[Renzo is a monster! Absolute monster!!]
[Four assists in one night! The San Paolo has gone silent!]
[I'm loving this. Where are the boos now? Where are the Napoli ultras? They look like they've seen a ghost.]
[Renzo's vision combined with Salah's pace is officially the most illegal weapon in Serie A.]
[Salah's efficiency is terrifying—two shots, one goal. With Renzo feeding him, he doesn't need a third.]
The global supporters watching the feed were in a state of delirium. From the moment the equalizer hit the net, the gravity of the match had shifted. Fiorentina, moving like an unstoppable tide, had seized the throat of the game and refused to let go.
The exquisite long-range distribution Renzo had showcased throughout the second half had been building to a crescendo. The fans had felt a goal coming, but the clinical nature of the comeback had exceeded every expectation. The familiar, invincible aura of the Viola had returned, sweeping away the anxiety of the first half.
"What is happening?! Where is the midfield screen? Where are my center-backs?!"
Inside the VIP box, Chairman De Laurentiis was vibrating with a frantic, helpless rage.
Watching his team collapse from a position of invincibility to a 3-2 deficit was pushing his mental state to a breaking point.
He didn't care for the technical nuances of the double-pivot or the tactical shift in Renzo's positioning. He only understood the scoreboard. In his mind, Napoli should have buried the game an hour ago. He had even ordered a victory celebration to be prepared, a move that now felt like a bitter curse.
"I warned you, De Laurentiis," Maradona said, his eyes never leaving the pitch. "If you don't kill the Maestro, he will take your life. It isn't that Jorginho or Inler are being lazy. It's that they simply cannot touch him."
The legend's assessment made De Laurentiis freeze. He looked down at Rafa Benítez on the bench with a face full of resentment. On a day meant to celebrate his legacy, the Chairman was watching his kingdom sink into the mire of a home defeat.
"Hamsik! Drop deeper! Close the gap!" Benítez screamed, his voice cracking.
"Mertens! Callejón! Why are you standing still? Track back or get off the pitch!"
Benítez could feel the game slipping away. He had prepared for Renzo at halftime, but the reality on the pitch had shattered his plans. Every time Jorginho and Inler tried to pinch the playmaker, Renzo simply retreated deeper into his own half, dragging the entire Napoli structure with him.
In the past, forcing a playmaker into a defensive midfield role would have been a tactical victory. Usually, the further a creator is from the box, the less damage they can do. But Renzo Uzumaki was an anomaly. His long-range passing was proving to be even more lethal than his short-game.
Precision volleys of fifty or sixty meters had become second nature. By dropping deep, he had gained the space to see the entire battlefield. His retreat forced Jorginho and Inler into a vacuum between their midfield and their defense—a space Renzo exploited with the vision of an eagle.
Salah's go-ahead goal was a direct result of that vacuum. When the Napoli full-back tucked inside to cover the center, Renzo's eyes immediately detected the lapse. He didn't just pass; he executed a death sentence.
Seeing his defense in tatters, Benítez had no choice but to sacrifice his offense. He pulled Hamsik back into a three-man pincer movement, hoping the captain's grit would finally stifle the boy.
It worked, for a time. Every time Renzo touched the ball, three white shirts converged on him with violent intent. Even with his elite ball control, surviving a triple-team in the center of the pitch was a gauntlet of physical punishment.
Renzo didn't choose to be a hero. He saw the triple-team and chose stability. Every time the shadows of the three defenders fell over him, he released the ball with a single, crisp touch. He didn't give them the satisfaction of a tackle.
He realized that by drawing three men to himself, the rest of the pitch was a playground for his teammates. In the 75th minute, the opportunity he had been baiting finally arrived.
Renzo caught Aquilani's eye and raised a hand, demanding the ball. As the pass arrived, the three-man Napoli trap snapped shut. Unperturbed, Renzo extended his arm and shouted toward Salah on the wing, a deliberate piece of misdirection.
