The Return of the Almighty Dragon Jackal

Chapter 3: Rain of Bad Luck

The gate loomed before him, black iron twisted into patterns that once promised safety but now carried the sharp edge of memory. Andrew stood frozen, Richard’s fragile weight strapped to his back. Fifteen years had passed, yet the house beyond looked untouched—polished bricks, trimmed hedges, the fountain spilling its endless tears into the koi pond.

He pressed the buzzer. Static hissed. Then a rude worker's voice, sharp, clipped, perfectly designed to wound even in its brevity. “Yes? Who the hell are you? What do you need?”

Andrew leaned close, voice steady. “Tell him his sons have come back alive!”

The silence that followed stretched into something suffocating. Then the gates creaked, heavy and reluctant, until they parted. He stepped inside, each footfall echoing with a finality he couldn’t ignore. The air was heavy, perfumed with something sweet but suffocating. He adjusted Richard’s body on his back and forced himself forward.

The mansion door burst open. Carina stood in the frame, wrapped in silk, her hair pinned high, lips red as spilled blood. Her eyes landed on him, widened, then slid to Richard. For a second, her face cracked—shock, fear, something primal. Her breath caught audibly. “His sons?… they’re alive?”

But the weakness lasted only a blink. Her mask returned, sharper than before, mouth curling into a sneer. “What bullshit is this?! A ghost parade?”

Andrew held her gaze, calm as stone. “No. Just two boys who refused to die.”

Behind her came her spoiled daughter—Olivia, robe clinging to her frame, teacup in hand as if the house were a stage and she is a delicate actress. Her nose wrinkled, eyes narrowing with distaste. “Ew. Who let them in? Are we attending to beggars now?”

Andrew’s voice didn’t rise, though his chest burned. “He’s sick. He needs a hospital. Where is my father?”

Something flickered across Carina’s painted face. Fear and annoyance. Then the sound of hurried steps came from behind her. Roger appeared—older and grayer. Shoulders slightly bent with years. But when his eyes fell on Andrew, then Richard, the years shattered. His hand shot forward to the doorway as if to steady himself.

“Andrew?” His voice cracked. Then louder, breaking entirely. “Richard?!”

He stumbled forward, and Andrew lowered Richard into his arms. Roger’s body shook as he held his youngest son, the tears coming unrestrained, falling into the boy’s pale hair. “Is this really you, Andrew? I… I searched every nook of this city. I thought you were—”

“Dead,” Andrew said softly. “Everyone did.”

Roger clutched them both, his face pressed into Richard’s still shoulder. The man looked undone, like a soul pieced back together after being torn apart for too long.

Carina did not move. Olivia scoffed and sipped her tea as if watching a soap opera too long drawn out.

“You came back on foot?” Roger asked, struggling to help Andrew carry Richard inside. “How—how are you alive?”

“A man saved us. Raised us on a mountain. I’ll explain later. Richard first.”

Roger nodded. His hands hovered over Richard as though afraid to break him. “We’ll get him to the hospital right now.”

Carina’s voice lashed out, sharp enough to slice the air. “And who’s paying for that? You want to dip into the family’s money for… for this?” She gestured at Richard, her smile cruel. “Look at him. He’s a corpse already.”

Roger straightened, years of restraint burning off in an instant. “Don’t you ever speak of my son like that.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. The smile twitched but did not falter. “How convenient. He vanishes for fifteen years, then suddenly reappears with a sick body on his back, asking for handouts. You really believe this?”

“They are my family,” Roger said, voice iron.

“Family?” Olivia laughed, setting her cup down with deliberate disdain. “More like a liability. Who knows what filth they dragged in? You should quarantine them, not invite them in.”

Andrew turned then, his eyes fixed on Carina, his words delivered low but sharp. “You seem awfully disappointed to see us alive.”

Her mask slipped, only for a second. Her lips tightened, her expression twisting before she caught it and sneered. “You’re not welcome here.”

Roger’s voice cut through, thunderous and final. “This is my house. My sons will stay.”

And that was the end of it.

Richard was rushed to the hospital under Roger’s order, doctors flooding the room with tests, wires, and whispered astonishment. One of them finally spoke, brows furrowed. “He’s in deep neuro-sleep. But his vitals are strong. For someone like this… it’s unusual. Almost as if something preserved him.”

Andrew thought of Master Yuan’s hands, the herbs steeped in smoke, the mountain air that kept them alive when the world below forgot them. He lowered his head and whispered, “he has to hang there.”

Days melted into weeks, then months. Andrew lived in the house that wore its wealth like armor but reeked of betrayal. Carina ignored him with icy precision, Olivia mocked him in small, calculated cuts. They shut off the water heater mid-shower, hid his clothes, canceled Richard’s medical appointments, always with smiles sweet enough to rot.

Each act stung like a knife, but Andrew bore it. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Roger tried, but Andrew saw the shadows behind his father’s eyes. The man had changed. The warmth was still there, but dulled, as though buried beneath fear. He watched Carina. He watched Olivia. He even watched Andrew. The house was no longer a home but a stage where everyone performed a part.

Then came the call.

It was a Thursday. Rain lashed the windows, heavy and unrelenting. The phone rang. Andrew answered. The words came quickly. A car accident. A bridge. No survivors.

Roger was gone.

The police called it brake failure. Rain and bad luck.

But Andrew saw what wasn’t said. No skid marks. No fight to regain control. Just a clean fall into silence. He remembered his father’s eyes that very morning, restless and afraid. He remembered the words: Don’t follow me.

The funeral came three days later, rain still falling as if the sky itself wept. The coffin gleamed black as it sank into the earth, lowered by ropes into mud. Mourners spoke empty condolences, their words drifting into nothing.

Andrew stood tall beside Richard’s wheelchair, his black suit soaked through, his face unreadable. He leaned close to his brother and whispered, This is definitely not an accident. Our father was definitely assassinated. I’ll find the truth. I swear it.”

Carina and Olivia stood at the front, veils pulled low, black dresses hugging their bodies. They looked the part of grieving widows, veils and black dresses, powder dusting their dry faces. Not a tear fell, not even the pretense of one.

When the coffin sank into the earth and the mourners drifted away, Andrew remained rooted. No tears fell; grief had scorched him hollow, leaving only a hard vow—to uncover the truth and protect his comatose brother.

Carina stalked toward him, venom curling in her smirk. “Still standing here? What is it—thinking of joining him in the grave?”

Andrew’s glare remained ice.

She laughed, low and cruel. “Oh! That’s right. It’ll hurt more this way. Your protective father’s gone. No one left to protect you.”

“Father’s death wasn’t an accident,” Andrew retorted coldly. “I’ll prove it.”

“Oh, will you?” Her tone dripped with mockery. “Is that supposed to be a threat? I think there's something else you should anticipate—we’re gonna hear your father's will very soon.