Dragon Major General

Chapter 4

Jasmine’s eyes opened wide, her mind a storm of confusion, disbelief, and fear. Just moments ago, she had thought he was different, that he was the kind of man who actually existed only in stories—a knight in shining armor, a savior who had come at the exact moment she needed him. But now, with his command hanging in the air, asking her to take off her clothes, that illusion shattered instantly. He wasn’t a savior, was he? He was just like the others, another man who wanted to take advantage of her, another danger she had been thrown into without a choice.

“Why…?” she stuttered, her voice trembling, barely louder than a whisper, her hands clutching the armrests of her wheelchair as if she could somehow hold herself together through sheer force.

Then the door opened, and a woman stepped in, carrying a small, delicate box. Grey followed behind her, calm and silent, a careful presence. The woman set the box on a table, opened it slowly, and pulled out a small bottle. She handed it to Mendel without saying a word.

Mendel examined the bottle briefly, then turned toward Jasmine. His voice, steady and calm, carried a weight of certainty.

“This is a herb from a village in China,” he explained, holding the bottle so she could see the faint green liquid inside. “It is underrated, often overlooked, but it is the best for treating wounds and healing bones. In a few days, you will be able to walk little by little, and your scar… it will fade with time. The process will be slow, but you will get stronger, and you will heal.”

Jasmine blinked at him, the weight of reality pressing down on her. She remembered her legs, crippled, useless, her face, marred by a scar so deep that she had learned to hide it whenever possible. And now this same man, who had saved her from humiliation moments ago, was talking about healing her like she mattered. A bitter, wry smile formed on her lips. No one would ever want her—not like this, broken and scarred—and yet here he was, offering her hope.

“Don’t worry,” Mendel added softly, almost as if reading her thoughts. “You will be healed in no time. I promise.”

He mixed the herbs carefully, his hands precise, professional. Then, with the help of the female maid, he began massaging her legs, pressing the warm herbal mixture gently into her muscles and bones. The first moments were almost silent, then a low, muffled scream escaped her lips as pain shot through her body.

Mendel clenched his fists, the sound piercing him deeper than he expected. Her sobbing, broken voice, raw and unfiltered, filled the room, and each sound of pain made his chest tighten. She was enduring this agony not out of weakness, not out of surrender—but because she had values, because she had integrity, because she had refused to betray herself, even when the world tried to strip everything from her.

His jaw tightened as his mind flicked to Macron. The memories of that man, his cruelty, his arrogance, and the way he had destroyed Jasmine’s life, surged through Mendel’s thoughts, fueling a growing, burning rage. One day, Macron would pay. He promised himself that.

Hours passed. The herbs worked their magic slowly, and the maids massaged her carefully, working through the pain while Mendel’s attention remained near, ensuring she was safe, that nothing would hurt her further. Eventually, her face was treated gently, the scars soothed and cleaned, the edges of her wounds beginning to fade under the careful attention of those who cared for her.

Later, Mendel returned to her room, standing at the doorway with calm authority, his presence commanding, yet comforting. “It’s time for dinner,” he said simply.

Jasmine exhaled slowly, the tension in her body melting just slightly. “You’re… surely not one of the beggars Macron wanted me to marry,” she said with a soft sigh, half amused, half relieved.

“I’m not,” Mendel replied, the corners of his mouth firm but not unkind.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion mixing with curiosity. “Then… who are you?” she asked.

“Uhh… shouldn’t you say thank you first?” Mendel said casually, leaning back slightly as if dodging the question entirely, though his eyes stayed on her, calm and unreadable.

Jasmine blinked, her voice quiet and hesitant. “I… I’m sorry… thank you… for your help. I really don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t saved me.” She exhaled slowly, a mixture of relief and lingering fear threading through her words.

Mendel gave a faint nod, almost imperceptible. “Hmm… you’re welcome,” he said simply, his tone even, giving nothing away.

She looked at him, bewilderment written across her face. “How… how did you even know me? Not everyone knew about what Macron was planning for me, yet you… you came through for me. How did you know?”

Mendel’s lips curved into a subtle, enigmatic smile. “Hmm… with time, you will understand,” he said, brushing it off, but his gaze remained steady.

Jasmine’s brow furrowed. “No… you should tell me. Why are you helping me? You could be in trouble. I mean, he’s powerful… and you… you risked yourself for me.”

Mendel’s eyes flicked toward her, sharp yet calm. “And what makes you think so?”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “Macron… he is a member of the Great Five of this country. He owns everything—businesses, companies, power. Even the law can’t touch him sometimes. I… sometimes I regret what I did. I forgot my family owed them debts, and I refused his offer. I refused him.” She exhaled with a heavy sigh, looking down at her hands.