The defenders bit on the shout. In that split second of hesitation, Renzo didn't look toward the wing. He performed a clinical, one-touch flick through the center. The ball didn't arc toward Salah; it carved a low, flat line directly toward Mario Gomez.
By the time Koulibaly realized he had been deceived again, Gomez was already breaking the offside trap. The pass was so fast it seemed to skim the grass, whistling past the defenders' ears like a bullet.
Koulibaly was only half a beat slow, but in elite football, that half-beat was a lifetime. Gomez took the ball in stride, the momentum of the pass carrying him into the box.
"Bang!!"
The shot was an explosion of pure hunger. Gomez, already on a brace, put every ounce of his desire for a hat-trick into the strike. The Napoli keeper got a hand to it, but the power was too immense. The ball tore through his fingers and rattled the back of the net.
4-2.
The San Paolo fell into a tomb-like silence.
[Goal!! A four-assist haul! Renzo has gone absolutely insane!]
[Since they started booing him, he's assisted three goals. He literally fed them their own words.]
[Gomez is inevitable. Six shots, three goals. With Renzo behind him, scoring is as easy as breathing.]
The global fans were roaring in front of their screens. They had seen the pressure Napoli put on Renzo, and they had seen him dismantle it with a smile. The record-breaking winning streak wasn't just alive; it was thriving.
On the pitch, the Napoli players looked broken. Marek Hamsik stood with his hands on his knees, his face a mask of exhaustion and frustration. He had sacrificed his entire game to stop a sixteen-year-old, and he had failed.
Higuaín stood in the center circle, shaking his head. He had been the hero of the first half, but now he was an afterthought. He looked at Gomez, who was being mobbed by teammates, and then at the boy who had provided the service. Envy and jealousy warred in his chest. If he had a midfielder like that, he wouldn't just score three—he'd score five.
The final whistle blew, and the Fiorentina players erupted in cheers. They had just scored four goals at the most intimidating home ground in Italy. Renzo Uzumaki, with a perfect 10 rating and four assists, was the undisputed King of the night.
Mario Gomez, holding the match ball, gave Renzo a crushing hug. "I told you!" Gomez laughed, his voice booming. "Once you taste a Renzo pass, there's no going back!"
As the celebrations moved toward the touchline, Daniel and Katsuo Uzumaki rushed onto the pitch. Daniel had used his connections to get them past the security cordons. Katsuo, usually a composed man, was vibrating with pride.
"Renzo! My boy!" Katsuo laughed heartily, pulling his son into a firm embrace. "The first time I see you play live, and you deliver a haul like that? The Uzumaki ancestors are smiling today!"
Daniel laughed along. "The VIP tickets fell through, so we spent the night surrounded by Napoli fans. We were nearly bursting trying not to cheer too loud!"
Katsuo, ever the social chameleon, didn't stop at his son. He moved through the squad like a whirlwind of praise. "Mario, you played like the best striker in the world today! Salah, those runs... you're going to be a superstar! Aquilani, Badelj, without you two protecting the engine, Renzo couldn't have been a Ghost today!"
His stream of praise made the tired players feel like they were walking on air. Even Juan Cuadrado, who had been quiet on the wing, felt a bit left out. "Uncle Katsuo, what about me?"
Katsuo blinked, realizing he'd nearly missed the winger. Cuadrado's form had been mediocre, and he hadn't featured in any of the goals. Katsuo coughed awkwardly and fixed a stern look on Renzo. "Renzo, the only flaw in your game today was not feeding Cuadrado enough! If you had, we would have scored six!"
The team burst into laughter, the tension of the match finally dissolving. But then, the atmosphere shifted. The laughter died down as a figure approached from the tunnel.
It was Diego Maradona. The legend walked straight toward the group, his eyes fixed solely on Renzo Uzumaki. He stopped inches from the boy.
"Renzo, I watched every minute," the legend said, his voice carrying the weight of history. "Lately, the media says a young man has conquered Europe in half a season. I thought they were exaggerating."
Maradona smiled, a rare, genuine expression of respect. "Having watched you today, I realize they were being too subtle. You aren't just a talent, kid. You're a revelation."
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