"Hey, look over there."
"That must be the kid from the East. The only midfield signing we made this winter."
"He's only sixteen, but he's got some spirit in him. Just got here and he doesn't look shy at all."
"Look at him. Since the moment he stepped onto the pitch, he's been sizing us up."
On the training ground, the Fiorentina first-team players had begun to congregate. While they whispered about Renzo Uzumaki, he was indeed scanning them, his expression a mixture of recognition and genuine shock.
These men—the core of the Viola—didn't realize that Ren's heart was racing. Before reporting for duty, he'd only had a surface-level understanding of Fiorentina's current Serie A standing. He hadn't yet delved into the specifics of the roster. But now, seeing these faces in the flesh, he was stunned.
In the net stood Neto. Ren remembered him as the man whose career was defined by being the world's most elite backup—stuck behind the legendary Buffon at Juve and later Ter Stegen at Barça. Even in the Brazilian national team, he was third choice behind Alisson and Ederson. It was a tragic bit of luck for a keeper who was easily top-tier. According to the timeline Ren remembered, this was Neto's breakout year, the season that would earn him his big move to the Bianconeri.
The defensive line was equally formidable. There was Gonzalo Rodriguez, the man who had once helped Villarreal upstage the Spanish giants to finish second in La Liga. Beside him was Stefan Savic; Ren knew that in a few years, this Montenegrin would move to Atlético Madrid to form a defensive wall that would reach a Champions League final.
On the flanks, the leadership was undeniable. Pasqual, the club captain and a ten-year veteran, stood as the team's spiritual anchor. Opposite him was a young Marcos Alonso, a man who would eventually become a Premier League and Champions League winner with Chelsea, setting goal-scoring records for a defender.
The midfield was a graveyard of giants: Badelj, the Croatian stalwart; David Pizarro, the Chilean veteran; Aquilani, the Italian prodigy who had seen it all; and Joaquín, the Spanish winger who seemed to never age.
Ren hadn't expected this. Fiorentina wasn't a "giant" club by global standards, but this squad was littered with names that had defined eras of European football. And then, his eyes drifted to the attack.
Mario Gomez. The man was a treble-winner with Bayern Munich, a clinical predator who had once notched thirty-nine goals in a single season. On the right was Juan Cuadrado, the Colombian dribbling king and the sharpest blade in the Viola's arsenal.
Ren frowned slightly when he saw Cuadrado. If his memory served, Cuadrado was supposed to have moved to Chelsea during this very winter window—a move that would eventually see a struggling Mohamed Salah sent to Florence as a makeweight.
The timeline is shifting, Ren realized. If Cuadrado hadn't left, then Salah shouldn't be here. He felt a pang of regret; he'd been looking forward to playing with his future Liverpool teammate.
"Hey, brother. You're Ren, right?"
A voice pulled him from his thoughts. Ren turned and froze.
Standing right there, offering a humble smile, was Mohamed Salah.
"Salah? You're here on loan too?"
Salah blinked, clearly surprised. "You... you know me?"
"Salah arrived from Chelsea a few days ago," Captain Pasqual said, walking over with a warm grin. "He's the new spark for our attack, and you're the hope for our midfield. I expect big things from both of you this half of the season."
Pasqual patted Ren's shoulder. "Ren, since it's your first day, let me introduce you to the rest of—"
"No need for introductions, Captain," Ren interrupted smoothly, his eyes sweeping across the group. "I know exactly who these legends are."
As Ren went down the line, greeting every major player by name and noting their achievements, a collective murmur of surprise rippled through the squad.
"The kid's sharp. He knows the whole roster."
"Wait, am I really that famous? I'm blushing over here."
"Respect is mutual. I like this kid already."
Ren smiled. He might be trapped in a sixteen-year-old's body, but his mind carried the wisdom of a man who had seen these careers play out. His emotional intelligence was a tool as sharp as his passing, and in one move, he had dissolved the barrier between a "rookie" and the veterans.
Pasqual looked relieved. Usually, integrating teenagers involved dealing with either paralyzing shyness or insufferable arrogance. Ren was neither. He was poised, professional, and genuinely appreciative.
As the session began, Ren felt a surge of genuine excitement. He looked at the front three: Mario Gomez in the center, Cuadrado on one wing, and Salah on the other.
It was a low-profile version of the "Red Arrow Trio."
The club's goal was a top-four finish and a return to Europe. But as Ren watched the ball move between them, he felt a different ambition stirring. If he could unlock the potential of this specific lineup, a top-four finish was small thinking.
They weren't just fighting for Europe. They were built to contend for the Scudetto.