Mendel’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, and he let out a slow breath. “You did the right thing,” he said, his tone soft but carrying weight, the kind of weight that made the words feel like more than just comfort.

Meanwhile, back at Macron’s villa, chaos had taken over. The man was raging, dragging frames from the walls, shattering vases, knocking over electronics, TV screens cracking under his fury, and tea cups smashing against marble floors. Every sound echoed his anger.

His assistants rushed in, trying desperately to calm him. “Sir… everybody has left the villa, including her parents…”

Macron spun around, his eyes wild. “How dare he? Come into my villa and disgrace me! What about the bodyguards?”

“They… they’re all badly injured, sir,” the assistant stammered, voice tight with fear. “I’m… I’m surprised he caused such damage with just an umbrella.”

Macron slammed his fist against the wall, the sound sharp and heavy. “That son of a beast! I will take revenge tonight. Do you have any information about him? Anything! Anything at all! Use it! I need a background check—now!”

“Sir… nothing. It’s… it’s like he appeared out of nowhere. Like a ghost,” another assistant whispered.

Macron’s face twisted into a snarl. “Are you out of your mind? Do I look like I am in the mood for jokes? Now listen carefully! Find everything about that i***t. Increase the security system immediately! Make sure you do everything in your power to bring Jasmine back!”

“Yes, sir!” they chorused, fear lacing their voices.

“Check the CCTV footage,” Macron barked, pacing the room like a caged tiger. “Zoom out the car plate number. Track him. Do your job!”

“Sir, I already checked, but his plate name—Major General—it’s a dead end,” the assistant reported, voice tight with tension.

Macron slammed his fist onto the desk, the sound echoing through the office. “What?!” His anger surged like fire coursing through his veins. He had been waiting for this day for so long, imagining Jasmine humiliated, suffering, paying for denying him what he wanted. But now… someone had swooped in from nowhere and taken her away. Seeing her crippled had not been enough satisfaction. He wanted control, dominance, revenge. And now, he had nothing.

“Arghhhh!” he roared, pushing the laptop off the desk, the screen smashing against the floor. In that instant, his phone rang. He snatched it up, anger still radiating from his every movement.

It was his father—the chairman. Macron might be president of the company now, but he was still in his father’s shadow, still the obedient son, never truly making his own decisions, always seeing his father as an untouchable, almost godlike figure.

“Macron, what have you been up to these days?” his father’s voice carried through the speaker, calm but sharp.

“Nothing much, Dad… just working,” Macron lied, forcing the words out even though he hadn’t been near the company for days. Most of his time had been spent gambling, socializing, doing everything except work.

“I heard you made a girl crippled,” his father said, tone now colder. “Why did you do that?”

Macron froze. “Father… how did you know about that?” he whispered, glancing around to make sure no one was listening.

“You might not see me, but I have eyes everywhere,” his father replied evenly. “Do not think I am unaware of what happens in this company. You threw a party tonight—what happened?”

Macron’s jaw tightened. How could his father know so quickly? There was no way to lie now. Maybe if he told the truth, his father could help him regain control, salvage what had been lost.

“There was a fight… an i***t ruined the event, and I want his head,” Macron said, trying to mask his panic with bravado.

There was a pause, then laughter—deep, booming, unrelenting laughter.

“What’s funny, Dad?” Macron demanded, his anger spiking.

“Whatever plan you have in your head, get rid of it,” his father said, still chuckling under his breath. “You can have all the revenge you want on that girl, but don’t you dare do what you’re thinking.”

Macron’s confusion turned to outrage. “Father, what are you talking about?!”

“The man that disrupted your party…” his father continued slowly, letting the words hang in the air. “That man.”

Macron clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. “That man?! Do you know how I can get him?!”

“Don’t make trouble,” his father said firmly, cutting through the rage like a knife. “Revenge should be the last thing on your mind right now. Stop, or you will bring destruction on yourself.”

“But why, Father?!” Macron shouted, his voice cracking with frustration. “I want him dead! He ruined everything! He—”

“If you don’t want to die,” his father interrupted, voice cold and final, “then you will stop. Otherwise, we will kick you out of the family. Everything you have, everything you think belongs to you, can be gone in an instant. Do you understand me?”

Macron sat in stunned silence, his fists still tight, his mind a whirlwind of fury and fear. The man who had humiliated him, who had destroyed his carefully laid plans, had appeared like a shadow, untouchable, and now even his father—the man he revered and feared above all—was telling him he was powerless.

He had wanted control, he had wanted vengeance, but now, all he could feel was the bitter taste of impotence, and the fear that he had underestimated the man who had taken Jasmine away.