The Savior God of War Returns

Chapter 1

Jack Parker didn’t hesitate as he zipped up the sleek, black duffel bag resting at the foot of his bed.

The leather caught the light from the window, pale rays of morning slicing across the room like the calm before a storm.

He fastened the last strap and turned, his dark green coat already draped over one arm, his movements precise and unhurried.

"Draconia awaits," he murmured to himself, voice low but composed.

Old Joe stood nearby in his eccentric glory, dressed in a purple kimono patterned with cranes.

He sipped jasmine tea, surrounded by three impossibly beautiful women who lounged lazily across the plush divan as though they had all the time in the world.

"You remember what I told you, boy?" Old Joe asked, not looking up.

Jack nodded.

"Yes. Don’t draw attention. Don’t start a war."

Joe finally met his gaze, eyes glinting like fire under ash.

“That dragon dagger—only draw it when necessary. And that card—”

He tossed a leopard-print credit card toward Jack, who caught it without blinking.

“Limitless funds. Don’t misuse it."

"Understood."

Joe leaned forward, a rare edge sharpening his tone.

“And when the time comes... someone will find you. Trust that.”

Jack gave a short, respectful nod. He never asked what Joe meant—he never needed to.

Old Joe had raised him from nothing, trained him with methods as mysterious as the man himself.

The why didn’t matter.

The how always came in time.

Before he could say another word, one of Joe’s women pulled the old man toward the hallway, giggling like the wind.

Within moments, they disappeared, leaving Jack alone at the threshold.

By afternoon, Jack was flying over snowy peaks, a silent observer in first class, his mind adrift between continents and obligations.

His destination: Harmonfield, Draconia.

A pristine, wintry city glistening under sheets of white, with buildings so tall they seemed to pierce the clouds.

As the plane descended, Jack glanced over the printed engagement contract folded in his coat pocket. Emily Wilson.

His future wife —by arrangement, not affection.

He knew only her name, her lineage, and the expectation that she would be kind, elegant, perhaps soft-spoken.

He imagined her standing by a frosted window, smiling gently, unaware that her life was about to intertwine with his.

The airport was efficient, quiet, and clean.

Jack passed through security like smoke through fingers.

He found a taxi, sat back, and stared through the fogged glass as Harmonfield unfolded before him—steel, snow, and silence.

But peace was always fragile.

The impact was sudden.

A jolt.

Metal grinding metal.

Jack's taxi spun sideways as another car slammed into the intersection.

Horns blared.

Screams echoed.

Then gunfire split the air like lightning cracking stone.

Jack stepped out of the taxi, his expression unreadable.

Chaos swirled around him—people running, cars smoking, a woman bleeding beside a twisted sedan.

Four masked men shouted orders, brandishing weapons like hyenas cornering prey.

One of them grabbed the injured woman, a young, red coat soaked in blood.

Her legs barely held her.

Jack watched her eyes roll from pain to terror.

“You—get back!”

One of the robbers barked, pointing his gun at Jack.

Jack’s voice was calm, firm.

“Let her go.”

The gun shifted, aimed directly at his chest.

“You deaf?”

Another step.

The wind began to pick up.

The robber cursed and pulled the trigger.

But the shot never landed.

A howl of snow burst through the street, a sudden whiteout.

Jack didn’t move.

By the time the air cleared, four bodies lay crumpled in the snow, their throats sliced cleanly, as if by an invisible blade.

The crowd was frozen, too stunned to speak.

Jack bent slightly, helping the injured woman sit upright.

Her breath was shallow, but she looked up at him, confused, grateful, and frightened all at once.

A sleek black car screeched to a stop.

A man stepped out, grey-haired and imposing, his presence demanding attention.

William Thompson, head of the Thompson family, knelt beside the woman.

"Sarah," he murmured, inspecting her wounds. “Who did this?”

She lifted a shaking hand.

“H-him. The man in the coat. He saved me.”

William looked up, but Jack was already turning away.

"Wait!"

The older man called.

Jack didn't pause.

William straightened, his eyes narrowing as he pulled out his phone.

“I want every eye in Harmonfield looking for that man. Every camera. Every contact. I want to know who he is, what he wants, and why he can kill four armed men without lifting a finger.”

His bodyguards exchanged uneasy glances.

“Find that man. No matter what!”

William said, his voice like thunder wrapped in velvet.

“Search all of Harmonfield if you have to!”