RETURN OF THE GOD OF WAR

Final Decision

Helena stormed away from the room, her heels striking the marble floor with such venomous intensity that the very walls seemed to flinch. Her breath came in short, furious bursts as she climbed the winding grand staircase, each step heavier than the last. Her fists were clenched so tightly that her nails bit into her palms. She was humiliated, publicly, and by the two men whose approval she had always fought to keep.

“How could they do this to me? In front of him? That poor, scruffy-looking impostor?”

Her mind spun in disbelief and fury. Her grandfather; the mighty Grandmaster Morrison, had stood up, actually walked after all these years, and instead of crediting medical science or even divine fate, he gave all the glory to some stray man who looked like he hadn't bathed in days.

She didn’t care how it happened. As far as she was concerned, it was all just a cheap trick. Maybe the old man had a sudden boost of adrenaline, or maybe he’d been pretending to be sick to test them. But Helena knew one thing: that man, who her grandfather had called the Divine Healer, was not a healer. He was a beggar. A scammer. A parasite who somehow wormed his way into their home and now, unbelievably, their hearts.

As she turned the corner at the top of the staircase, her vision blurred with rage, she walked straight into a young maid carrying folded linens. The maid gasped, nearly dropping everything.

“I-I’m sorry, Miss Helena—”

But before she could complete her words, Helena landed a devastating slap across her face.

The sound echoed through the corridor like thunder.

The maid stumbled back, one hand flying to her cheek in stunned silence.

“You brainless twit!” Helena snarled. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?!”

“I… I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re fired! Get out of this house right now before I have you thrown out!”

Tears filled the maid’s eyes as she bowed and scurried away down the hall, her sobs fading with her retreating footsteps.

But Helena didn’t care. She was boiling with rage, and John was the fire fueling it.

That nobody had turned her home upside down. That unwashed, smug-faced brute had somehow tricked her grandfather into believing he was some kind of miracle worker. And now? Now she was being forced to prepare the jade room for him.

The thought made her stomach turn.

The jade room.

She hissed under her breath, nearly screaming as her heels carried her across the sprawling upper level of the Morrison estate. The jade wing was isolated from the rest of the mansion, reserved only for the highest of dignitaries. Even A-list celebrities who’d visited the family weren’t allowed near it. When the Prince of Egypt visited three years ago, the jade room had been opened. But that was the only time. Not even her uncles, who ran international banks, had been granted entry. And now, this street rat—this so-called "Divine Healer"—was being honored with it?

She wanted to scream. To break something. Her pride was bleeding from every pore.

She reached the massive, golden double doors of the jade wing, guarded by two security men in suits. The second they saw Helena approach, their backs straightened.

“Miss Helena,” one of them said, bowing slightly. “We weren’t informed—”

“Out of my way,” she spat. “Do I look like I need your permission to enter a room in my house?”

“But… the jade room—”

“Did I stutter?” Her voice cracked like a whip, venomous and sharp.

The guards exchanged glances, then reluctantly stepped aside. Helena didn’t even look at them as she approached the security panel beside the door.

With an angry jab of her fingers, she entered the twelve-digit pin—her personal access code, the one reserved for the Morrison bloodline only. The panel blinked green, and with a soft mechanical hiss, the doors unsealed.

A gust of cool, perfumed air drifted out as the doors slowly parted, revealing the most forbidden room in the entire estate. A soft hum of perfection greeted her ears; the sound of machines working quietly behind walls to regulate temperature, humidity, and scent. It wasn’t just a room; it was a masterpiece of wealth.

Everything—and that meant everything—was made of pure, shimmering gold. The walls glistened with golden panels, polished to such a mirror-like shine that Helena could see her furious reflection as she stepped inside. The intricate moldings, the chandelier, the pillars, the sculpted vines that curled up the corners; they were all real gold, not painted, not plated. The floor beneath her was a rare blend of marble and gold-etched crystal tiles, so smooth and spotless it sparkled like a sea of stars.

There wasn’t a single speck of dust anywhere. There never was. Advanced micro-cleaners embedded in the ceiling and floor ran 24/7, filtering the air and zapping particles before they ever dared settle. The temperature was held in a perfect state of cool, calming comfort, and the scent was regulated by a system designed by fragrance scientists from Switzerland.

It was immaculate.

