RETURN OF THE GOD OF WAR

God Hand

The elevator doors slid open on the twelfth floor with a muted chime.

John stepped out, his heavy boots thudding softly against the polished tiles. The hotel manager followed at a respectful distance, his face pale, his posture tense like a man walking beside a sleeping predator.

He dared not speak. Not a word. Every step beside John was like walking a tightrope over a pit of knives.

They reached Room 1201, the executive suite. The manager fumbled with the keycard, swiping it across the scanner. The green light blinked.

The door opened with a soft click.

John walked in without a glance at the man behind him. The woman was still unconscious in his arms, her face pale, her breathing uneven.

“Leave,” John said without turning around.

The word wasn’t shouted. It didn’t have to be. It struck the manager like an order from a divine throne.

“Yes, my lord,” the manager mumbled before backing away and closing the door behind him.

John stood still in the middle of the spacious room, staring at the large bed draped in silk sheets. Gently, he laid the woman on the bed. Her condition had worsened; her skin had turned clammy, her breath shallower. Whatever was inside her, it was spreading fast.

His eyes scanned her from head to toe.

The dress she wore was elegant; high-end, custom-made. Silk, with discreet embroidery. Only women of wealth wore such things. She was someone important. But John didn’t care about that. Money meant nothing to him anymore. Titles, power, privilege, he had walked away from it all long ago.

He leaned closer and touched her wrist.

Her pulse was irregular, her skin was cool but sweating, and her eyes were rolling beneath closed lids.

He knelt beside her, checking her pulse again. It was weaker now, her heartbeat stuttering under the strain of whatever poison coursed through her veins. His training told him it was no ordinary sedative; this was a deliberate, slow-acting toxin meant to kill. He needed to act fast.

Without hesitation, John began undressing her, his movements sharp and precise. He unzipped her dress, carefully sliding it off her shoulders and down her body until she was fully naked. Her vulnerability didn’t faze him; her nakedness was irrelevant. He was a soldier, trained to see the body as a battlefield, not an object of desire. To him, she was a mission, nothing more.

He placed one hand gently on her forehead. The other on the center of her chest. His fingers pressed into her sternum, and he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

“...Heal,” he whispered.

A soft green glow shimmered around his hands.

The woman's body jerked slightly. A tremor ran through her limbs.

John moved his hand down to her legs. As his palm glided up the length of her thigh, something dark moved beneath the skin, traveling upwards as if drawn by his touch.

His hand moved past her abdomen, her ribs, her throat.

Then, her mouth opened. Her eyes flew wide for a second, and she vomited violently onto the side of the bed.

John reached for a nearby towel and caught most of it before it hit the sheets. He moved quickly, with precision.

She gasped once, and then her body relaxed.

She passed out again. But her breathing slowed. Her pulse steadied.

And his hands stopped glowing.

John leaned back. The room was quiet again.

What he had just done wasn’t medicine. It wasn’t science.

It was God Hand.

A technique lost to history. A healing art that predated Western medicine by thousands of years. Passed down through sacred oral tradition. Not even books dared document it in full.

No one alive in the last several centuries had seen it. No one but him.

Ten years ago, deep in the mountain villages of Southern China, he’d met a man; a hermit master, an exile of the Shaolin, who taught him secrets of life energy, chi flow, balance, and hands that healed by touch. The training was brutal; very brutal.

The God Hand was almost impossible to learn. And for it to work, the subject had to be completely free of obstructions, clothing included. That was the only reason he had undressed her.

With calm care, he took the bedsheet and covered her body, tucking the fabric over her shoulders. Then he stood and grabbed a towel from the bathroom to clean the spot where she had vomited.

Exhausted, John stripped off his black top and cargo pants, leaving them folded neatly on a chair. Clad only in his boxers, he settled onto the couch, his body sinking into the cushions as he allowed himself a moment of rest. Sleep came quickly, a soldier’s habit of seizing rest when it was available.

---

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the suite’s windows, casting a warm glow over the room. On the bed, the woman stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Her head throbbed faintly, a dull ache as she tried to piece together where she was. She glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Confusion clouded her mind as she struggled to recall the previous night.

She looked down at herself, and her eyes widened in shock. She was naked, the blanket barely covering her. Panic surged through her, her heart racing as she clutched the duvet to her chest.

At that moment, John stepped out of the ensuite bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair damp from a shower. His sculpted frame gleamed in the morning light, but his expression was as unreadable as ever.

