"Renzo, I'm telling you, you've been eating your spinach lately!"
Milan Badelj wiped the sweat from his forehead as the scrimmage whistle blew. The Croatian international, known for his "dark arts" in midfield, had spent the afternoon trying to lock Renzo down. Usually, a well-timed shoulder barge or a cynical tug on the jersey was enough to disrupt the kid.
But today? Renzo was like smoke.
"You skipped past me four times with that same pull-back," Badelj laughed, though there was genuine respect in his eyes. "My legs are tangled like spaghetti. Your touch has gotten... dangerous."
Montella watched from the sidelines, hiding his astonishment. He had seen the stats—the 80 Dribbling—manifesting in real-time. In less than a month, Renzo had transformed from a "turret" who needed protection into a playmaker who could create his own space. This wasn't just talent; it was an evolutionary leap.
"Listen up!" Montella gathered the squad as the sun dipped behind the Tuscan hills. "The day after tomorrow is the crossroads of our season. The Europa League."
The atmosphere turned cold. The 1-1 draw in the first leg at the Franchi was a bitter pill. Without the away goals advantage, Fiorentina was walking into a lions' den. Everton—The Toffees—were sitting pretty, knowing a 0-0 draw would see them through.
"Everton is a Premier League beast," Montella continued, his voice sharp. "They are physical, they are fast, and they have 40,000 Scousers screaming for our blood. But we have three wins on the bounce. We have the momentum. We go there to win. Do you have the spine for it?"
"YES!" the squad roared.
Badelj stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "Coach, Renzo is our brain. My job is to make sure that brain doesn't get a concussion. If any Toffee tries to get cute with him, they'll have to deal with me first."
Captain Pasqual leaned in and whispered to Renzo, "We're going back to Liverpool, kid. I know how Rodgers treated you. I know how it felt to be 'surplus to requirements.' Let's go to Goodison and show them that while Liverpool was losing the derby, they were losing their future, too."
Twenty-four hours later, the air was different. The warm breeze of Florence was replaced by the biting, salt-heavy wind of the Mersey.
Goodison Park loomed in the evening mist—a "Grand Old Lady" of a stadium with stands so close to the pitch you could smell the grass and the anger of the home fans. As the Viola stepped onto the pitch for their light session, the reality set in.
Renzo stood in the center circle, looking at the iconic blue stands. Just a few miles away was Anfield, where he had been told he wasn't ready.
Montella watched him from the dugout. This is it, the coach thought. The European debut. This is where boys become men, or where geniuses get found out.
Renzo took a deep breath, the cold English air filling his lungs.
[Kinetic Caloric Conversion: 18%...]
[Reforging Mode: Stage Two in progress...]
I'm ready, Renzo thought, his boots gripping the lush English turf. Let's see if Everton can handle a bit of Italian-style Renaissance.
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