The bed sat in the center of the room like a throne; a massive king-sized cloud wrapped in silk sheets. Helena approached it with stiff shoulders and clenched teeth. The sheets looked fine. Of course they did. They were changed every 72 hours by the elite staff. But her grandfather had ordered her to change them herself.

“Me? Change a bedsheet? A whole me?” she muttered, then she laughed in disbelief.

She opened a golden wardrobe built seamlessly into the wall. It slid open with a soft hiss, revealing stacks of pristine white bedsheets, each folded with precision, made from cloudweave fabric imported from the Tibetan Alps. She grabbed one angrily and stomped back to the bed, tossing the old sheet aside.

That was when the real problem began.

Helena Morrison had never changed a bedsheet in her life. Not once. She had never vacuumed a room, never scrubbed a bathroom, never even tied a garbage bag. Maids had handled everything. Now, she stared at the mattress like it was a puzzle from another planet. She tried tucking the corners, but it bunched up awkwardly. She pulled the other end, and the first side came undone again. The sheet was crooked, loose, and wrinkled; and her temper boiled hotter than the sun.

“Ughhhh!!” she screamed and flung the sheet across the room. It fluttered through the air like an insult, landing over a priceless golden chair.

And then... she heard it.

A deep, low chuckle from the doorway.

She spun around, her hair whipping like a flame. Her eyes landed on him.

John.

He stood there, leaned casually against the golden doorframe, a mocking smile tugging at his lips. His worn backpack hung from one shoulder, and his black cap still shadowed part of his face.

Her rage flared instantly.

“What’s funny?!” she snapped, her voice sharp as broken glass. “The only joke here is you standing in a mansion that your generation wouldn’t even dream of setting foot in.”

John scoffed, pushing off the door and strolling slowly into the room, his boots thudding softly against the golden floor. His gaze wandered lazily over the walls, the ceiling, the luxury she worshipped.

“If only you knew,” he said casually, dropping the backpack with a soft thud. “If only you had the faintest idea who I really am... My family could buy this entire mansion, the Morrison estate, every single property you own, and still have billions left over to play with.”

Helena blinked.

His family? Who the hell were his family?

But before she could question it, John turned to her fully, his voice dropping into a firm command. “Get out.”

For a moment, silence.

She stood frozen.

“Did this pauper just tell me... to get out?”

Her jaw dropped. She let out a disbelieving laugh, one that bubbled with rage and disgust. She stormed across the room, standing toe-to-toe with him, nose raised like he reeked of filth.

“Who the hell do you think you are to talk to me like that?”

John didn’t flinch. His expression barely changed. A smirk played across his lips as he said, calm and slow, “Why don’t you go ask your grandfather that question? I’m sure he has the answer.”

It hit like a slap.

Helena’s pride snapped.

Without thinking, she raised her hand to strike him.

But he was faster.

His hand shot up and caught her wrist mid-air. His grip was firm—not crushing, but enough to stop her cold. Her breath hitched. Her body tensed.

He looked into her eyes, his voice quiet and razor sharp. “You should be careful how you talk to people. You’re just a spoilt little girl in a castle built by others. You’ve never worked for anything. You’ve never suffered. You’ve never seen real hardship. You don’t even know how to change a damn sheet.”

She tried to pull back, but his grip held her in place.

“You think respect comes with wealth. It doesn’t. And you’re seconds away from insulting a man who could buy your entire family... and make them his servants.”

Then, he let go.

And gave her a gentle push; not cruel, not aggressive. But enough.

She stumbled back and landed squarely on her butt. A gasp escaped her lips, her eyes wide with disbelief. She looked up at him, mouth agape, cheeks burning. John had already turned his back on her, walking calmly toward the wardrobe as if she were nothing but a breeze.

“Get out,” he repeated coldly.

Helena just sat there, stunned.

Her whole body was shaking. Not from pain, not from the fall; but from humiliation. She didn’t know why, but as she stared at his back, rage and confusion swirled inside her chest like a storm. Her fists clenched tight, nails digging into her palms. Her breath came fast and hard.

She rose slowly, trembling.

“I swear,” she whispered venomously, “I’ll make your life a living hell.”

And then she turned on her heel and stormed out, the golden doors slamming behind her with enough force to shake the walls.

As the golden doors to the jade room slammed shut behind Helena, John stood still for a moment, listening to the echo fade. Then, slowly, deliberately, he removed his face cap.