The woman’s eyes widened further, fury replacing her panic. She leapt to conclusions, her mind racing with the worst assumptions. This man had kidnapped her, brought her here, and taken advantage of her. Her hands trembled with rage as she glared at him. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, her voice sharp and accusing.

John ignored her, moving to the chair where his clothes lay. He began dressing, pulling on his black top and cargo pants with deliberate calm, his cap resting nearby.

She climbed out of the bed, clutching the duvet around her body like a shield. Her bare feet hit the floor, and she stormed toward him, her anger boiling over. Without warning, she slapped him hard across the face, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

John’s head barely moved, his cold gaze locking onto hers. No one had dared strike him in a decade—not since his grandfather’s hand had delivered a similar blow ten years ago. And now, this woman, unafraid and defiant, stood before him, her eyes blazing.

“You abducted me! You raped me!” she shouted, her voice trembling with disgust. “How dare you?”

“I did nothing of the sort,” he replied coldly. “I saved your life. Which I’m now regretting.”

Her eyes narrowed, but then memories flickered back. She remembered the previous night; a business meeting with a partner, a drink that tasted off, the sudden sickness, running from the bar in a daze. She’d collapsed into the arms of a man in a black top and cap. Her gaze darted to John, now fully dressed, his cap pulled low. It was him. The man who’d helped her. But that didn’t explain her nakedness.

“Helping me doesn’t justify undressing me!” she snapped. “What gives you the right? You might’ve saved me, whatever, but that doesn’t mean you get to have your way with me!”

John sighed. "Are you always this loud in the morning?"

She stormed forward. “Do you know who I am? I’m Helena Morrison. Daughter of Darrell Morrison. My father is a billionaire and—”

John scoffed.

“Spare me the theatrics. I don’t care whose daughter you are. And for the record,” he said, turning to face her, “of all the women I’ve met, you’re the least attractive. You don’t even stir the faintest urge in me. So believe me when I say, even if you begged, I wouldn't touch you.”

The words hit Helena like a slap, her pride wounded. Furious, she swung again, her hand connecting with his face in another sharp strike. “Get out!” she yelled.

John’s gaze hardened. “I paid for this room,” he said, his tone even. “If anyone’s leaving, it’s you.”

She screamed, “I don’t care! GET THE HELL OUT!”

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes unyielding. Then, without a word, he grabbed his backpack and strode toward the door. He stepped into the hallway, pressing the elevator button with a steady hand. The doors opened, and he rode down to the lobby, his cap pulled low to shield his face.

As he walked through the lobby and out of the hotel, the morning sun hit him, bright and unrelenting. Before he could take another step, a man in a tailored suit rushed out of a sleek, black Rolls-Royce parked nearby. He hurried toward John, bowing deeply. “Young Master,” he greeted, his voice reverent.

John cursed under his breath. “Alfred,” he said, his tone sharp. “You still recognize me after ten years, even when the world’s forgotten my face?”

Alfred, an older man with graying hair and a nervous smile, chuckled. “I’d know you anywhere, Young Master, no matter how long it’s been.”

John adjusted his cap, his eyes narrowing. “How did you know I was back? That I was here?”

Alfred’s smile faltered. “A video surfaced online, last night, in the lobby. You took down two security guards. It spread quickly.”

John’s fists clenched, his jaw tightening. Everyone thought he was dead. If that video got out, someone might recognize him, and that was exactly what he didn’t want.

Alfred, sensing his concern, quickly added, “We’ve taken it down, Young Master. Wiped it clean from the internet. No one recognized you.”

John wasn't surprised. His grandfather had once erased his very existence from the world ten years ago. What was a single video?

“What do you want, Alfred?” John asked, his voice cold.

Alfred’s expression grew serious. “The Grandmaster’s health is failing. He’s in critical condition. It’s time for you to come home, to claim your place as heir to the Hardwick family.”

John scoffed, his eyes darkening. “Tell the old man I’m not interested. He exiled me so he could hand the empire to one of his perfect sons or grandsons. Let him do it.”

He brushed past Alfred, flagging down a taxi. As he opened the backseat door, Alfred’s voice stopped him. “The Grandmaster has regretted exiling you for the past ten years. It’s what’s destroyed his health. You’re his favorite, sir. And all he wants is to see you before he dies.”

John froze, his hand on the door. Memories of that day ten years ago flooded back; the sting of his grandfather’s slap, the cold words of banishment. His jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening. “If the old man dies, don’t bother sending an invitation to his funeral,” he said, his voice like steel. “I won’t show.”

He slid into the taxi, slammed the door, and the car sped off, leaving Alfred standing alone on the sidewalk.