The Return of the Almighty Dragon Jackal

Chapter Two: The Martial Legacy

Months slipped into years.

Master Yuan’s home was an isolated temple buried in the mountains of Zhenlong Province—cut off from the world, untouched by time. There were no birthdays here. No parties. No cake. Just discipline, routine, sweat, pain, and the echoing memory of his mother’s final breath.

Andrew cried himself to sleep for the first two months. He asked about his father. About going home.

Each time, Master Yuan answered with the same words:

"To return before you are ready is to die before your destiny begins."

And so, Andrew learned.

He rose before dawn each day. Balanced on single poles above waterfalls. Carried water buckets with arms outstretched. Memorized ancient scrolls under moonlight. His bones ached. His feet bled. His childhood faded beneath callouses and bruises. The world outside grew quiet in his mind, replaced by the rhythm of combat stances and breathing techniques.

But Master Yuan did not raise a soldier, he raised a warrior philosopher.

He taught Andrew how to fight, yes—but also how to think. How to calculate risk. How to read people. How to understand honor, betrayal, loyalty, and power. How to see the truth beneath the surface of smiles.

And with every lesson, Andrew grew into someone stronger.

He trained each day beneath mountain suns and winter storms, but he never trained alone. After meditation, he read to Richard. After sparring, he wiped his brother’s brow. On days when he broke, he cried beside him, whispering promises of better days.

“I’ll fix this,” he said one night, sixteen candles burning silently before the two of them. “I’ll find a way to wake you up. I’ll protect you... even if you don’t know it.”

Master Yuan watched from the doorway, a flicker of rare softness in his gaze.

“You fight for something more than yourself,” he said. “That makes you dangerous.”

“Good,” Andrew whispered. “Because when I go back, I want the world to be afraid of me.”

—

Far away, in the city they once called home, a man was slipping deeper into grief.

Mr. Roger had searched for months after the disappearance of his sons. He poured millions into private investigators, pushed the police department to its limits, and even ventured into the underworld for information.

Nothing. It was like his sons had vanished off the face of the earth.

No trace. No ransom. No witnesses.

When the news outlets stopped reporting, when family and friends stopped visiting, he found himself alone with the weight of unimaginable failure.

And then came Carina.

She was young. Pretty. Clever. She had worked under him for a while—his secretary, sharp-eyed and always listening. She started staying late. Bringing him tea. Asking about the boys. Comforting him.

Until one stormy night, she didn’t just offer tea—she offered herself.

He was drunk, broken, and tired of crying.

It was only once.

Or so he thought.

A week later, she came into his office, pale and holding her stomach. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Roger’s world shifted again. “That can’t be. You’re sure?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t want to force you into anything, but... if you’re not ready to raise a child, I’ll do it alone.”

It was manipulative. It was perfectly timed.

The board, still mourning his image in the media, encouraged him to “embrace new beginnings.”

Within two months, Roger married her. It was quiet. Fast. Cold.

And when Olivia was born nine months later, he named her after his mother—perhaps to feel something familiar. But deep down, he knew. Her eyes were wrong. Her smile was foreign. He didn’t question it, not openly.

But a father knows.

—

Meanwhile, Andrew turned eleven with the weight of a grown man pressing on his shoulders.

Every year, Master Yuan gave him one gift—an ancient scroll from their secret library. Each scroll contained a forgotten martial art, passed down through centuries of warriors and monks. There were seventy-four in total, and Andrew swore he would master every single one before ever stepping foot outside the mountains again.

By thirteen, he was faster than arrows.

By fourteen, he could run across thin bamboo branches without making a sound.

By fifteen, he trained blindfolded, relying only on sound, scent, and instinct.

And all the while, Richard remained asleep. But Andrew never stopped believing. He ground rare roots into paste. Brewed potions Master Yuan had long forgotten. Every new scroll he studied was read aloud to Richard, as though the words might awaken something buried deep inside.

“You're not just my brother,” Andrew whispered one night, gripping Richard’s hand. “You're my reason. And one day... I’ll bring you back.”

___

At seventeen, the transformation was complete.

Andrew stood tall and quiet as Master Yuan handed him the final scroll—a golden one with blood-red stitching.

