The referee's final whistle, signaling the 1-0 victory over Manchester City, was lost beneath the volcanic roar of the Molineux crowd. Su Mang stood at the center circle, his chest heaving, the triumphant, barbaric roar of the audience a stark contrast to the icy calm settling within him. He had won the war of muscle and will.
Across the pitch, Pep Guardiola, the high priest of positional play and technical perfection, stood motionless. His signature cashmere sweater looked disheveled, and he slowly pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, his typical kinetic energy replaced by stunned contemplation.
"Pep, did you see that? The goal…" the assistant coach stammered, still reeling from the shock of the 88th-minute thunderbolt.
Guardiola did not respond immediately. He was not thinking about the goal, but the tackle—the moment Erling Havard, his prized, nine-figure weapon, had been physically neutralized by a player signed for a pauper's weekly wage.
"Unbelievable. His power is a known quantity, but the timing of the tackle was precise. He is a fundamental anomaly in modern football," Guardiola thought, his mind racing through tactical permutations. "My whole philosophy is based on fluid movement and collective technique. But this man… he is the ultimate, immovable counterpoint to my entire system. He is pure destruction, and that is a weapon I do not possess."
"That is not human, Txiki," Guardiola finally murmured, using his sporting director's name. "His touch is still crude, his positioning is questionable, but his kinetic reaction force is supernatural. He does not stop. He does not yield."
Guardiola's eyes narrowed, shifting from curiosity to pure desire. "We need that savagery. We need that anchor. Call the owner. I want that player. I don't care about the price. I want the Chinese Tyran."
— THE KING OF THE LOCKER ROOM —
Inside the Wolves locker room, the air was electric. Su Mang was met not with silent resentment, but with a cacophony of thunderous applause and primal shouts.
Captain Kilman, usually composed, was the first to reach him. "Su! You are insane! You're magnificent! That goal… the defense was impenetrable!"
The players, who had scorned him hours earlier, now treated him with the reverence afforded a warlord. Their fear of relegation had been momentarily replaced by the euphoria of victory, and Su Mang was their champion.
[DING! Mission Complete: Defeat the Monster!]
[Reward: Attribute Points +10! Reputation: 'Premier League Tyran' Unlocked!]
[Reward: Skill Fragment Acquired: Tactical Vision. Focus: Spatial Awareness.]
Su Mang allocated the points, feeling the new rush of power. The initial rewards focused on raw physicality, but now, the System was rewarding tactical intelligence.
Su Mang closed his eyes. The interior of the locker room dissolved. In his mind's eye, the space became a grid, and he could instantly calculate the fastest path from the bench to the door, or the optimal passing angle to the sink. The new skill was a computational leap—he no longer relied purely on instinct; he could calculate pressure and spatial control.
He took a shower, the hot water washing away the blood and grit. When he emerged, his phone, which he had deliberately kept silent, was vibrating relentlessly. Dozens of notifications indicated the global frenzy.
The most telling message was a text from the club's Director of Operations, Li Qingxue.
[Li Qingxue]: Don't leave the stadium yet. Do NOT answer any calls from agents. Your agent, Tom, is waiting for you in the private lounge. We need to lock down your future before the market collapses.
Su Mang smirked. The market wasn't collapsing; it was exploding. He had only played one game, and his transfer value had already multiplied by a thousand.
— THE BIDDING WAR BEGINS —
Tom, the Wolves chief scout who had signed Su Mang for a pittance, now sat in the opulent private lounge, his face pale with anxiety. His phone was a hot piece of glass, constantly receiving aggressive calls from major European clubs.
"Chelsea is offering €80 million, Tom!" a voice shrieked from the speakerphone. "They want him now!" "Manchester United says they'll double his current wage and give you a 10% cut on the transfer fee!" Tom hung up, rubbing his temples. He was supposed to find a cheap, rough defender, not the most sought-after asset in world football. The value he had created was slipping through his fingers.
The door opened, and Su Mang walked in, radiating calm energy. He smelled faintly of soap and adrenaline.
"You look stressed, Tom. Did your bookie cheat you?" Su Mang asked, pouring himself a glass of iced water.
"Stressed? Su, you've broken the transfer market!" Tom exclaimed, gesturing wildly. "Your six-month contract is worth nothing now. It's a joke! Guardiola just publicly praised you! The moment the transfer window opens, City will bid €100 million!"
Su Mang leaned against the wall, taking a slow sip of water. "Good. That means I'm finally playing the game I signed up for."
"But you belong to Wolves, Su!" Tom pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. "We gave you the chance!"
"And I gave Wolves a victory over the reigning champions," Su Mang countered, his voice hard. "Fair trade. Now, let's talk business. That £5,000 per week contract is dust. It's an insult to a player of my new caliber."
Tom realized he was no longer talking to the naive benchwarmer he had recruited a week ago. He was talking to a man who understood the ruthless language of power and demand.
"What do you want, Su? Name your price! We will give you a new contract—a permanent one! A massive signing bonus! Anything!"
Su Mang placed his glass down on the table, the ice rattling. He stared Tom down, the System's newly acquired 'Iron Blood Aura' making his intent palpable.
"I want a new contract, yes. But I don't want money—I want power." Su Mang paused, letting the statement hang in the air.
"Tell your Chairman, and tell Miss Li Qingxue, that my price is absolute tactical control over the defense, a guaranteed captain's armband by the end of the season, and absolute immunity from any outside interference—be it the FA, the media, or your club management."
He stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with the ruthlessness of a true tyrant. He wasn't asking for privileges; he was rewriting the foundational rules of the club.
"And tell Pep Guardiola," Su Mang finished, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "that if he wants me, he needs to come here in person and kneel."