"I told you. In this match, you never stood a chance."
"With the current state of your midfield, stopping Renzo is a fantasy."
"It is only three goals. Why the long faces? In my opinion, the real show is just getting started."
The goal Renzo Uzumaki just orchestrated pushed Fiorentina's lead to a staggering three, and the psychological collapse of the Rossoneri was visible. Nigel de Jong, who had spent the evening acting as Renzo's shadow, had failed entirely. Instead of suppressing the boy, his aggressive pressing had only gifted Renzo a map of the defensive voids behind him. Sharp short passes, explosive long balls, and a vision that bordered on the supernatural—Renzo was no longer just playing; he was on a rampage.
What truly crushed the AC Milan players was the futility of it all. They knew he was the threat. They had spent a week preparing for him. Yet, on the pitch, they were helpless.
Riccardo Montolivo, Milan's captain, felt the sting more than most. Tasked with the same creative burden as Renzo, his performance was a total blowout in comparison. The boy was better on the ball, more precise in tight windows, and his long-range distribution made Montolivo feel like an amateur. Being schooled by a sixteen-year-old brat in front of his own fans was a bitter pill to swallow.
Captain Manuel Pasqual, sensing the blood in the water, didn't hesitate to twist the knife.
"Pasqual, your mouth is becoming as aggressive as your tackling," Montolivo snapped, his composure finally fracturing.
Pasqual let out a cold snort. "We are about to hit ten wins in a row. Forgive me if I sound a bit arrogant. To be honest, taking down a team in your current state isn't much to brag about, but it is certainly gratifying."
Montolivo went silent. In the summer of 2012, he had joined Milan believing he was stepping into a championship-caliber giant. Instead, he had presided over a historic collapse, watching the club slide down the table until they were objectively worse than the Fiorentina side he had abandoned. Seeing Pasqual's pride only deepened the hollow ache in his chest.
On the sidelines, Filippo Inzaghi was reaching a breaking point. His most reliable defensive shield, De Jong, had been made to look like a fool. If they couldn't restrict Renzo, they couldn't stop the bleeding. The three-goal deficit was a scenario Inzaghi hadn't even dared to imagine in his worst nightmares.
Renzo's long passes were at least two levels above Montolivo's. He was the perfect tactical engine, the kind of player Inzaghi dreamed of having in his own 4-3-3 system. Wing attacks were the mainstay of Milan's identity, but without a maestro who could switch the play with such terrifying accuracy, they were toothless. Inzaghi looked at Renzo and felt a surge of pure envy toward Montella.
Despite the massive lead, the Viola showed no mercy. The tempo didn't drop; if anything, it accelerated. Fiorentina's attackers realized that with Renzo's range, the game had changed. Scenarios that previously required three or four short passes to progress were now solved with a single long ball.
Salah and Cuadrado were the primary beneficiaries. Both possessed blistering speed and bottomless stamina. Previously, they were often limited by the range of Renzo's short passes, receiving the ball in congested areas near the half-way line. Now, Renzo was launching missiles from deep inside his own half.
Milan's defenders couldn't track back fast enough. When the ball reached the wings, Salah and Cuadrado found themselves in acres of space, with ample time to pick a cross or drive at the goal.
In the 79th minute, Renzo received the ball in the backfield. He didn't wait for De Jong to close the distance. With a sharp turn, he hammered a long ball toward the right wing. The speed of the delivery caught the defense flat-footed.
Cuadrado took it in stride, his sprint tearing Milan's left side to shreds. The covering defenders weren't even set before Cuadrado's shot hit the back of the net.
4-0.
The San Siro erupted, but not with cheers. A cacophony of boos rained down from the stands. The Milan faithful had seen enough.
Inzaghi, numb to the pain, used all three substitutions in a fit of rage. Keisuke Honda and Stephan El Shaarawy were the first to go. Both had made grand claims on social media before the game, setting the stage for a showdown that never materialized. Their performance had been a joke, and as they slinked toward the bench, the boos intensified.
They sat in silence, faces buried in their hands. On the international feeds, fans couldn't help but laugh at the irony.
[Those two are a real pair of fools. Arrogant before the whistle, pathetic after it.]
[Milan is a mess. I've seen them decline, but a humiliation like this at home? Rare.]
[Renzo is a monster. He's already completed an assist hat-trick. He needs to rest before De Jong decides to break his legs.]
Montella had the same thought. Seeing De Jong's tackles becoming increasingly desperate and malicious, he signaled for a substitution. David Pizarro came on to replace Renzo.
Montella knew De Jong's history. This was the man who had nearly cracked Xabi Alonso's ribs with a chest-high kick in a World Cup final. With the game won, there was no reason to risk the future of the club against a man nicknamed "The Butcher."
Renzo walked off to a mixture of respectful silence from some and vitriol from others, but he didn't care. Even with their core playmaker resting, Fiorentina wasn't done. In the 84th minute, a corner kick led to a goalmouth scramble. Salah, ever the opportunist, poached a goal amidst the chaos.
5-0.
When the final whistle blew, the San Siro was a vortex of fury. This was Milan's most disastrous defeat of the season and their heaviest home loss in nearly two decades. Inzaghi fled down the tunnel after a perfunctory handshake with Montella, desperate to escape the insults.
The Milan players tried to acknowledge the fans, but the sheer hatred in the stands sent them scurrying toward the locker room.
Before leaving, Keisuke Honda intercepted Renzo. He approached with a submissive air, bowing slightly and saying something under his breath, clearly hoping for a jersey swap to save some face for his sponsors back home.
Renzo wasn't interested. He remembered the disrespectful comments Honda had made before the match. He gave a polite, clipped nod—the bare minimum of courtesy—and continued walking toward his teammates. He didn't swap jerseys. He didn't stop to chat.
The cameras caught Honda standing alone on the pitch, looking utterly embarrassed as his own fans screamed at him to get out of the stadium and take off the number 10 jersey he was unworthy of wearing.
While the Italian media was busy burying AC Milan, the British press was losing its mind.
Renzo, as a Liverpool loanee, was the hottest topic in the UK. His sudden display of elite long-passing range had sent the Premier League media into a frenzy.
The Times: "Uzumaki's Assist Hat-trick secures 10th straight win for Fiorentina! Milan humiliated at home."
Sky Sports: "Two world-class long-ball assists. A side of Renzo Uzumaki we've never seen before. The Liverpool prodigy's ceiling is limitless."
The Daily Telegraph: "11 long passes, 10 successful. A success rate that tops both Serie A and the Premier League."
The Guardian: "Liverpool can stop the search. Gerrard's successor isn't coming—he's already here. Clearly, Steven Gerrard knew exactly what he was doing when he facilitated this loan. Renzo Uzumaki has become a master of the pass, and his standing at Anfield is already reaching legendary heights before he has even returned."
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