“You have surpassed every warrior I’ve ever taught,” Yuan said. “But there is a truth I have withheld from you.”

Andrew tensed.

“The man who killed your mother... was not a stranger. He was hired."

Andrew’s pulse roared in his ears.

“Who?” he breathed.

“Not yet,” Yuan said. “You must walk the path before you know the enemy.”

Andrew's fists clenched. “Then it's time.”

Master Yuan nodded. “Take your brother. Return to your world. It awaits you with open jaws.”

Andrew stared out at the low-hanging fog that curled along the valley path—his path.

It was time to descend the mountain.

To re-enter a city that thought him dead.

To finish what began beside a cake covered in blood.

---

The Mountain's Last Morning

The mist clung to the mountain like a whispered secret, curling through the ancient pines and around the sloping rooftops of the hidden temple. It was the kind of morning that felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

Andrew stood at the edge of the monastery’s stone courtyard, dressed in worn traveler’s robes that fluttered in the cool dawn breeze. He was twenty-one now—taller, stronger, his eyes sharp with experience and loss. Over his shoulder was slung a wooden frame cradling a sleeping figure—his younger brother, Richard, now fifteen, still silent, still trapped in a coma that had lasted over a decade.

Master Yuan stood across from him, as still and immovable as the mountain itself. His white robes billowed gently, and his long silver hair was tied back beneath the hood of a ceremonial cowl. In his eyes was something unreadable: sadness, pride… and something older—like he knew the forest would never see these two boys again.

“You’ve prepared for this day,” Yuan said softly, “but are you ready?”

Andrew nodded once. “I don’t know what’s out there anymore. But I know I can’t stay hidden forever.”

“No,” Yuan said. “You were never meant to live in the shadows. You were born for fire.”

A pause. Then Andrew asked what he had held back for years. “You’ve taught me everything,” Andrew said quietly. “But you’ve told me so little about you."

The old man chuckled faintly. “Knowing me would not make your fists any stronger.”

“Why did you save us that night? Why were you even there?”

Master Yuan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked slowly to the edge of the overlook where the cliff dropped into a valley drowned in clouds. His voice was calm when it finally came.

“Your father, Roger… was once my closest friend..”

Andrew’s brows furrowed. “You knew him?”

“We studied together in Southeast Asia when we were young men and I was a high-ranking military intelligence officer—before your father walked into the world of business and global enterprise and I chose to renounce worldly attachments and went into seclusion to preserve the ancient martial arts traditions handed down by my ancestors.. But even then, he never stopped believing in good. In family."

“I owed him my life,” Yuan said simply. “Once, many years ago, I made a mistake that should have ended me- I was involved in an international arms deal which gone wrong—an incident hushed from the public record. Roger covered for me. Shielded me. Saved me. Not because he had to, but because he believed in me. I swore that day I would return that favor.”

He turned and faced Andrew fully now, his expression solemn. “Yor mother’s death was never meant to happen. I received word too late—whispers from the monk brotherhood that an assassination had been arranged, a cleansing of loose ends. I was hours behind. By the time I arrived, the air still smelled of blood, and you… you were holding your brother and screaming.”

Andrew’s throat tightened. The memory flickered—shards of red, the sharp cry of crickets, and his mother’s face pale against the picnic blanket.

“I wanted to take revenge that very night,” Yuan admitted. “But I looked at you, and I knew the world didn’t need another killer. It needed a guardian.”

He stepped forward and placed a hand on Andrew’s shoulder.

“For fifteen years I raised you, not to be a weapon, but to become the man your father would have wanted to protect his legacy. I taught you to control your fists, not feed your fury. I gave you seventy-four books of ancestral knowledge so that even when I’m dust in the wind, you will remember who you are.”

Andrew swallowed, eyes glassy. “Will I ever see you again?”

Yuan’s hand lingered, then fell away.

“If fate is kind. But do not wait for me. My path ends on this mountain. Yours begins beyond it.”

Andrew bowed low, forehead touching the temple floor. “Thank you, Master.

Master Yuan nodded once. “When the winds carry your name back to this mountain, let it be with pride.”

As Andrew turned toward the gate, Richard’s breathing steady on his back, the rising sun broke through the mist—casting a golden light over the young man who had survived darkness, and was about to walk straight into it again..