A week later, the Molineux Stadium in Wolverhampton was shrouded in a typical English drizzle, the gray weather reflecting the anxiety etched onto the faces of thousands of Wolves fans queuing outside.
Their team was sinking deeper into the relegation zone, and today's opponent was the formidable champion of the Premier League: Manchester City. "Hey, did you hear? That new Chinese guy is starting today!" "The barbarian who knocked Ronaldez flying in Portugal? God, has the club lost its mind? We're here to play football, not to brawl!" "The Sun calls him the 'Kung Fu Panda' who only knows how to hurt people. This is a disgrace to Wolves!"
The murmurs swelled into a wave of mockery and skepticism. There were no cheers or applause for Su Mang, only anticipation of the inevitable disaster. The atmosphere inside the locker room was suffocating. Su Mang sat alone, meticulously adjusting his shin guards, his jersey bearing the unconventional number 99.
The seasoned teammates huddled, their glances flicking toward the massive asian newcomer with a mixture of fear and disdain. Captain Kilman, the backbone of the defense, approached Su Mang with a frown. "Listen, Newcomer. I saw your video. I don't know why management signed you, but I must warn you: the EPL isn't the Portuguese Third Division. Referees here won't tolerate your violence."
Kilman pointed at the tactical board, specifically at the name highlighted in red: Havard. "Number nine across the pitch is a true monster. He's 6'5", your weight, but faster and technically superior. If you don't want to be made a fool of, stay in the box and don't attempt to duel him."
Su Mang finally stood, his terrifying height casting a sudden shadow over Kilman. "Monster?" Su Mang's lips twisted into a predatory, cruel smile. "Captain, where I come from, only ingredients waiting to be cooked are called monsters. As for him…" Su Mang pointed towards the tunnel exit. "At best, he's just a large, battery-powered toy."
— THE COLLISION COURSE —
The referee's whistle pierced the air. The match was on. Manchester City immediately established their overwhelming dominance. Pep Guardiola's possession-based football flowed like a precise machine, pushing Wolves back into their own half.
The midfield maestro, De Bruyne, operated like a surgeon, dissecting the Wolves formation with effortless passes. Ten minutes into the game, Man City was passing the ball around the front third. De Bruyne suddenly struck a perfect, surgical through-ball.
The sphere sliced through Wolves' defensive line and darted toward the left wing of the penalty box. There, the golden-haired giant—Erling Havard launched into a sprint! Havard takes the ball! It's a clear shot!
The desperate cries echoed across the Molineux. Havard accelerated, easily shrugging off Kilman's desperate attempt to tug his shirt. He was the unstoppable force, the definitive bug in every Premier League defense. He drove into the penalty area, preparing to unleash his signature shot.
He saw the Chinese defender charging toward him. "Get out of the way, little man!" Havard roared in English, instinctively lowering his massive center of gravity, ready to use his renowned body mass to shatter the opposition. Every defender who had challenged him head-on had ended up on the grass, clutching something broken. But Su Mang did not slow down. His pitch-black eyes blazed with intense war-lust.
"Little man?" Su Mang sneered, his muscles instantly tightening into granite.
[HEAVY TANK CHARGE] was activated to maximum power!
"I'm your father!!!"
B O O M—!!!
Two human tanks collided just outside the eighteen-yard box. There were no screams, only the sickening, dull thunder of muscle against muscle. The grass itself seemed to heave as the two enormous forces met.
— THE SHOCK AND AWE —
The entire Manchester City bench, who had risen to celebrate Havard's imminent goal, instantly froze. Guardiola's water bottle clattered unnoticed onto the grass.
The terrifying outcome was clear: The 'Monster' Havard, who rampaged across the EPL, had stopped.
Havard's mind screamed. He felt as though he had struck an immeasurably dense, unmoving mountain. The recoil—the sudden, impossible stoppage of his 100-kilo momentum—was physically sickening. His pride, his power, his entire self-perception had just been fractured.
The massive kinetic recoil turned his face scarlet, forcing him to lose his footing and control of the ball. He staggered back two full yards, an act the cameras captured in slow, agonizing detail.
Su Mang was perfectly rooted. He hadn't even wobbled. He stood firm, the new, unbreakable foundation of the pitch.
Seizing the moment of confusion, Su Mang leveraged his shoulder, pushing the unbalanced Havard aside with raw, tyrannical force. He instantly reclaimed the loose ball and delivered a massive clearance upfield. "Oh my God!!!" The commentator's voice cracked. "The Chinese defender! He stopped the robot! He beat Havard in a head-on collision! That is not normal physics! This is unprecedented!"
Su Mang stood tall on the edge of the penalty box, brushing off non-existent dirt. He looked down at the shocked, struggling Havard.
Under the gaze of seventy thousand spectators, Su Mang extended his index finger, shaking it gently at the superstar.
"Too soft." Su Mang's voice, amplified by the sudden silence, rang across the field. "Did your battery run out, robot?" "Is this all the Premier League has to offer?"
— GUADIOLA'S EPIDEMIC OF DESIRE —
Across the field, Pep Guardiola stared at the scene, the usual meticulous order of his mind thrown into chaos. He immediately waved for his assistant coach to bring the communication headset.
"Txiki, bring up his data! Now!" Guardiola snapped. "Forget the technique. Forget the passing! Look at the kinetic energy absorption rate! It's impossible! This man is defying Newton's laws!"
The assistant, equally stunned, relayed the message to the data analysts.
"We need that savagery!" Guardiola thought, his gaze fixated on Su Mang. "My team is too beautiful! Too soft! We need this iron fist!"
He turned to his assistant. "Tom said he was only signed for a trial. Find out his buyout clause. No, don't wait for the clause. Find the owner. This Chinese player… I want him on my team!"
Meanwhile, the match continued. The Man City attack, having seen their god-figure neutralized, faltered. De Bruyne's passes became less incisive; Foden hesitated to cut inside. They were playing against the phantom fear of meeting Su Mang's shoulder.
Su Mang did not let up. He stalked the pitch, his presence alone forcing turnovers. He was a force multiplier, not only did he defend his zone perfectly, but his Iron Blood Aura spread fear, causing opponents to rush their passes and avoid physical contact altogether.
— THE TYRANT'S GOAL —
The final whistle neared. The score remained 0-0.
But in the 88th minute, Su Mang, seeing the entire Manchester City team pressing high in desperation, saw his chance. He stole a ball from a panicking City midfielder, took two massive strides, and unleashed a low, powerful, solo drive from 30 yards out.
The shot was not one of technique; it was one of pure, unadulterated strength. The ball sliced through the remaining defenders and smashed into the back of the net with an audible THWACK!
GOAL! 1-0!
The Molineux Stadium erupted in a seismic wave of cheers.
"SU! SU! SU!"
The fans who had scorned him moments ago were now chanting his name in feverish reverence. A tyrant had arrived in England. He had won the game single-handedly.
Su Mang stood tall on the edge of the penalty box, basking in the raw noise. He had not only won the game; he had won the war of physical intimidation and claimed his place.