THE RETURN OF THE HIDDEN HEIR

The wind howled through the terrible looking pile of ruins like a dirge for the dead.

Derrick Morgan stood at the heart of what had once been home–his home. Crumbling stone, blackened timbers, and overgrown weeds that clawed through the fractured floors were all that remained of the Morgan estate. Even the faintest whiff of smoke was still carried by the air, as if the fire that had destroyed everything ten years ago still lingered, unwilling to release its hold.

He knelt and gently brushed his fingers against the cold, cracked earth. His gloved hands came away covered in gray dust–ashes, perhaps, of those he loved.

"Father. Mother. Elaine..." His voice broke on the last name, and he bowed his head in honor of the times they shared.

Ten years ago, he had been away–training at the neighbouring district, unaware that the world he held so dear was burning. When he returned, only the charred ruins greeted him. No bodies to bury, no survivors, no clues.

Just silence.

That night, Derrick Morgan died. The boy who remained–the one who crawled away from the ashes–was born with just a single purpose.

For a decade, he'd tried to live in the shadows, hiding his name, his face and his past.

And under the great tutelage of the world renowned strategist, Mr Rowan, he honed his mind into a weapon sharper than any blade. He had learned it all–strategy, hand-to-hand combat, internal control, endurance. He had given everything but peace while he acquired these skills.

Now, standing amid the cold ruins, Derrick whispered into the night. "The time has indeed come. I'll find whoever did this...and make them pay."

The mountain wind seemed to be in agreement with this, as they stirred his cloak.

But fate, as always, had other plans.

-------

The scream came from the forest below.

At first, Derrick thought it was one of those echoes from his past, perhaps a sad imagination of his sister's voice in the flames. But then it came again, sharper and more frantic this time.

A woman's cry for help.

His head snapped toward the sound. His instincts flared, and within seconds, he was moving–darting between trees like a shadow remade.

The clearing opened before him in a quick rush of silver moonlight.

Five men stood in a rough circle around a woman on the ground. Her wrists were bound, her clothes torn, and her breathing ragged. Even from the distance, Derrick still noticed the unnatural flush on her skin and the glassy haze in her eyes.

The air seemed to carry a faint sweet, metallic scent, more like a potent aphrodisiac. This bothered Derrick.

"Don't you touch me!" He heard the woman cry as she struggled, her voice hoarse.

A tall, scar–faced brute suddenly backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling. This made the others give off a low and ugly laugh.

"Pretty harmless thing, isn't she?" one jeered. "Boss, you sure we shouldn't save her ass for later?" another sneered.

"Nah," the leader growled. "Finish it, boys. No witnesses."

Derrick's blood turned ice. He could see his sister's pain in the strange woman, and he couldn't bear to watch any longer.

"Enough!"

The single word cut through the clearing like a blade.

The men froze, turning their heads slowly to the direction of the command. Out of the darkness stepped a young man–barely in his twenties, lean but not upright, and his cloak dusted with ash. The moonlight touched his face, revealing calm eyes like the color of storm clouds.

The thugs exchanged glanced of feigned surprise–then burst into laughter.

"Who's this kid?"

"Out here this late, brat? Does your foolish mom know you're missing?"

"Hey, pretty hero, run home before she calls the cops!"

Their mockery echoed through the forest.

Derrick only smiled, his lips curling. "I'll say this once. Leave the girl. Or die."

That silenced them. But only for a second.

"Big words from a little man," the leader snorted. "Get him!"

The first thug lunged. Derrick moved even before the man's blade cleared its sheath–one twist, one strike, and the man was down, clutching his broken arm.

The next big one came swinging a bat. Derrick only sidestepped, caught the weapon midair, and drove an elbow deep into the man's ribs. He collapsed with a wheeze.

In less than a minute, the entire clearing had become a storm of movement and pain. Derrick fought with the precision of an experienced surgeon, every motion controlled. His training under Mr. Rowan flowed through him like instinct.

"Come here boy," the fifth man called as he attempted to draw out his gun. Derrick could clearly see the fear in his eyes, so he rushed and disarmed him with a flick of his wrist and sent him crashing into a tree.

Silence finally fell, broken only by groans and the whisper of wind.

"Wait–wait, please don't kill me!" The leader cried, blood streaming freely from his split lip as he dropped to his knees. "I didn't want to do this! I was forced, I swear! Let me go and I'll disappear forever. I'll change, I'll–"

Derrick's gaze was colder than the night. "You should have thought of all these before you touched her."

With a swift motion, he brought the edge of his hand down on the man's neck. The leader crumpled, unconscious.

------

"What's your name?"

No reply.

He turned fully to the girl, noting how she still trembled, her breath shallow and her pupils dilated. Sweat glistened on her flushed skin.

Kneeling beside her, she pressed two fingers to her pulse. Fast–too fast. The beat stuttered erratically beneath his touch. He inhaled sharply, his expression darkening.

"Damn it," he muttered. "She's been giving something strong."

He knew that if it wasn't neutralized within two hours, her body won't hold out.

Just as he lifted her slightly to check her breathing, something slipped from her torn pocket and fell into the moonlit grass–a small plastic card glinting faintly.

Derrick picked it up and turned it between his fingers. It was an ID.

"Ivy Lorenzo," he muttered as he read the card. Then he pocketed it, lifting her limp form carefully into his arms. "Hold on. You're not dying tonight."