"Damn it, I knew it!" Benítez roared from the touchline, his eyes blazing.
Watching the purple-clad players celebrate their early lead felt like a cold blade to his chest.
After the kickoff, the forced high-press had looked aggressive on the surface, but it was hollow.
He noticed that Fiorentina didn't panic; instead, they moved with a chilling, synchronized grace.
Montella's squad had immediately widened their formation, utilizing the full breadth of the pitch.
Benítez knew the statistics—Fiorentina's ball retention this season was the highest in all of Italy.
By stretching the game, the Viola made every one of Napoli's pressing runs look like a fool's errand.
The core of this tactical immunity was the boy in the center.
Renzo Uzumaki had dropped into a deep-lying defensive midfield role, and the sight made Benítez's scalp tingle.
The sixteen-year-old was orchestrating the game's tempo as if he were pulling strings on a marionette.
One moment he was shifting play with short, rhythmic passes; the next, he was launching a precision long-range volley.
He was the strongest brain in the stadium, moving the ball faster than the Napoli forwards could think.
His vision was an absolute anomaly, switching between short and long distribution with effortless ease.
He toyed with the pressure—speeding up the rhythm when Napoli lunged, then slowing it to a crawl to let his team breathe.
It gave the Napoli forwards an agonizing illusion: they always felt a single breath away from winning the ball.
But after every desperate sprint, they found themselves just one breath short, chasing a ghost.
Benítez had only played the high-press to satisfy the whims of Chairman De Laurentiis.
He wanted to prove the tactic was useless so he could switch to his own preferred system.
But the sheer destructive power Renzo Uzumaki wielded on the offensive end had far exceeded his calculations.
Conceding within ten minutes left Benítez fuming with resentment toward his own Chairman.
Now, with a goal down, the team could finally abandon the forced tactics and play their own game.
The frustration of being behind, however, was about to ignite a dangerous fire within the Napoli squad.
The fans at the Stadio San Paolo felt the shift, their "Devil's Home" atmosphere reaching a fever pitch.
A rhythmic, guttural slang erupted from fifty thousand throats: "Devour them."
In the stands, Katsuo Uzumaki and Daniel felt their ears ringing as the stadium became a vortex of noise.
When Renzo had assisted the first goal, the two had jumped for joy, only to realize they were surrounded by hostile eyes.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Uzumaki," Daniel whispered, his third apology of the day.
"If we were in Florence, you'd be in a luxury box, but the Napoli management is... difficult."
The quality of the fans in their section was high enough to prevent immediate violence, but the tension was thick.
If they had been among the ultras, their cheers might have resulted in a life-threatening confrontation.
The match restarted, and Napoli's true offense finally spread its wings across the pitch.
With the high-press abandoned, the fluidity of their movement began to choke the Fiorentina backline.
Jorginho regained control of the engine room, sliding a sharp ball to Hamsik in the final third.
The Slovakian was a known long-range specialist, forcing Badelj to close him down with frantic intensity.
Hamsik ignored the pressure, shielding the ball with veteran composure until Salah arrived to help.
The moment the double-team arrived, Hamsik swept the ball wide to the charging Callejón.
Maracos Alonso was left in the dust as Callejón utilized a violent change of direction to break into space.
Fiorentina realized too late that Hamsik's possession had been a brilliant piece of misdirection.
Callejón reached the edge of the area and whipped in a surgical cross.
Higuaín ghosted toward the near post with the silence of a predator, poking the ball home with a clinical touch.
1-1.
Less than ten minutes after the opener, Napoli used their sharp offense to level the playing field.
Higuaín rushed to the sidelines to celebrate wildly, his joy mirrored by fifty thousand screaming fans.
Inside the VIP box, De Laurentiis accidentally knocked over a glass of champagne in his excitement.
"Look, Maradona! That is the power of Napoli! Even against Juventus, we do not flinch!"
The Chairman's boast wasn't entirely hollow; Napoli's offense was a multi-dimensional machine.
Maradona nodded, his legendary eyes following the movement of the game with deep interest.
"This is the Benítez I know," the legend remarked. "Combining the wings with the center—it is beautiful."
He wondered why they had ever bothered with the high-press, calling the initial tactic "suicidal."
"Maintain the defensive formation, watch out for the breakthroughs!" Montella barked.
His expression was grim as he realized the opponent's offense was gaining a terrifying fluidity.
The high-efficiency passing in the front court meant the Fiorentina defense was under immense pressure.
Spanish international Callejón, Slovakian international Hamsik, and Belgian international Mertens.
These three top-tier offensive players behind Higuaín have combined for more than half of Napoli's total assists.
Montella realized this was the toughest defensive test his team had faced since the turn of the year.
In the 35th minute, Jorginho intercepted a loose ball in the backfield.
Hamsik dropped deep, dragging Badelj with him, and the Croatian followed like a shadow.
It was exactly what Napoli wanted. Hamsik tapped the ball back to Jorginho, leaving Badelj stranded.
Jorginho launched a long-range ball to Mertens, who had drifted into the void.
Mertens feinted a central drive, pulling the center-backs toward him before nudging the ball sideways.
Hamsik, having already recovered his position, arrived and unleashed a thunderous strike.
Neto fully extended his body, his fingertips grazing the ball just enough to deflect it onto the post.
But the danger wasn't over. The ball rebounded into the path of a charging white jersey.
Higuaín, with a hunter's instinct, was the first to react, burying the rebound before Savic could intervene.
2-1.
Napoli had done what no one else in Serie A could do—overtake the lead against the Viola.
Higuaín completed his brace and sprinted toward the stands, his joy fueling a landslide of noise.
The emotions in the stadium were no longer just passionate; they were arrogant.
"Did you see that? You clowns from Florence, this is the offensive strength of Napoli!"
"Equalize! Overtake! This is the terror of the San Paolo!"
Napoli fans mocked them to their hearts' content, their suppressed frustration released in waves of vitriol.
They mocked the "genius kid" in the center, laughing that his early assist was a stroke of luck.
When Renzo Uzumaki received the ball after the restart, a deafening chorus of boos rained down.
The Napoli fans were ready for a happy halftime break, carrying their lead.
They didn't see the shift in the boy's eyes. They didn't see the cold fire ignite within Renzo Uzumaki.
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