The morning after the Battle of Molineux.
The shockwaves of the 1-0 victory had not settled; they had turned into a tsunami.
The Sun's front page featured a high-resolution photo: Su Mang standing like a demon at the edge of the box, while Erling Havard, the Premier League's most feared striker, stumbled backward, his face twisted in shock. The headline screamed in bold crimson text: THE MONSTER FROM THE EAST: FOOTBALLER OR HITMAN?
Outside the Wolves training ground, the scene was chaotic. Su Mang stepped out of the black Rolls-Royce (loaned indefinitely by Li Qingxue), the symbol of his new wealth, only to be instantly swarmed by hundreds of reporters.
He didn't run. He didn't hide. He adjusted his sunglasses and walked straight into the flashbulbs, every movement calculated to project impervious confidence.
"Su! Over here! Daily Mail!" A balding, aggressive reporter shoved a microphone into Su Mang's face. "Your tackle on Havard was brutal. Experts are calling it a rugby move. Do you think this style of play is destroying the artistry of the Premier League? Will you apologize to Erling?"
It was a trap designed to force a confession of savagery.
Su Mang looked down at the reporter, a flicker of amusement dancing on his lips. He realized that they needed a villain, and he was happy to take the role.
"Artistry?" Su Mang's voice was calm but projected clearly, dominating the noise. "If you want art, if you want elegant dancing, I suggest you buy a ticket to the Royal Opera House. I'll even pay for your ticket and your dancing shoes."
He leaned closer to the microphones, his tone hardening.
"As for an apology… Havard is a great player, but he's too soft. He relies on reputation, not raw force. In the Premier League, if you can't handle a fair shoulder charge without crying to the media, then maybe you should go back to drinking milk."
He pointed a thumb at the Wolves crest on his chest. "This is Wolverhampton. This is a wolf's den. And when a wolf eats meat, it never apologizes to the prey. Now, move."
— THE SHADOWS IN BEIJING —
Thousands of miles away, in Beijing, the atmosphere was far more sinister than the English rain.
Inside a smoke-filled, opulent office at the Chinese Football Association (CFA) headquarters, the mood was apocalyptic. Director Li, a man whose gut strained against his expensive shirt, threw his priceless porcelain teacup against the wall.
"Insolent! Absolutely insolent!" Director Li roared, his face purple. "This Su Mang… we banned him to teach him a lesson, and now he's humiliating us on the global stage! The domestic fans are calling us blind! They're asking why the 'Tyrant' isn't in the national team!"
Sitting opposite him was Zhang Hao, the current national team captain and the infamous 'Princeling.' He was nervously scrolling through Weibo. His latest post, an innocuous photo of a fancy watch, had been ravaged by 50,000 toxic comments overnight.
[Su Mang is destroying Havard in England, and you're driving a Ferrari in Beijing? You fraud!] [Shameless! Eat more sea cucumbers, maybe you can last 3 minutes on the pitch!] [Dissolve the national team! Bring back the Tyrant!]
Zhang Hao's eyes were bloodshot with a blend of professional fear and personal jealousy. He couldn't believe the brute was succeeding. "Director Li, we can't let him keep winning," Zhang Hao hissed, his eyes full of venom. "If he becomes a global superstar, everything we did—the envelopes, the match-fixing, the humiliation—he knows it all. If he speaks, we go to prison."
Director Li wiped the sweat from his forehead. "He's in England. We can't touch him physically. Our ban is meaningless now."
"We don't need to touch him physically," Zhang Hao said, a cruel, calculating smile forming. "We just need to destroy his name. We need to hit him where it hurts: his moral standing."
"I've already contacted three major PR firms. We will flood the internet with a new narrative. We'll say he's anti-nationalist for insulting the CFA. We'll fabricate stories about him beating up elderly staff and bullying teammates in the youth academy." Zhang Hao leaned forward, the desperation driving his plan. "We will create a cyber-storm so big that even if he plays like God, he will be known as a traitor back home. The CFA can then petition FIFA to ban him for 'moral turpitude'—a global ban, based on domestic shame."
Director Li considered this heinous plan, then nodded slowly, his eyes shining with cold approval. "Do it. Use the youth development fund to pay the bots. I want him ruined. I want him crawling back here on his knees and begging for mercy."
— THE TYRANT'S RESPONSE —
England. Su Mang's new villa.
The attack had already begun. Su Mang lay on a luxurious leather sofa, scrolling through his phone as the tsunami of hate crashed against his accounts. His social media feeds were inundated with millions of copy-pasted insults: photoshopped images of him kneeling to foreign flags, fabricated debt accusations, and lurid stories of him assaulting coaches.
It was a perfectly coordinated, industrial-scale smear campaign, professionally executed. He knew exactly who was behind it.
"Playing dirty, huh?" Su Mang crushed the apple he was holding—a deliberate, slow act of physical aggression—juice dripping through his fingers like blood. "Zhang Hao… Director Li… you haven't changed a bit. You try to play politics, but you forget that I only play war."
[DING! SYSTEM ALERT!]
[Detecting a massive, malicious defamation campaign originating from the Host's home country!]
[Triggering Special Quest: ENEMIES ON ALL SIDES!]
[Quest Description: A true Tyrant does not fear slander; he crushes it with the truth. The Host must counter-attack in the most public, humiliating way possible.]
[Reward: S-Class Active Skill — "THE HERCULEAN CANNON" (Gabriel Batistuta Template)!]
Su Mang's eyes lit up. The Herculean Cannon. The ultimate weapon of mass destruction, and the perfect reward for this specific battlefield.
He didn't need a PR team. He didn't need a lawyer. He picked up his phone and dialed Li Qingxue.
"Director Li," Su Mang said, his voice calm but terrifyingly cold.
"Yes, Su? What is it? I've contacted our legal team about the domestic attacks. We need a carefully worded, diplomatic silence," Li Qingxue advised anxiously, her voice sounding tired but soft.
"Cancel my training session tonight. And contact the biggest livestreaming platform in China. I want a dedicated channel. Tonight."
"A livestream? Su, the internet is toxic right now. They are tearing you apart. Silence is our best defense," Li Qingxue pleaded, confusion in her voice.
"Silence is for victims," Su Mang replied, standing up and walking to the window, looking out at the dark English sky. His entire posture radiated controlled, lethal intent.
"I'm going to give my old friends back home a gift. A gift that will burn their house down."