The Return of the Almighty Dragon Jackal

Chapter Three: The House That Forgot Him

The city had changed.

Taller buildings now pierced the sky where modest ones once stood. The roads buzzed louder. Everything moved faster, yet somehow, the house that once held his childhood still stood at the end of the cul-de-sac, untouched by time—except for the new layer of polished cruelty that seemed to hang in the air like perfume.

Andrew stood at the front gate, his feet unmoving, his eyes locked on the ornate black iron that separated him from the past. On his back, Richard lay bundled in a woolen wrap, still comatose, still unhealed. Behind him, the taxi driver watched with awkward patience, unsure whether to drive off or wait for payment. Andrew paid him and he drove off. But then, Andrew lingered. Not because he was unsure—but because he knew once that gate opened, his life would never close again.

He pressed the buzzer.

Static. Then a female voice, cold and clipped.

“Yes?”

Andrew leaned toward the speaker. “Tell him… his sons has come back alive”

A moment of silence. Then the gates creaked open.

The house stood regal and quiet, its red bricks washed with morning light. Garden hedges trimmed like the edge of a blade. The fountain still poured its fake marble tears into the koi pond. But there was no warmth.

The moment he stepped onto the grounds, the front door burst open.

Carina.

Her heel clicked against the tiles as she emerged, dressed in silk, hair coiled like a queen’s, lips painted the color of vengeance. Her eyes landed on Andrew first—older now, broader, his jawline sculpted by time and training—but unmistakably her husband’s son. And then… her eyes slid to the fragile figure on his back.

Richard.

Her breath caught. For a split second, the world stilled. Her face—painted to perfection—twitched in horror.

“Alive.. They’re alive..”

The blood drained from her face, but her voice returned quickly, soaked in venom to mask the fear. “You… What is this? A ghost parade?”

Andrew’s voice was calm. “No. Just two boys who refused to die.”

Carina didn’t move. Behind her, Olivia appeared, teacup in hand, robe clinging to her like a second skin, her expression filled with equal parts annoyance and disgust.

“Who let them in?” Olivia scoffed. “Are we adopting strays now?”

Andrew stepped forward slowly, carefully adjusting Richard on his back. “He’s sick. He needs a hospital. Where is my father?”

A shadow flickered behind Carina’s painted face.

Then—like thunder—he emerged from behind the doorway. Mr. Roger.

Older. Grayer. But still standing tall, still carrying the quiet grace of a man who once ran empires and kissed his sons goodnight. The moment his eyes landed on Andrew and Richard, the years melted away.

“Andrew?” he whispered. Then louder—his voice cracking, raw—“Richard?!”

He ran to them.

The boys had changed, but he recognized them. Roger fell to his knees as Andrew lowered Richard into his arms. His voice broke in his throat. “I thought—I thought you were—”

“Dead,” Andrew finished for him. “Everyone did.”

Roger clutched them both, tears streaming down his face. He looked like a man who had found his soul after losing it for fifteen years.

Carina stood stiffly in the background, face twitching, eyes burning. She didn’t approach. Olivia looked away with a disgusted expression.

“You came back on foot?” Roger asked, helping Andrew settle Richard on the couch. “How—how are you even alive?”

Andrew hesitated. “A man saved us. Raised us on a mountain. I’ll explain… just not now.”

Roger didn’t press. His eyes were fixed on Richard. “We need to get him to a hospital. Immediately.”

Carina sneered. “And who’s paying for that? You want to dig into our family account for a corpse?”

Roger rose sharply. “Don’t you dare speak about my son like that.”

The air snapped.

Carina rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You think I believe this fairytale? He comes back after fifteen years and you want to play happy family?”

Roger’s voice was firm. “They are family.”

Olivia scoffed. “They’re charity cases. Who knows what diseases they picked up in the woods.”

Andrew didn’t flinch. He simply turned toward Carina.

“You seem awfully disappointed to see us alive.”

A sharp pause.

Carina’s lips curled. “You’re not welcome here.”

Roger stepped in. “This is my house. My sons will stay.”

The matter was settled.

---

LATER THAT DAY

Richard was transferred to a private hospital under Roger’s full expense. Doctors ran a flood of tests, their faces grim but hopeful. The boy was stable. Quiet. Breathing.

“He’s in a deep neuro-sleep,” the neurologist said. “But his vitals are strong. He hasn’t deteriorated much for someone in this condition so long. It’s… unusual. Almost as if someone preserved him.”

Andrew thought of Master Yuan’s tonics, the mountain air, the runes carved into the wooden bedposts.

“It was love,” he said simply.

---

DAYS PASSED. THEN MONTHS.

Andrew remained quiet, living within the home that now felt like a museum of betrayal. Carina barely acknowledged his presence. Olivia treated him like a servant. And though Roger did his best to bridge the time lost, Andrew always noticed the shadows behind his father’s eyes. The man had changed. He was no longer the one who tucked him in at night—he was more cautious now. Wounded. Watching everyone, even himself.

Carina and Olivia’s cruelty worsened. They would switch off the water heater while he was in the shower. Cancel his doctor appointments for Richard. Hide his clothing. Treat him as a burden, not a son returned from death.

But Andrew endured.

Until the storm came.

---

ONE YEAR LATER

It happened on a Thursday. A rainstorm had rolled in heavy and fast. The phone call was brief. A car. A cliffside road. A crash. No survivors.

Roger was dead.

The police called it an accident. Brake failure. Slippery roads. Nothing unusual.

But Andrew knew better.

He’d seen his father that morning. Roger had looked scared. Distant. He said things didn’t feel right. That he had to handle something important alone. He said not to follow him.

And now… he was gone.

Andrew stood in the rain as the car was lifted from the ravine. There were no skid marks. No signs of struggle.

Just a clean fall.

The funeral was held three days after the accident.

Rain fell again—soaking the city in gray shadows and bitter winds, as if the sky itself mourned the fall of Roger Lancaster. The man who had once walked like a pillar of strength through courtrooms and boardrooms alike now lay in a black lacquered coffin, surrounded by strangers wearing obligatory black and whispering half-hearted condolences.

Andrew stood beside Richard’s wheelchair, a dark suit clinging to his frame, soaked through by rain and grief. His younger brother’s face remained still, eyes closed, lips pale. But Andrew had whispered to him all morning.

“I’ll make sure they don’t win,” he promised. “I’ll find the truth. I swear it.”

Carina stood at the front with Olivia, both dressed like porcelain widows. Black veils. Designer heels. Faces perfectly powdered with just the right amount of artificial sorrow.

But their eyes were bone dry.

Not a single tear.

When the eulogy ended and the coffin was lowered into the earth, Andrew remained still, rooted like a tree struck by lightning. He didn’t cry. His tears had frozen somewhere deep in his chest. What replaced them now was a heat—quiet, slow-burning. The kind that didn’t consume, but forged.

A vow was being made inside him. One without words. One that would eventually reshape the world.