Wrath of the Forsaken Son

Chapter 9

Jian’s hand moved faster than the eye could follow. Before the dying Grandmaster could fall, Jian’s fingers flicked a silver needle into the old man’s throat, right next to where the black dart had landed.

The spread of the black poison stopped instantly. The dark veins on Master Kuan’s face froze in place. He gasped, his lungs burning, but the air finally stayed inside.

"I have blocked your blood flow to the brain," Jian said. His voice was cold, matching the night air. "You have five minutes of life. Spend them wisely."

Master Kuan looked up at Jian. There was no more pride in the old man’s eyes. There was only the kind of fear a man feels when he realizes he is standing before a god.

"The... Forbidden Prison," Kuan whispered, his voice shaking. "In the world of martial arts, we tell stories of that place. It is not just a jail for criminals. It is a tomb for the legends. They say that once every hundred years, a man emerges from its gates who has mastered the arts of the gods and the demons. They call him the Successor. They call him the Lord of the Abyss."

Kuan coughed, a small drop of black blood landing on his robe. "I am a Grandmaster in this city, but in that prison, I would be a beggar. Lord Halloway is a fool. He thinks he hired a killer. He doesn't realize he sent a lamb to fight a lion."

"Tell me what you know about the Crimson Sect," Jian commanded.

Kuan’s eyes darted to the window. "They are cleaning house. They don't want any witnesses. Silas... Silas Mercer is a coward, but he is a greedy one. He stole a charred notebook from your father’s safe twenty years ago. He thought it was just a diary. He didn't know it was a fragment of the Emerald Codex."

Jian’s heart hammered against his ribs. A fragment of his father’s legacy.

"Silas is at the North Dockyard right now," Kuan continued, his voice growing weaker. "Warehouse 14. He is meeting a high-level executive from the Crimson Sect. He is trying to sell the notebook for ten million dollars and a ticket out of the country. He knows you are coming for him, Jian. He is trying to run."

Jian stood up. He looked at the old man. With a swift motion, he pulled the needle from Kuan’s neck. "You have enough strength to reach the hospital. If you survive, leave this city and never return."

Jian didn't wait for a thank you. He vanished into the darkness of the night.

The North Dockyard was a graveyard of rusted metal and heavy shadows. The smell of salt, rotting fish, and diesel fuel filled the air. Huge cranes loomed overhead like skeletal giants.

Jian moved through the shadows like a ghost. He didn't use the roads. He climbed over shipping containers and slid through gaps in the chain-link fences. His master in the Abyss had taught him the Asura Strike—a way of moving that made his footsteps silent and his presence invisible.

He reached Warehouse 14. The building was old, its corrugated metal walls covered in graffiti and rust. Two men in black tactical gear stood at the entrance, carrying submachine guns. These weren't Halloway’s low-level thugs. These were professional killers.

Jian didn't fight them. He picked up a small stone and tossed it against a metal crate fifty feet away.

Clang.

The guards turned their heads. In that split second of distraction, Jian was behind them. Two taps to the base of their skulls, and they collapsed into the dirt without a sound. Jian caught their guns before they hit the ground, laying them silently on the floor. He didn't need guns. His hands were more lethal.

He slipped inside the warehouse, climbing up a stack of wooden pallets to reach the high rafters. From above, he looked down at the center of the floor.

Silas Mercer was there. He looked terrible. His expensive suit was wrinkled, and sweat was pouring down his face. He was clutching a small, black, leather-bound notebook. The edges were burnt, and the cover was scarred by fire.

"I have it!" Silas shouted. His voice echoed nervously in the empty warehouse. "I have the research! Where is the money?"

A woman stepped out of the shadows. She was wearing a long, red trench coat and a veil that covered the lower half of her face. Behind her stood four men in red robes, their faces hidden by hoods.

"You are late, Silas," the woman said. Her voice was like silk sliding over a blade. "And you were followed."

Silas jumped, looking around frantically. "No! I was careful! I didn't tell anyone! Just give me the money and let me leave!"

"The Crimson Sect does not like to leave loose ends," the woman said. She held out a hand. "The notebook first."

With trembling hands, Silas stepped forward. He held out the charred notebook—the last piece of Jian’s father’s life work. To Silas, it was a paycheck. To Jian, it was a piece of his soul.

Jian coiled his muscles. He prepared to drop from the rafters, to strike like a hawk and take back what belonged to his family. He felt the cold power of the Divine Pulse rising in his fingertips.

But then, he stopped.

A tiny, bright red light appeared on the white fabric of Silas’s shirt. It was a laser dot. It danced across Silas’s chest, finally settling right over his heart.

Jian looked toward the far end of the warehouse, high up in a darkened office window. He saw the glint of a long barrel.

"Wait," the woman in red said, her voice turning cold as ice. "We changed our minds, Silas. We don't buy things from people who let the Successor of the Abyss escape his cell."

Silas’s eyes went wide. He looked down at the red dot on his chest. "No... wait! I can help you! I know where his wife is! I know—"

"You know nothing," the woman said. She raised a hand and snapped her fingers.