The Return of the Almighty Dragon Jackal

Chapter 6: THE DUNGEON KING

The training yard reeked of blood and sweat, and the sound of fists against flesh was louder than the gunfire cracking in the distance. Andrew stood in the middle of the dirt ring, shirt clinging to his back, knuckles split open, chest heaving as another body hit the ground. His vision swam, but he didn’t falter. He had no right to. Not here. Not under Edward Thorne’s eyes. It had only been a week since he’d been dragged into this world, and already he was unrecognizable, not just to others but to himself. He was Edward’s property now, the latest animal in a yard built to break men until they forgot what it meant to be human.

“Again,” Victor barked, shoving another fighter into the ring. “This one bites harder. Let’s see if you still stand when he’s done with you.”

Andrew didn’t even blink. The man lunged, but instinct moved faster than thought. A twist of the arm, a sharp crack, a groan collapsing to silence. Andrew stood over the crumpled figure, chest rising and falling, his breath jagged but his eyes clear.

Victor’s smirk held a shadow of respect. “Maybe you’re not as useless as you look.”

Andrew didn’t answer. His gaze climbed higher, toward the balcony where Edward stood. The mafia lord leaned casually on the railing, watching with the calm interest of a man observing a dogfight. But it wasn’t Edward’s presence that froze Andrew’s breath.

It was the figure standing beside him. Slim, shrouded in shadows, hair falling over a bruised cheek. A cut split her lip. Her eyes were hollow but locked on him, unwavering. Andrew squinted against the light, his pulse stumbling in his chest. It couldn’t be.

Later, when the noise had faded and his body screamed with pain, Andrew dragged himself back to his quarters. Four walls of cold cement, a steel cot, and a bulb that flickered like it might give out at any second. He peeled off his shirt, muscles trembling, when the door creaked open.

The figure slipped inside, barefoot, silent, and hesitant. Andrew turned slowly, blood pounding in his ears. The sight stole his breath. It really was her!

“…Cynthia?”

Her lips trembled. “Andrew?”

The silence that followed was unbearable. It pressed against them like a scream neither could release.

He took a step forward, then froze. She wasn’t the girl he remembered. Not the bright spirit who once laughed beneath orchard trees. This woman was scarred, her arms marked by burns and bruises, her wrists raw with the marks of restraints. Her eyes carried too much emptiness for someone her age.

“I thought you were gone,” she whispered, voice cracking.

“I thought the same about you.” His throat burned.

For the first time since he’d entered this place, Andrew felt something crack inside him. They didn’t embrace. They didn’t cry. They simply stared, both haunted, both broken, recognizing the pieces of themselves they’d lost to the same monster.

Morning dragged him back into the yard. Edward’s orders were clear—train the younger recruits, turn reckless boys into soldiers, and make them lethal. Andrew obeyed, though his body ached with every movement. He barked orders, drilled them until their lungs screamed for mercy, broke them down and built them back up.

“You call yourselves soldiers?” he shouted, voice like steel. “You wouldn’t last two minutes in a real fight. Press-up. Fifty.”

Grumbling filled the air, but his eyes silenced any protest. Day after day, he hammered them into something resembling warriors, showing them how to fight, how to think, even how to protect one another when no one else would. His reputation spread through whispers. The new recruit fights like a machine. He never flinches. He never stops.

Among the group was Jax. Tall, broad, a limp in his leg, a scowl on his face that seemed carved in stone. He didn’t speak much, but Andrew noticed how he shielded weaker men during drills, how he followed orders without question. One evening, after the others had left, Jax lingered and tossed Andrew a bottle of water.

“You fight like someone who’s already dead,” Jax muttered.

Andrew caught it, studying him. “Do you?”

Jax cracked a grin that held no joy. “Lost everything already. Wife. Kid. Freedom. The only thing keeping me breathing is the chance to rip Edward’s throat out.”

It was enough. They didn’t call each other friends, but something settled between them, raw and unspoken. A bond built not on trust but shared rage.

