The media had initially swarmed Salah for an exclusive interview, but they soon realized the Egyptian was incapable of finishing a sentence without mentioning Renzo Uzumaki. It became a running joke among the press corps. They understood, of course; whether it was Salah's recent explosion on the right wing or his consistent form since January, Renzo had always been the engine behind him.
Renzo's significance to Salah was absolute. However, Salah's parting words—that he wished to be teammates with Renzo for a lifetime—were more than just a sentiment. They were a spark that set the transfer market ablaze.
For the Chelsea faithful, watching Salah's dominance was bittersweet. The idea of him playing with Renzo forever was, on paper, a fantasy. Renzo belonged to Liverpool, and at the end of the season, Salah was due back at Stamford Bridge. Chelsea couldn't simply buy Renzo; it wasn't a matter of money, but of availability. Liverpool's Sporting Director, Michael Edwards, had already shut the door, calling any attempt to sign the Japanese maestro "wishful thinking."
Even John Henry, the Liverpool owner, had signaled his intent. In early April, Henry had retweeted a post celebrating Renzo's heritage, adding a caption in both Japanese and English. As The Guardian incisively noted, Henry wouldn't sell Renzo for any price; the boy was his bridge to a massive global market.
If Chelsea couldn't buy Renzo, then Salah's dream meant only one thing: he would have to follow Renzo to Anfield. Six months ago, Chelsea would have happily offloaded him. Now, with Salah terrorizing Serie A, they viewed him as a vital asset for their next title charge. Yet, Salah felt no warmth for the Blues. He had been sidelined and ignored in London, and statistics showed he had barely uttered the club's name since arriving in Florence.
With his contract entering its final year, Chelsea was facing a crisis. If Salah refused to renew, they would be forced to sell or risk losing him for free. Liverpool fans were already salivating at the prospect.
[Renzo's pull is too strong! Get Salah to Anfield!]
[Chelsea broke his heart; Renzo fixed it. Bring him home!]
Meanwhile, the city of Milan was still reeling. Renzo had orchestrated two consecutive demolitions in the same stadium—an assist hat-trick against AC Milan followed by another against Inter. A 5-0 and a 4-0. He had become the architect of Milan's darkest fortnight.
Strangely, the hatred didn't flow as expected. AC Milan fans, still bitter about Inter's arrogance before the match, found themselves singing Renzo's praises just to spite their rivals.
[Renzo is a god-tier genius! Why did he stop at four goals?]
[Inter talked about 'Milanese dignity' for a week. Now look at them. Thank you, Fiorentina!]
The victory against Inter marked an eleven-match winning streak for the Viola, tying the club's all-time record set in the 1955-56 season—the same year they won their first Scudetto. The city of Florence was beginning to believe. With Napoli dropping points, Fiorentina had climbed into third place. Their next match was a trip to Naples; a win there would not only secure their ranking but set a new historical record.
At the training ground the next morning, the mood was electric. Cuadrado, still fighting a lingering allergy, was the target of the team's jokes.
"Cuadrado, keep that flu to yourself! We've got Napoli next," a teammate teased.
"It's just allergies, you idiots!" Cuadrado snapped, rubbing his nose.
"Maybe you should stay home again," another laughed. "Salah on the right looks like a guaranteed hat-trick. Salah, give him some tips on how to actually play the position!"
Salah tried to hide his grin, raising his hands in mock innocence while Cuadrado glared at him. "The hat-trick from the Inter game was supposed to be mine! You brat, you're lucky I was sneezing!"
As the laughter echoed, Marcos Alonso jogged over, finishing a sandwich. "Renzo, get to the cafeteria. An old acquaintance is waiting for you."
"An acquaintance? Here?" Renzo was puzzled. Since moving to Italy, his life had been a strictly professional loop of training and rest. He asked Pasqual for a moment of leave.
"Go on, Ren," the captain smiled. "The coach wouldn't bench you if you missed a week, let alone a morning."
Renzo walked into the cafeteria, and his eyes widened in genuine shock. A middle-aged man was sitting at one of the tables, looking entirely too comfortable.
"Pops? What are you doing here?"
"Why wouldn't I be here?" Katsuo Uzumaki chuckled, standing up to greet his son. "You've finally made it big, so I figured I'd come and bask in the glory!"
Katsuo sized up his son, a proud glint in his eyes. "You look sturdier. Tanned, too. They working you hard?"
"It's fine, Pops. I actually enjoy it," Renzo replied, still processing the surprise. "Have you eaten? I can get you something, though it won't be like home."
Katsuo waved a hand dismissively. "Already ate. The plates are already gone."
Renzo shook his head. His father's bold, outspoken nature hadn't changed a bit. "I didn't just eat; I gave them some advice," Katsuo added. "The food here is terrible. I thought Italian food was supposed to be world-class. That pasta bolognese was bland. If I were on the line, I would have first—"
"Wait, stop," Renzo interrupted, laughing. "The head chef here is a Michelin-star professional, Pops. That was a specialized athlete's meal. Low sodium, controlled calories. You can't just toss seasonings in for a 'kick.'"
Katsuo patted his beer belly with a shrug. "I see. Well, maybe I was a bit harsh then."
"Which player's relative has a problem with my kitchen?" a voice boomed from the back.
Victor, the head chef, walked out. His expression was polite but strained. As a man who took immense pride in his craft, a negative review was a personal insult. Renzo cringed, knowing his father's bluntness had probably caused a scene.
But as Victor got closer, he froze. Katsuo froze as well.
"Katsuo?"
"Victor?"
Renzo stood in stunned silence as the two men shared a massive bear hug, laughing like long-lost brothers. As it turned out, over a decade ago, Victor had worked in London. He had wandered into Katsuo's restaurant looking for authentic flavors and had been so impressed that the two chefs became fast friends, trading techniques and stories before losing touch.
"Wait, so Renzo is your son?" Victor asked, his eyes wide.
"Of course! Only a man of my talent could produce a boy like this," Katsuo bragged.
Victor looked at Renzo and then back at his father with a deadpan expression. "Renzo, your mother must be a very beautiful woman."
"Hey! You haven't seen me in ten years and you're already taking shots?" Katsuo barked, though he was grinning. "My knife work is still ten times better than yours."
Renzo watched them descend into a heated debate about noodles, desserts, and the sacrilege of fruit on pizza. It was like no time had passed at all. Just as Victor threw his hands up in frustration at Katsuo's sarcasm, a new voice cut through the air.
"Actually, I invited Mr. Katsuo Uzumaki here to discuss a matter of great importance."
Renzo and Victor turned to see Andrea Della Valle, the Chairman of Fiorentina, standing behind them with a serious expression.
30+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/Authorzero