His reflection met him in the tall, full-body mirror that stood elegantly in the corner of the room; its frame carved from solid gold with emerald dragon eyes that glinted in the soft ambient lighting.

His long, dark hair tumbled down, brushing over his brow and framing the hard lines of his face. His full beard had grown coarse and rugged, partly concealing the strong jawline beneath. Shadows played over his features, making him look even more mysterious.

No one had recognized him. Not a soul had realized that the man standing in front of them; the one they called a beggar, a nobody, was actually John Hardwick, the once-youngest billionaire in the country, and the only heir of the legendary Hardwick Empire.

And that’s exactly how he wanted it.

He hadn’t returned to flaunt his name or power. No, he had come back to fulfill the final wish of Master Liang; the man who had accepted him as a student, trained him, and given him more than just the ancient healing skill known as God Hand.

Master Liang had gifted him spiritual energy—pure chi that ran through his veins like fire and lightning, making him ten times faster, stronger, and more enduring than any normal human. It was that power that kept him alive on the battlefield. It was that power that earned him the name feared across nations: The God of War.

But now… now he had to fulfill his master’s last request.

To take a bride.

He never expected it would be her. Helena Morrison. A woman with ice in her veins and poison on her tongue. A woman who hated him so much she couldn’t see past her own ego. But this wasn’t about love. It was about duty.

He pulled off his shirt, the muscles in his back rippling beneath scarred skin as he walked toward the bathroom. The marble floors were warm beneath his feet. The shower sprayed like mist from heaven. But John didn’t linger. He washed swiftly, letting the water rinse away the dust of the journey.

When he returned to the bedroom, he froze briefly.

A tuxedo lay neatly on the golden bed.

The tuxedo was midnight black, finely stitched and accented with gold buttons. It was worth more than some people’s homes. Probably picked out by Helena herself.

He didn’t even glance at it again.

Instead, he dropped his towel, opened his backpack, and pulled out a plain gray top and a pair of old jeans. He put them on with ease, and then he went to sit on the couch in the room to take a short rest.

About an hour later, a knock came at the door. Before he could say a word, the door opened, and Helena walked in with a glare carved onto her face.

She had changed clothes. Now wearing a sleek red cocktail dress that hugged her body and shone under the golden lights, she looked every bit the elite heiress. But her eyes scanned him with disapproval, her voice laced with venom.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

John didn’t even blink. He looked up from where he sat and asked with dry sarcasm, “Have you suddenly gone blind?”

Her jaw clenched, and she felt insulted. She badly wanted to slap him, to let him know he was nothing but a beggar to heer. She stepped closer, fists already curling at her sides.

“Are you here to question my fashion sense, or was there an actual reason for barging in?” he asked, his voice filled with mockery and sarcasm.

She nearly exploded but managed to breathe through her nose.

“The whole family is downstairs,” she said sharply. “They’re waiting for you.”

He already knew. Grandmaster Morrison was calling a meeting. A formal one. And John had no doubt it would be to announce his decision. Most of the family probably still didn’t know yet.

Helena folded her arms. “Put on that tuxedo. Now. You don’t deserve it, and you could never afford it even if you worked your entire miserable life, but at least look presentable.”

John smirked.

“Why don’t you wear it?” he said, his voice cool. “You’re rich. You’re worthy. I bet it would fit you perfectly.”

Helena opened her mouth—but nothing came out. Her pride caught in her throat. And then, without another word, he walked right past her, not even brushing her shoulder, as if she were air.

She hissed under her breath and followed behind him. “I don’t know why Grandfather’s including you in a family meeting, but I’ll give you a heads up,” she sneered. “Everyone downstairs? They’re top billionaires, CEOs, global investors. So try not to do anything stupid like poor people always do.”

John didn’t reply. He let her march past him down the hallway.

She still doesn’t know what this meeting is about.

He followed her down the grand staircase into the extra-large living room, where chandeliers sparkled and the seats were arranged in a crescent facing Grandmaster Morrison, who stood tall and proud at the center.

The murmurs began the moment John entered.

“Is that him?”

“That’s the healer?”

“He looks like a mechanic.”

“He doesn’t even look clean…”

Their gazes were sharp, cold, disapproving. To them, he was dirt under their shoes.

