"Four assists in two games? Off the bench?"
Brendan Rodgers looked at Michael Edwards like the man had just claimed he'd seen a UFO over Anfield. "Michael, please. You're talking about a sixteen-year-old who's never touched a professional blade of grass in England. You expect me to believe he's suddenly the reincarnation of Andrea Pirlo because he played sixty minutes in Italy?"
Rodgers had reason to be skeptical. Philippe Coutinho, the "Little Magician" and Liverpool's primary creative spark, was considered elite for managing nine assists in half a season. The idea that a youth academy kid had hit nearly half that total in two substitute appearances sounded like a clerical error.
But when his assistant coach leaned in and whispered a confirmation, the color didn't just leave Rodgers' face—it fled.
Liverpool's 2014-15 season was a slow-motion car crash. The departure of Luis Suarez to Barcelona had ripped the heart out of their attack. While Daniel Sturridge and a young Raheem Sterling were talented, they were starving. The service from midfield had dried up. Steven Gerrard was fighting Father Time and a string of nagging injuries, leaving Coutinho to carry the entire creative burden alone.
Rodgers had spent weeks telling the press that the club "lacked the tools" to compete. And now, Edwards was holding up a mirror that showed Rodgers had thrown the most efficient tool in Europe into the bargain bin for free.
"The pace of Serie A is a crawl compared to the Premier League," Rodgers blustered, his pride puffing out his chest. "Put that boy in a rainy Tuesday match at Stoke and he'd vanish. Besides, two games is a fluke. A flash in the pan. Let's see where he is in March."
Edwards wanted to laugh, but the situation was too grim for humor. Rodgers wasn't just stubborn; he was delusional. Anyone with eyes could see the "Sublime" quality of Renzo's vision.
"I hope for your sake the team finds its feet, Brendan," Edwards said coldly. "Good luck."
As he walked away, Edwards was already mentally updating his resume. He knew the timeline. Liverpool was 10th. The locker room was quiet. John Henry, the man who looked at spreadsheets the way other men looked at bibles, was going to start "reckoning."
When the owner looked at the winter transfer window, he was going to see a 16-year-old genius loaned out for zero euros while the senior team struggled to create a single chance. That wasn't just a mistake; it was professional negligence.
I'm not going down with this ship, Edwards thought.
He pulled out his phone and checked the time in Florence. He needed to be "The Man Who Believed."
Florence, Italy. The Training Dorms.
Renzo Uzumaki was sitting on the edge of his bed, peeling off his socks, when his phone buzzed with an international number.
"Hello? Renzo? Is that you?"
"Speaking. Who is this?"
"Renzo! It's Michael Edwards! Liverpool's Sporting Director! How are you, my boy? How's the pasta? How's the life in Tuscany?"
Renzo frowned. He remembered Edwards as the quiet man in the suit who had looked at him like a piece of livestock during the loan negotiations. "I'm... fine. Training is good."
"I knew it! I knew you'd settle in! Listen, I've been buried under paperwork, otherwise I would have called sooner. Are they giving you a fair shake over there? Do I need to call Pradè and tell him to play our superstar?"
"I've actually played twice," Renzo said, confused by the sudden enthusiasm.
"Oh! You have? Fantastic! Any... statistics?"
"Four assists," Renzo replied.
"Four— My God! Renzo! You are a titan! A genius among men! I told Rodgers he was an idiot for letting you go, but you know how head coaches are... stubborn! But don't you worry, I'm watching every minute. We're so proud of you back at Melwood. Let's keep in touch, okay? Send me a text if you need anything!"
Click.
Renzo stared at the dead screen. What was that? He knew enough about the world to know that "The Man in the Suit" only calls when he wants something, or when he's afraid of losing something. But Renzo didn't have time to decode Liverpool's internal politics. He had more pressing matters.
A familiar blue glow illuminated his vision.
[System Milestone Reached!]
Consecutive Team Victories: +50 Honor Points
Back-to-Back Brace of Assists: +150 Honor Points
[Total Reward: 200 Honor Points]
[Reward: 2 Free Attribute Points Available]
Renzo looked at his current status. His Ball Control was at 75, giving him the "Sublime" touch that had embarrassed Soriano. His Short Passing was at 99, allowing him to thread needles. But as Montella moved to make him the "Tactical Core," the physical demands on him were about to skyrocket.
He had two points to spend. Should he double down on his technical "Regista" skills, or start patching the holes in his 16-year-old physique before the heavy hitters of Serie A decided to stop playing nice?
Current Stats:
Short Passing: 99
Ball Control: 75
Vision/IQ: (Innate - Master Level)
Physical Strength: 62
Stamina: 64
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