The air above the Al-Awwal pitch felt instantly solidified.
Chris Ronaldez lay motionless on the turf, his hands clutched painfully to his ribs as the medical team rushed onto the field. Though his body was hardened by decades of elite fitness, the collision had been brutal. The tens of thousands of spectators, briefly stunned into silence, erupted into a terrifying wave of condemnation.
"Butcher!"
"Get out of Portugal!"
"Murder! That was attempted murder!"
Bottles and coins rained down from the stands. Amidst the torrential abuse, Su Mang stood like a pillar of unforgiving steel, his expression unreadable. His gaze remained fixed on the chief referee, who was frantically monitoring the VAR playback on the sideline screen.
The referee's brow was slick with sweat. This was Ronaldez—the undisputed King of Traffic. If the injury proved severe, the referee knew his career would be drowned in a global sea of outrage.
He watched the replay again and again. Su Mang's movement was savage, yet the technique—the surgical detail—was flawless. In the fraction of a second before the shoulder collision, Su Mang's right instep had clipped the ball away. Though Ronaldez had been sent flying like a snapped kite, Su Mang had used pure shoulder-to-shoulder contact, with his arms tight against his body.
It was an undeniable, brutal—physical decimation.
The referee took a deep, shaky breath, knowing the storm his decision would unleash. In the face of ten thousand hateful gazes, he ran back onto the pitch and made the universally recognized gesture:
Arms outstretched. Play on.
No Foul!
"Impossible! How can that not be a foul?!" Coach Paul, the Sporting CP B manager, collapsed to his knees in despair. He knew that regardless of the referee's verdict, his club would crucify Su Mang to appease the global backlash.
But in Su Mang's mind, a melody of victory was ringing out.
[DING! Novice Mission Complete: Give the 'Football God' a taste of true power!]
[Mission Evaluation: S-Class (Crushing Blow)!]
[Reward Doubled: Host received +20 Free Attribute Points (Original 10) due to extreme psychological impact!]
[Passive Skill Acquired: Iron Blood Aura.]
[Iron Blood Aura: Teammates' fear is reduced by 20%. Opponents' likelihood of injury increases by 15%, and psychological shock increases by 30%.]
Without hesitation, Su Mang allocated all 20 points instantly to Strength and Explosiveness. A surge of scorching power flowed through his veins, making his bones crackle. He now felt the dormant ferocity of a Tyrannosaurus Rex coiled within him, confident he could charge through a concrete wall if he wished.
— THE FIRE IN BEIJING —
Simultaneously, in the distant East, the Chinese internet was imploding.
A short video titled, "Chinese Outcast Knocks Ronaldez Flying—Referee Rules It Fair Play!" went viral, spreading like a plague across every major platform. The hashtag #SuMang instantly dominated Weibo's trending topics.
The reaction was fiercely polarized.
The masses, long disillusioned by the incompetent and often corrupt national team, were exhilarated. "Hell yes! That's how real men play! Unlike those sea cucumber-eating wimps who just fall down!"
But a targeted group, steered by the Football Association (FA) and Ronaldez's devoted fans, launched a vicious counter-attack. "This is barbarism! He is damaging China's image as a land of etiquette! This thug should be permanently banned!"
In a brightly lit meeting room in the Beijing FA building, Director Li, a portly official, watched the video on his tablet. He was so enraged he smashed his teacup.
"Outrageous! This is the same Su Mang we expelled because he wouldn't follow the rules! Now he's embarrassing us internationally!"
Sitting across from him was Zhang Hao, the current national team captain and the 'princeling' Su Mang had punched years ago. Zhang Hao stared at the screen, a visible flicker of fear in his eyes, before hiding it behind a sneer.
"Director Li, calm down. This brute has no future. But since the foreign media are watching, shouldn't we protect the 'image' of Chinese football?"
Director Li's eyes narrowed with venom. "He wants fame? Dream on! Release a statement immediately! State that Su Mang has a history of disciplinary issues and moral depravity. Recommend that FIFA impose an international ban!"
Ten minutes later, a harsh statement titled "Severe Condemnation of Former National Youth Player Su Mang's Violent Actions" was posted on the FA's official website.
Overnight, Su Mang's reputation in his home country was utterly destroyed.
— THE WAR OF WORDS —
In the post-match mixed zone in Portugal, Su Mang was besieged by a swarm of reporters.
"Su! The Chinese FA has just released a statement calling you the 'Shame of Football' and recommending a global ban. Are you worried?" a hostile British reporter shouted.
Su Mang stopped. His towering silhouette cast a long shadow. He took the microphone, his gaze piercing through the cameras toward the corrupt structure he knew waited across the continent.
"The Shame of Football?" Su Mang laughed, a cold, dismissive sound. "Does a group of spineless wimps who can't even qualify for the Asia Cup have the right to define what football is?"
"As for the ban…" Su Mang shrugged, his eyes sharpening like daggers. "Tell those sea cucumber-eating leaders to stop worrying about me. Because a lion never cares about the bleating of sheep."
"From today, I no longer represent that rotten association. I represent only myself. I represent—Power!"
His arrogance left the crowd stunned.
As Su Mang pushed through the crowd, a middle-aged white man wearing a black trench coat and a baseball cap stood in the shadow of the tunnel, flipping a coin.
"Excellent speech, kid. More powerful than your collision." The man spoke with a smooth, authentic London accent.
Su Mang paused, eyeing the man warily. "Who are you? Another person here to lecture me about 'civilized' football?"
"Oh no."
The man tipped his hat, revealing an astute, shrewd face. He handed Su Mang a card embossed with a golden wolf head.
"I am Tom, the Chief Scout for Wolverhampton Wanderers. I saw the whole show. Your technique is crude, and your passing is a disaster, but I like one thing about you."
Tom tapped his chest. "You are a born butcher. The Premier League is becoming too soft, full of diving and theatrics. We need a villain, a bastard who can make those billion-dollar babies wet their pants."
Su Mang glanced at the card. "Wolves? Bottom three in the Premier League?"
"Exactly. We're facing relegation. Our defense is tissue paper thin," Tom admitted. "So, we're betting on you. A six-month contract, a mere £5,000 weekly wage—a pauper's salary in the EPL. We can terminate you anytime."
"So, what do you say? Do you dare come to the world's most intense physical league and run into a real monster?"
Su Mang crumpled the card in his fist, feeling the rough texture. The Premier League. The center of the football universe, a coliseum, a battlefield.
He looked back at the terrified Sporting CP coach Paul, who was still frozen by the railing, and then tossed the despised yellow bib onto the ground.
"Salary doesn't matter."
Su Mang licked his lips, the hunger for battle blazing in his eyes.
"I hear there's a robot there named Erling Havard. Perfect. I wanna see what it takes to dismantle a machine."