Cynthia came to Andrew again that night. No hesitation this time. She sat beside him on the cot, voice low and fragile. “They keep me in the East Wing. I’m one of the favorites.” She almost spat the word. “The ones they don’t kill but never let live.”

His stomach turned. “Cynthia… what did they—”

“Don’t ask.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Just promise me something.”

“What?”

“When you escape out of here—and I know you will—don’t leave me behind.”

His voice broke before the words did. “I won’t. I swear it.”

But promises were thin armor in a place like this. Each night, Edward sent Andrew on missions that dug deeper into his soul. Burn this safehouse. Deliver this package. Put a bullet in that man’s skull. Andrew obeyed, his disgust swallowed down like poison. Because survival wasn’t the only thing at stake. Richard’s face haunted him every time he closed his eyes. His brother’s life was tethered to his obedience. And now Cynthia’s was too.

It wasn’t long before whispers carried his name like fire. “THE DRAGON JACKAL.” Not mockery. Not fear. But out of respect. Soldiers carved jackals onto their knives, a silent tribute to the man who bled with them and refused to bow.

But where loyalty bloomed, envy festered. Victor, Edward’s most ruthless captain, watched with cold fury as Andrew’s shadow grew. Men who once followed Victor now gravitated toward the Jackal, their loyalty shifting like sand. And then there was Cynthia.

Her spirit had begun to stitch itself back together since finding Andrew. She laughed sometimes now. Trained beside him. Walked with her chin higher, even with scars still marring her skin. And Victor saw it all.

She had always been his secret obsession, her fragility feeding his hunger for control. But now, when her gaze locked on Andrew, there was no fear, no flinch, only something Victor could never claim.

It drove him mad.

One night, the yard was alive with violence, Andrew sparring against four men at once, moving with precision that made it look effortless. Cynthia watched from the side, hands busy wrapping gauze around her bruised knuckles, eyes fixed on him with admiration she couldn’t hide. Victor stood nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Andrew dropped the last opponent with a swift strike, then offered the man a hand up. Cynthia clapped lightly, smiling despite herself. “You didn’t even break a sweat.”

Andrew wiped his face with a towel, smirking faintly. “Guess I’m getting used to pain.”

She laughed. “You always had a strange relationship with pain.”

Victor stepped forward, voice laced with venom. “Training her now, Jackal? Or just enjoying the attention?”

Andrew’s expression didn’t shift. “She trains harder than half your men.”

Victor sneered. “Don’t let her distract you. This isn’t playtime.”

Cynthia’s smile vanished. “I’m not a distraction.”

His gaze cut into her like a blade. “You’ve always been one.”

Andrew moved in front of her, calm but unyielding. “Walk away, Victor.”

The silence pressed heavy. Then Victor smirked coldly. “You think a few victories make you king here? You’re still Edward’s dog, just like the rest. Don’t forget it.”

Andrew’s eyes darkened. “I haven’t forgotten anything. Especially the way you treat people you think are beneath you.”

Victor’s fists curled, but he turned, stalking off into the night. Not out of fear but out of calculation.

Later, when the estate had quieted, Andrew sat against the cold wall under the faint glow of the stars, the kind you could barely see past the smoke. Cynthia slipped beside him, her head resting on her knees.

“Do you remember the treehouse?” she asked softly.

Andrew blinked, the memory tugging at something buried. “Behind the chapel. You used to climb up and refuse to come down unless someone bribed you with candy.”

She smiled faintly. “You were always the one to climb up with me.”

“Because I was afraid you’d jump.” He chuckled weakly.

She laughed too, the sound fragile but real, then went quiet. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I searched for you,” he admitted. “After your family vanished, we all thought…”

“That I was dead?” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “I was. In every way that mattered. Until now.”

He reached for her hand. Calloused, scarred, yet warm. “We’re not dead. Not yet.”

She leaned into him, her head against his shoulder. For the first time in years, the silence didn’t feel like punishment.

But beyond the shadows, Victor stood watching, eyes burning with more than rage. And in the darkness of his heart, vengeance began to take shape.