The Return of the Almighty Dragon Jackal

Chapter 7: DEATH CAME KNOCKING

Andrew stood in the private wing, the silence heavy enough to choke. Edward’s voice broke it with the kind of calm that always hid a blade. “You’ve grown into someone they fear,” he said, pacing in front of the fireplace. “But fear is a fragile crown. Loyalty decides who keeps it.”

Andrew’s chest tightened. Praise from Edward was never without a hook. He stood straighter, but his hands felt clammy. “I’ve done everything you asked.”

Edward’s smile was too smooth. “Not everything. Not yet.” He slid an envelope across the polished table. Andrew hesitated before pulling it closer. Inside was a name, bold letters that turned his blood cold—YUAN SHEN. His mentor. His father in all but blood.

The air left his lungs. “You can’t be serious! You want me to kill Master Yuan?” Andrew whispered.

Edward’s gaze was sharp, unreadable. “I am very serious. He’s a loose end. And loose ends burn empires to the ground.”

Andrew’s throat constricted. Memories flashed—the man who had taught him to fight, who had stood by him when no one else did, who had spoken to him not as a soldier but as a son. Now he was a target. Andrew’s hands trembled against the envelope. “He raised me. You know that.”

Edward’s voice dropped, silken and merciless. “And I raised your brother. Richard still breathes because of me. One wrong choice and the machines keeping him alive will fall silent.” He leaned closer, eyes like daggers. “And Cynthia… do you think she would survive if you chose defiance?”

Andrew’s chest burned as if knives carved through his ribs. His mentor’s face blurred with his brother’s frail body, with Cynthia’s quiet smile. They hung in the balance, and Edward’s hand held the scale.

“I want him gone,” Edward said. “By your hand.”

Andrew’s voice cracked. “You’re asking me to murder my own master.”

“I’m asking you to prove you’re mine.”

The words landed like chains. Andrew lowered his eyes, every fiber of him screaming no, yet his mouth whispered yes. He had no choice.

Edward straightened, the faintest smirk playing at his lips. “Good. The mission leaves tonight.”

The order was later publicly announced in the underground chamber, Edward’s throne looming in the shadows as soldiers stood in rows. Victor glared at Andrew across the room, bitterness written in every line of his face. Edward’s command thundered, echoing off the stone walls: “Yuan Shen must die. Jackal will lead the strike. Victor and Jax will ensure its success.”

A ripple of murmurs moved through the men. Victor’s fists clenched. Andrew felt the hatred in his stare—boiling, poisonous.

Later, in the weapons vault, Victor cornered Jax. His voice dripped venom. “I should be leading this, not him. He stole everything from me.” He slammed a knife into the table, the steel trembling. “I’ll end Andrew myself in the jungle after the mission. You’ll say it was Yuan, okay?”

Jax shifted, unease flickering across his face. “If Edward finds out—”

“He won’t. Unless you tell him. But you won’t, because you’re smarter than that.” Victor’s smile was savage.

What Victor didn’t know was the faint red light blinking inside Jax’s pocket recorder.

When Jax found Andrew in the shadows of the barracks, his face was grave. He played the recording, Victor’s venomous voice spilling into the silence. Andrew’s stomach turned. He wasn’t just walking into Edward’s trap. He was walking into Victor’s too.

“Then why go?” Jax asked, his voice low.

Andrew looked at the floor, torn between rage and despair. “Because if I don’t, my brother—Richard dies. Cynthia dies. And Yuan… he’s already marked. We're gonna settle this in the jungle.”

The truck rattled through the provinces, headlights cutting the dark. The men spoke little. Andrew’s mind was a storm—Yuan’s laughter echoing against Edward’s threat, Cynthia’s hand in his, Richard’s hollow breaths. The closer they drew to Shanghai, the heavier his chest grew.

The jungle swallowed them with its damp silence. Yuan’s hideout waited ahead, but betrayal struck before they reached it. Victor’s blade flashed from the shadows.

Andrew barely ducked in time. The knife grazed his cheek, hot blood spilling. “I knew you’d choke,” Victor snarled, lunging again.

Their bodies slammed into the mud, fists, knives, and rage. Andrew’s arms shook as he blocked strike after strike, the weight of Edward’s command pressing on his back. Victor’s eyes were wild, spitting years of jealousy. “You don’t deserve this! None of it!”

Andrew’s knuckles cracked against Victor’s jaw. Pain shot up his arm, but he didn’t stop. The knife clattered. For a moment Victor’s hand closed over Andrew’s throat, squeezing the life from him. Stars burst in Andrew’s vision. Desperation clawed at him. His hand found the knife. He drove it forward.

The sound was sickening. Victor froze, eyes wide, then crumpled against him, heavy and lifeless. Andrew’s breath came ragged, his hands slick with blood. He had killed his brother-in-arms. Not a mission target. Not an enemy. His own.

Jax appeared, face pale. For a moment they just stared at the body between them. Then Andrew whispered, “We bury him. We make it look like Yuan.”

The jungle swallowed Victor’s grave. They left behind a staged scene—signs of a struggle, weapons scattered, enough to sell the lie.

When they returned, Edward’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the report. “Yuan is dead?”

“Yes,” Andrew answered, the lie cutting his tongue. “It’s done.”

Edward studied him for a long moment, then leaned back with a satisfied nod. “Very great! You're a loyal dog.”

Andrew walked out with Jax, his chest tight.

That night he found Cynthia, sat by the window, pale moonlight painting her face. He closed the door and let the weight of it all collapse inside him.

“Victor’s dead,” he whispered.

Her eyes widened, hand covering her mouth. “What—how?”

“He tried to kill me. I… I didn’t have a choice.” His voice broke. “Edward thinks Yuan is dead. But if he ever learns the truth…” He couldn’t finish. His throat closed around the words.

Cynthia crossed the room and cupped his face, tears brimming. “You can’t stay here, Andrew. You’ll drown in this place. We’ll drown. We have to leave. Tonight.”

Her urgency cut through his despair. She wasn’t pleading—she was fighting for them both. He stared at her, torn between terror and hope. “If Edward finds us—”

“He already owns us. What’s left to lose?”

Cynthia’s words pierced deeper than any blade. He thought of Richard, helpless in that hospital bed, of Yuan waiting somewhere in exile, of Victor’s blood still on his hands. And of Cynthia, the only light he had left.

He pulled her close, forehead against hers. “Then let's run, Cynthia. Let's escape here.”

For the first time that night, the air felt less suffocating. The world was still hunting him, but with her hand in his, he was ready to defy it.