December 2025, Lisbon, Portugal.
The biting wind of the Atlantic, laced with cold rain, hammered the training grounds of Sporting CP B. Inside the cramped locker room, the air was thick with tension and the smell of stale sweat.
"Su! Is your head stuffed with mush?!"
The furious shout from Coach Paul ruptured the heavy silence. The coach's face was an angry crimson as he slammed his tactical board against the wall, pointing a trembling finger at the corner.
"Muscle! Muscle! All you know is brute force! This is Europe, where we play technical football, not that corrupted Eastern backyard full of match-fixing and greed!"
Su Mang, twenty-two, stood in the corner, his formidable 192-centimeter (6'3") frame motionless. His musculature, honed over years, possessed a granite-like density, yet his body trembled subtly—not from the cold, but from the raw, volcanic heat of resigned fury.
He was an outcast.
Two years ago, Su Mang was the most physically gifted defender in the Chinese national youth team, lauded as the future 'Great Wall of Defense.' But that hope had shattered into a thousand pieces.
He had refused to pay the "necessary" bribe to the corrupt CFA officials. He had rejected the infamous match-fixing script handed to him before a crucial game. Worst of all, he had landed a punch on the arrogant teammate who prioritized his customized sea cucumber nutrition over the team's morale.
A life ban from the CFA had erased him from the domestic football scene. He had liquidated his meager savings to chase a lifeline in Portugal's third-tier league, only to be branded a "Chinese thug" who lacked basic skill.
"Listen, Su Mang." Coach Paul's voice dripped with malice. He tossed a reserve bib at Su Mang like a piece of refuse. "Your job is simple: be a meat shield. Don't let that old fossil score too many goals, and for God's sake, don't injure him, or we won't be able to afford the compensation."
Meat shield… Su Mang chewed on the word. He slowly lifted his head, his dark eyes—usually turbulent with suppressed anger—now cold, deep, and utterly devoid of mercy.
"Coach, retract that statement," Su Mang stated, his voice a low, grating sound that silenced the surrounding mockery.
Paul was caught off guard. "What did you say?"
Su Mang rose to his full height. He looked Paul straight in the eye and spoke slowly, deliberately:
"I'm not like those spoiled domestic wastes who eat premium sea cucumber every day and can't even trap a ball within ten feet. I am different."
Paul was momentarily paralyzed by the fierce conviction in the young man's eyes.
Just then, a cold, alien voice—the voice Su Mang had waited two years for—exploded in his mind.
[DING! Detecting Host's Extreme Suppressed Rage!]
[Energy Accumulation Complete—Activating System!]
[
[CONGRATULATIONS: Receiving S-Class Passive Talent — "HEAVY TANK CHARGE"!]
[Effect: When executing a fair charge, Strength Judgement is boosted by 300%. Note: As long as the ball is touched, ALL collisions are deemed fair.]
[NEWBIE QUEST: Be a Tyrant! Give the 'Football God' a taste of true power!]
A chilling smile twisted Su Mang's lips. It was a terrifying grimace of pure, unfiltered bloodlust.
He snatched the reserve bib, wrapping it around his wrist like a fighter taping his hand.
"You don't need to teach me how to play," Su Mang said, passing the dumbfounded coach and pushing the door open.
"I'm going hunting for a god."
— THE IMPACT —
The scoreboard read 0-2. It was the 85th minute of the second half.
The floodlights of Al-Awwal Park illuminated the field where Chris Ronaldez, nearing his forty-first birthday, moved with the deceptive grace of an aging lion. The veteran possessed the body of a predator and commanded the attention of the entire stadium.
Ronaldez received the pass, executed a signature step-over, and cut inside the box, ready to shoot. The legend was about to score a hat trick.
No one can stop him!
But just as Ronaldez prepared to strike, he caught sight of a monstrous black shadow surging towards him from his blind side.
It was an out-of-control war machine!
A raging beast!
Su Mang stormed out. His eyes weren't on the ball; they were locked onto Ronaldez's center of gravity. He did not slow down. He did not hesitate.
"GET OUT!"
A visceral howl tore across the stadium.
B A N G—!!!
The sound was not that of two bodies meeting; it was the thunderous clang of iron hitting stone.
In the horrified gaze of the tens of thousands of fans, the Portuguese superstar—the strong, seemingly invincible Ronaldez—was launched three meters into the air like a ragdoll.
He slammed onto the turf and tumbled several times before stopping, clutching his chest and twisting in agony.
The stadium was seized by an unnatural silence.
The referee's frantic whistle screamed. Al-Nassr players rushed towards Su Mang, demanding justice. Coach Paul, pale as a ghost, dropped to his knees on the sideline. "It's over... he killed Ronaldez!"
Su Mang calmly brushed the dirt from his shoulder. He stared down at the veteran, his eyes devoid of mercy, only pure, supreme confidence.
He turned to the referee, who was fumbling for his red card, and pointed to his boot and his shoulder:
"Shoulder to shoulder. I touched the ball first. It was a fair charge."
Looking at the stunned official, Su Mang's lips curved into a wicked smirk. His voice, amplified by the sudden silence, rang across the field:
"If that's a foul, then I suggest you spineless wimps… go play ballet."
That night, in the winter of 2025, the Football Tyrant officially arrived.