius, no matter the zip code!"
A few yards away, Vincenzo Montella stood with his arms crossed, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Renzo's debut had been a revelation, but the post-match data had given Montella pause. While Renzo's efficiency was through the roof, his actual touches on the ball were low. He had played a "safe" game—sit deep, find the killer pass, don't get caught. It was a high-IQ approach for a debutant, but Montella knew it wasn't sustainable if he wanted to build a midfield around the boy.
To deal the cards, you have to hold the deck.
Montella had been planning to pull Renzo aside for grueling, one-on-one technical drills to sharpen his retention skills. He expected it to take months. Instead, over the last few sessions, Renzo had bypassed the "entry-level" phase entirely. He was now operating at a standard that wouldn't just keep him on the bench—it would keep him in the starting eleven.
Is this what a true prodigy looks like? Montella wondered. That one moment of success at the Marassi... did it really unlock his potential this quickly?
In the world of football, some players need a decade to grow. Others just need a spark.
"Look at the Pharaoh go," Cuadrado muttered, nodding toward the far end of the pitch.
Despite the session being over, Mohamed Salah was still out there, darting through cones and smashing balls into the bottom corner. The Egyptian was a blur of energy, looking like he'd been injected with pure adrenaline.
"Did you infect him, Renzo?" Cuadrado teased. "One training maniac on the team was enough."
Renzo took a long pull from his water bottle, puffed out his cheeks, and gave a weary roll of his eyes.
"I don't think it's Renzo," Joaquín said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had seen everything in football. The Spanish veteran, a legend of La Furia Roja, had gracefully stepped into a rotational role to let younger talents like Salah shine. He held no bitterness, only a mentor's keen eye. "He's thinking about this weekend. We're heading to the Marassi again, but this time it's Sampdoria. And that means he's facing the Lion."
The name hung in the air: Samuel Eto'o.
For any African player, Eto'o wasn't just a striker; he was a god. Four African Player of the Year awards. Back-to-back Trebles with Barcelona and Inter Milan. A record that even legendary figures like George Weah or Didier Drogba found hard to eclipse.
"Eto'o looked after him at Chelsea," Joaquín explained, watching Salah's relentless movement. "He treated him like a younger brother. Now, Salah wants to show his mentor that the student is ready to lead. He wants to prove he belongs on that same stage."
The teammates turned their gaze from the hardworking Egyptian to Renzo. The unspoken realization rippled through the group.
If Salah was the spear intended to pierce Sampdoria's heart, Renzo was the hand that held it. If Salah wanted to impress his idol, he needed those world-class "Sublime" passes that only one person on the pitch could provide.
All eyes were on the sixteen-year-old. The message was clear: This weekend, you're the one who unlocks the Pharaoh.