“Why is he even here?” someone whispered. “Is he lost?”

“Maybe he’s Helena’s charity project.”

“Or a street magician.”

Grandmaster Morrison raised a single hand, and silence fell like thunder.

“This young man standing before you,” he said, his voice as smooth as steel, “is the one who saved my life. When every specialist failed, when my body began to fail, he restored me with a power none of you can comprehend.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A few skeptical glances were exchanged.

“He is not a commoner,” Morrison continued, voice rising. “He is the reason I am standing here today. He saved my life, and I owe him everything.”

Gasps rippled through the room. Some eyes widened. Others narrowed in confusion and disbelief.

“This meeting,” Grandmaster Morrison continued, “was called urgently for a single purpose.”

All eyes turned toward him.

He looked at Helena for a heartbeat, then faced the crowd.

“My granddaughter, Helena… will be betrothed to the Divine Healer. They will be married.”

The room exploded.

Gasps filled the air. Helena’s mouth fell open, her entire body locking in place.

“What?!”

“Absolutely not!”

“Who is he? Where is he even from?”

“Father, this is a joke, right?”

“He looks like he sleeps in the streets!”

Helena’s face turned white as chalk, her lips trembling. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even breathe..She’d always imagined marrying someone from high society; a man who matched her name, her beauty, her upbringing. Not a man who looked like he fought bears for fun.

Darrell Morrison, her father, was the first to step forward. His face was red with fury. “Father, I respect you, but this is insane. Just because he healed you doesn’t mean he deserves Helena! He’s a nobody!”

Helena’s mother marched beside her husband, pointing furiously at John. “He might be a healer or whatever, but he’s beneath us! This marriage will destroy our reputation. If the media gets hold of this, it’ll be a scandal!”

“Yes!” others echoed.

“Exactly!”

“He’s a scam artist, just give him money and let him go!”

Helena’s younger brother, Derrick, stood next, a smirk on his face. “A million dollars. That should be enough to thank him for whatever… miracle or magic he did.”

John stood still, silently watching like a lion in a room of barking dogs.

But Grandmaster Morrison wasn’t done.

“Enough!” he roared, raising both hands.

The room went silent once again.

“You mock him because you’re blind. If you knew the true power this man possesses, you would bow at his feet. You would beg him to spare you.”

A few people scoffed. Some laughed quietly, shaking their heads.

But Grandmaster Morrison's face was deadly serious.

“My decision is final. In seven days, there will be an engagement banquet. The media will be invited. The Morrison family will witness the union between my granddaughter and the man who saved me.”

Helena finally found her voice. “No! I won’t! I won’t marry this—this thing!”

Grandmaster Morrison’s eyes hardened.

“Then you are free to leave,” he said. “But if you do, you will be exiled from this family. Stripped of the Morrison name. Of the wealth. Of everything.”

Darrell Morrison’s face turned the color of bruised fire as he stepped forward again, this time with a tremble in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Pride and power made men loud—but desperation made them human.

“Father… please,” he said, his voice lowered but still filled with urgency. “I beg you. Think about this. Think about Helena’s future. Her reputation, her place in this family—her life! You’ve always made wise decisions, but this… this will bring nothing but chaos. People are already whispering.”

He turned his eyes to his daughter, who still looked like she was about to pass out from fury, shock, or both. “Helena doesn’t love him. She doesn’t even like him. You can’t just force them into this.”

The air in the room thickened, as though every molecule had frozen in place.

Grandmaster Morrison didn’t speak for a moment. Then, very slowly, he stepped down from the elevated dais, his cane echoing sharply with each step on the marble floor.

He moved closer to Darrell, his gaze like sharpened steel, ancient and unblinking.

“I have thought about it,” he said, voice low but thunderous. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Darrell swallowed.

“This man is not just some healer or stranger. He is the one who pulled me back from the grave. He is the reason I am still breathing. He is the one who holds a power none of you even deserve to witness. And yet, I’ve chosen to give him not only my blessing... but my legacy.”

He turned his eyes on the room. “Let me be clear. Crystal clear. If anyone here dares to argue with me again, if any single person in this room questions my judgment or defies this engagement…” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “…they will be banished from the Morrison name. Stripped of every title, every share, every last drop of privilege. You will be ghosts to me. Dead, as far as I’m concerned.”

The silence that followed was absolute.