With a commanding 4-1 cushion from the first leg, Fiorentina entered the return fixture with the luxury of control. Vincenzo Montella opted against the high-octane pressing that usually drained his squad's reserves. Instead, he deployed a classic, disciplined 4-3-3, inviting Shakhtar Donetsk to a game of tactical chess.
This approach mirrored exactly what Shakhtar's coach, Werner, had anticipated. He believed their collapse in the first leg was a byproduct of being blindsided by the press. Against a "normal" Fiorentina, he theorized, his prepared squad had a fighting chance to overturn the deficit.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
The whistle blew, and Renzo Uzumaki immediately began dictating the tempo from deep. He didn't need to press; he only needed to look up. From the center circle and the edge of his own third, Renzo launched a series of exquisite, long-range guided missiles that bypassed Shakhtar's entire defensive structure.
Forty meters. Fifty meters. Sixty meters.
As the distance of Renzo's passes increased, the precision remained flawless. Every ball dropped onto the toes of his wingers with the gentleness of a falling leaf. Werner watched from the touchline, his mental fortitude crumbling. Fiorentina wasn't pressing, but this new, long-range assault was something he hadn't seen in any scouting report.
Werner glanced at Montella in pure disbelief. This is a European semi-final. Who dares to debut an entirely new tactical identity at this stage?
The breakthrough came early. Renzo released Salah with a laser-focused ball for the opener. By the 37th minute, he was at it again. Taking the ball under pressure in midfield, Renzo delivered a fifty-meter cross-field diagonal. It was a mirror image of the first goal, this time finding Juan Cuadrado on the right wing.
Cuadrado's first effort was parried by the keeper, but Mario Gomez, showing the elite positioning of a veteran poacher, was there to hammer home the rebound.
2-0 on the night. 6-1 on aggregate.
Shakhtar's fighting spirit didn't just bend; it shattered. In the 51st minute, Renzo orchestrated a sublime sequence in the center, exchanging lightning-fast one-two passes with Aquilani. Just as the defenders converged on him, Renzo shifted his weight and swept a long ball to the right flank.
This time, Cuadrado refused to waste the gift. He cut inside, squared his shoulders, and drove a composed finish into the far corner.
3-0.
The Stadio Artemio Franchi exploded in a deafening roar. The psychological defense of the Ukrainian side had evaporated. Sensing the match was dead, Montella withdrew Renzo in the 70th minute to a standing ovation that shook the foundations of the stadium.
When the final whistle confirmed the 7-1 aggregate victory, the atmosphere reached a fever pitch.
"Fantastic! The Viola are going to the final!"
"Perfect Ren! Invincible Uzumaki! His name is carved into our history tonight!"
"The Europa League final! After twenty-five years, we are back!"
In the century-long history of Fiorentina, their pinnacle in Europe was the 1989-1990 UEFA Cup final, where they had fallen to a dominant Juventus. For a quarter of a century, the club had wandered the wilderness of mid-table mediocrity.
But in a few short months, the arrival of a sixteen-year-old maestro had sparked a rebirth. As the primary architect of this miracle, Renzo Uzumaki's name was chanted in unison by tens of thousands. Moved by the display, Renzo raised his hands, applauding the fans in a silent vow of gratitude.
"The fans haven't felt this kind of fire in decades," Captain Manuel Pasqual said, joining Renzo's side. "Ren, you might only be here for half a season, but you've left a mark that will never fade. You will be remembered here forever."
Pasqual, a ten-year veteran of the club, felt the weight of the moment. He knew the limitations of a club like Fiorentina—the lack of financial muscle to sign superstars. To have a "dream" like a European final turned into reality was a debt the fans would never forget.
In the locker room, the air was light. The players celebrated, knowing they had already made history. But their confidence was further bolstered by the news from the Champions League. Juventus had just eliminated Real Madrid to reach the final against Barcelona.
The Fiorentina players felt a surge of pride. They had pushed that same Juventus side to a 4-3 thriller in the Coppa Italia recently. If Juve was good enough to beat Ronaldo's Real Madrid, then Fiorentina was good enough to stand on any stage in the world.
While Florence celebrated, the Inter Milan training base was a scene of grim determination.
The sun had long set, but the floodlights bathed the pitch in a harsh white glow. Roberto Mancini watched his players sweat through extra drills. They were currently sixth in the league, desperate for points to secure their own Europa League spot for next season.
More importantly, they were the last line of defense for the honor of the city. After AC Milan's 5-0 humiliation, the pressure on Inter to stop the "Fiorentina Juggernaut" was immense.
Mancini gathered his squad for a final rallying cry. "Boys, in two days, we host Fiorentina. They have ten wins in a row. People say they are unstoppable. I say that's garbage!"
"We held Juve to a draw at the Meazza this season! Juve beat Fiorentina, so why can't we? Let the world know that the glory of Milan isn't dead—it just wears Inter blue! We will be the ones to end their streak!"
The adrenaline hit the players like a lightning strike. The prospect of being the "Restorers of Milan's Honor" gave them a sense of purpose they hadn't felt all season. For a rebuilding club, a win like this would grant them months of immunity from the fans' criticism.
Just as the fervor reached its peak, Mancini's assistant coach approached.
"The Fiorentina match is over," the assistant whispered.
"The score?" Mancini asked.
The assistant licked his lips nervously. "3-0. A total slaughter. They won 7-1 on aggregate."
The silence that followed was heavy. The Inter players exchanged worried glances. Shakhtar was a Champions League regular, and they had been dismantled with ease.
Mancini tried to save face, raising his voice. "Hmph! It only means they're exhausted! They had to fight for ninety minutes to reach the final. By the weekend, their legs will be heavy!"
"Actually," the assistant muttered, "Renzo and the core starters were subbed off before the 70th minute. They've been resting for the last twenty-five minutes of the game."
Mancini's face turned a deep shade of crimson. He glared at his assistant, wishing the man would stop talking. The fire he had spent an hour building was extinguished by a few drops of cold reality.
The weekend arrived. The Stadio Giuseppe Meazza was packed with tens of thousands of Interisti, waiting for a soul-stirring battle to defend their city.
However, as the match began, the situation on the field left the world speechless.
30+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/Authorzero