RETURN OF THE GOD OF WAR

John Hardwick

Helena walked barefoot down the cold marble hallway, trailing behind John toward the jade wing. Her silk robe brushed softly against her legs with every uneasy step. The mansion’s corridors, once grand and familiar, now felt like a trap, each gold-lined wall pressing in on her. Her parents’ voices had already faded behind her, cut off by the Grandmaster’s final word, leaving her alone with the man she hated.

John walked ahead with steady confidence, his broad back blocking her view forward. He moved as though this was nothing unusual, while Helena hugged her arms tightly across her chest, feeling small and exposed. She had rushed out so quickly she’d left her sandals behind; hardly the elegant heiress she normally showed the world.

The golden double doors of the jade room came into sight, guarded by the same men from earlier. They straightened as John approached, their eyes flicking to Helena but quickly looking away, as though they could sense the tension hanging in the air. John didn’t stop to press the panel; instead, he gave a single nod. One guard entered the code with a respectful bow, and the doors slid open.

"After you," John said, his voice laced with mocking chivalry, stepping aside with a gesture that felt more like a challenge.

Helena glared at him, her chin lifted defiantly, but she stepped inside, the thick carpet enveloping her feet like a reluctant embrace.

The doors closed with a soft click, sealing them inside. Helena spun to face John, her eyes blazing. "This is insane. You know that, right? Sharing a room like we're some medieval couple? I won't sleep a wink with you here."

John tossed his face cap onto a golden armchair, his movements casual, as if he owned the place. He peeled off his gray top, revealing the scarred, tattooed torso that had flustered her earlier, and kicked off his boots. "Insane or not, it's happening. Your grandfather's orders. Deal with it." He glanced at the bed, then at the couch. "You take the bed. I'll take the couch. No need to make this more awkward than it is."

Helena's cheeks flushed again at the sight of him half-undressed, his muscles rippling under the golden light, the scars telling silent stories of violence she didn't want to imagine. "Awkward? This is humiliating! And put your shirt back on... you're not in some barracks. Or is this how you always parade around, trying to intimidate people?"

He chuckled, a low rumble that grated on her nerves, and sat on the edge of the bed instead, testing the mattress with a bounce. "Intimidate? Princess, if I wanted to intimidate you, you'd know it. This is just me getting comfortable. If my body's too much for you to handle, close your eyes."

She marched over, her robe swishing, and jabbed a finger at his chest; stopping short of touching him, the heat radiating from his skin making her pull back. "Don't call me princess! And get off the bed... that's mine. You said you'd take the couch."

John leaned back on his hands, his tattoos flexing with the movement, and smirked up at her. "Changed my mind. The couch looks lumpy. Besides, the bed's big enough for two. We can draw a line down the middle if it makes you feel better."

Helena's eyes widened, her breath hitching. "A line? You think this is a joke? I'm not sharing a bed with you! I'd rather sleep on the floor than be anywhere near you."

He rose to his feet, tall and imposing, closing the distance between them. The scars across his chest stood out sharply, and she found herself staring; part horrified, part strangely curious. “The floor it is, then,” he said in a low, rough voice. “But don’t act like you’re too good for it. You’ve had everything in life handed to you. Maybe sleeping on the carpet will finally teach you some humility.”

"Humility?" Helena laughed bitterly, stepping closer despite herself, her anger overriding her caution. "From you? The man who waltzed in here like a savior, turning my family upside down? You're the one who needs a lesson in manners, in respect, in knowing your place!"

John's smirk faded, his eyes darkening as he leaned in, their faces inches apart. "My place? You have no idea where I come from, Helena. I've fought in wars you couldn't imagine, saved lives while you were sipping champagne at galas. Your grandfather sees that. Why can't you?"

"Because you're a liar!" she shot back, her voice rising. "A fraud who tricked him with some parlor trick! Healing? Please. You probably drugged him or hypnotized him. And now you're using it to claw your way into our wealth. Admit it... this is all about the money, the power. You don't care about me or this family!"

John’s jaw tightened, his smirk vanishing as he took a step closer, closing the distance between them. She could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint scent of soap and something earthier, like battle-worn leather. “Money? Power?” he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. “I had more of both before I was twenty than your family could dream of. I was John Hardwick, heir to the Hardwick empire—trillions, not your measly billions. My grandfather erased me from existence for one mistake, sent me to the military to break me. I became the God of War instead. I’m here because of a debt to Master Liang, not because I need your pathetic fortune.”

Helena froze, her mind reeling. “You are John Hardwick?” she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief. “That’s… impossible. The Hardwick heir died years ago. Everyone knows that.”

“Do they?” John said, his eyes boring into hers, unyielding. “My grandfather made sure of it. Rewrote the story, buried me in rumors. But I’m standing here, in your precious jade room, bound to you by a promise I didn’t ask for. So spare me your accusations, princess. You’re not the only one trapped here.”

She stared at him, searching for the lie, but his gaze was steady, a wall of truth she couldn’t breach. The Hardwick empire was a legend, a colossus that dwarfed even the Morrison dynasty. If he was telling the truth… “Then why hide it?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “Why play the beggar, the healer? Why go along with this insane marriage?”

“Because honor matters,” he said, his tone softening but still firm. “Master Liang saved me when I was nothing. He gave me the God Hand, taught me to survive. His condition was clear: heal your grandfather, accept the gift. You’re the gift, Helena, whether either of us likes it or not.”

She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed in the room. “The gift? I’m not some prize to be handed over! I’m Helena Morrison, and I won’t be your wife—not in name, not in anything!”

John rubbed his temples, exasperation creeping into his voice. “Fine. Hate me. But we’re here tonight, so pick a side of the bed or sleep on the floor. Your call.”

Helena hesitated, the weight of the night pressing down on her. The couch looked uninviting, the floor worse, and her pride wouldn’t let her admit defeat. “The bed,” she said finally, her voice laced with venom. “But if you so much as touch the sheets on my side, I’ll have the guards drag you out.”

He shrugged, claiming the left side and lying back, his eyes closing as if the argument were over. “Scream all you want. I’m not here for your drama.”

She climbed onto the right side, pulling the silk sheets up like a fortress, her body rigid with tension. The bed was vast, but John’s presence was a suffocating weight, the faint heat from his body seeping through the divide. The room’s hum filled the silence, but sleep was a distant dream, her mind racing with his revelations. John Hardwick, the heir to the Hardwick empire. Was it true? Or just another layer of his deception?

Minutes stretched into an eternity, the golden walls seeming to close in. She turned to glare at him, his chest rising and falling steadily, as if he could sleep through a war. “Why me?” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “Of all the women, why force this on me?”

John’s eyes opened, staring at the ceiling, his voice low and tired. “Ask your grandfather. Or Liang. I didn’t pick you. Duty picked us both.”

“Duty?” she scoffed, rolling onto her side to face him, her hair spilling over the pillow. “That’s your excuse? You’re the God of War, so fight it! Or are you just a coward hiding behind your master’s orders?”

He turned his head, his eyes meeting hers in the dim light, a flicker of something raw in their depths; anger, or maybe pain. “Some battles you don’t fight. Some you endure. I’ve fought enough to know the difference. You? You’ve never fought a real battle in your life.”

Her voice rose, sharp and cutting. “You don’t know me! You think because I grew up with money, I’m weak? I’ve fought for everything; my place in this family, my reputation, my future! And now you’re stealing it all!”

John sat up, his tattoos shifting as he leaned closer, his voice a low growl. “Stealing? I didn’t ask for this, Helena. I was out there, free, until Liang called me back. Your grandfather’s the one who chained us together. You want to fight someone? Fight him.”

She sat up too, the sheets falling away, her robe slipping slightly as she jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare put this on Grandfather! You’re the one who slithered in here, playing the hero. I’ll find out who you really are, John. My parents are already digging, and when they do—”

A sharp buzz cut her off, coming from John’s backpack. He froze, his expression shifting from irritation to something harder, more guarded. He slid off the bed, moving with a predator’s grace to retrieve the phone. Helena watched, her heart pounding, as he answered it in a low whisper. “What?”

The voice on the other end was faint but carried a weight that made the air in the room heavier. “John, it’s Alfred. Your grandfather… he’s dead.”

John’s hand tightened around the phone, his knuckles whitening. For a moment, he was still, his face unreadable, but his eyes—those cold, piercing eyes—flashed with something raw, something Helena couldn’t name. “When did he die?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hours ago,” Alfred replied, his tone heavy with grief. “Heart attack, sudden. The empire’s in chaos. You need to come back, John. The Hardwick name… it’s yours now.”

Helena’s breath caught, her eyes wide as she pieced together the conversation. John Hardwick. The Hardwick empire. It was true—he wasn’t lying. But before she could process it, John’s voice hardened. “I’m not coming back. Not yet. I've got important things to do.”

“John, listen—” Alfred began, but John cut him off.

“Handle it, Alfred. I’ll call you when I'm done and ready.” He hung up, tossing the phone onto the armchair, his shoulders tense as he stood there, staring at the floor.

Helena’s voice broke the silence, trembling but sharp. “Your grandfather… he’s really dead? You’re… you’re really a Hardwick?”

John turned, his eyes cold again, but there was a crack in his armor now, a shadow of loss she hadn’t expected. “Believe what you want, princess. It doesn’t change anything.”