Iron Gate Prison was a grey, lifeless place that smelled of old floor cleaner and fear. For the first few months, Ethan was a walking target. Because of the Mitchell family's influence, the guards looked the other way while the other inmates took turns trying to break him.
"Hey, Mitchell's little dog," a massive inmate named Butcher sneered, cornering Ethan in the laundry room. "I got a message from your mother-in-law. She says she hopes you're enjoying the accommodations."
Butcher shoved Ethan against a hot industrial dryer. Ethan didn't fight back. His Dragon Qi was gone, spent saving a woman who hated him. He felt hollow like an empty shell.
"Leave me alone, Butcher," Ethan said, his voice dry.
"Or what? You'll scrub my floors like you did for the rich folks?" Butcher laughed, and the other inmates joined in.
They spent the next ten minutes using Ethan as a punching bag. When they were done, they left him bleeding on the concrete floor.
Ethan crawled toward the corner of the room. As he lay there, he felt a strange vibration deep in his bones. It wasn't pain.
It was a pulse.
In the cell next to his was an old man named Mr. Han. Everyone avoided Mr. Han. He was thin, pale, and constantly coughing into a blood-stained handkerchief. Rumor had it he was a fallen tycoon, but in prison, he was just another dying old man.
One night, Ethan heard a heavy thud from the next cell. He pushed himself up and looked through the bars.
Mr. Han was on the floor, clutching his chest, his face turning blue.
"Help!" Ethan shouted. "Guard! The old man is having a heart attack!"
The guard at the end of the hall didn't even look up from his magazine.
"Let him die," he muttered. "Saves us the paperwork."
Something snapped inside Ethan.
A violent surge of heat exploded in his gut, like a dormant volcano finally waking. He gripped the bars of his cell and for a brief second, they glowed a dull gold.
Click.
The lock fell open.
Ethan didn't stop to question it. He rushed into Mr. Han's cell and knelt beside him.
The moment Ethan placed his hand on the old man's chest, his vision shifted.
Dragon Sight returned but this time, it was overwhelming.
He didn't just see black mist. He saw the fragile fibers of Mr. Han's failing heart.
Merge.
A deep, ancient voice thundered through his mind.
The Dragon God does not beg for power. He is power.
Golden light erupted from Ethan's hands. He pressed his fingers against Mr. Han's chest, feeling something far beyond healing.
He was rebuilding.
Clogged arteries cleared. Weak muscle strengthened. A dying heart reforged into something unbreakable.
Mr. Han's body jerked.
He sucked in a massive, ragged breath.
His eyes flew open sharp, clear, alive.
He stared at Ethan's glowing hands in disbelief.
"You…" Mr. Han whispered. "Who are you?"
Ethan slowly withdrew his hands as the light faded.
"Just a man who's tired of losing," he said.
A weight settled permanently into his soul.
The Dragon God was no longer a whisper.
It was him.
The next five years transformed the prison.
Iron Gate was no longer a cage—it became a training ground.
Mr. Han revealed his true identity: the hidden head of the Dragon Commerce Chamber, a global financial empire worth trillions. By day, they sat in the yard as if they were ordinary inmates. Over chess games played on cracked stone tables, Mr. Han taught Ethan everything how to manipulate markets, dismantle rivals, and read people down to their bones.
"Wealth is just another form of energy," Mr. Han said one afternoon, sliding a piece across the board. "Control the flow, and you control the world."
Ethan moved his knight, eyes cold.
"I don't just want to control it," he said. "I want to rebuild it."
By night, Ethan cultivated.
His strength returned in violent waves. He could hear heartbeats through concrete walls. He felt wind shifts from outside the prison grounds. By the fourth year, inmates avoided his gaze.
Butcher the man who once beat him bloody now ran errands for him with shaking hands.
On the day of Ethan's release, Mr. Han called him aside.
The old man looked decades younger.
"I'll be staying a while longer," Mr. Han said calmly, handing him a small black titanium card. "This gives you access to everything I own planes, companies, armies."
He met Ethan's eyes.
"You saved my life. Now go take yours back."
Ethan walked toward the prison gate wearing the same cheap, wrinkled clothes he'd been arrested in five years ago.
They no longer fit.
His shoulders were broader. His presence heavier.
The iron gates groaned open.
Sunlight flooded in.
The road outside was blocked.
Fifty identical black Rolls-Royces lined the street in perfect formation. Hundreds of men in tailored suits stood beside them, heads bowed.
At the front stood Miller the scarred bodyguard who once dragged Ethan through the Mitchell mansion.
The moment he saw Ethan, Miller dropped to one knee.
"Master Ethan," he said, voice trembling. "The Dragon Chamber welcomes your return. We await your command."
Ethan studied him coolly.
"Get up," he said. "You look pathetic on the ground."
"Yes, Master," Miller replied instantly, opening the door to the lead car.
Inside, a tablet flickered to life with breaking news:
MITCHELL GROUP DECLARES BANKRUPTCY:
LISA MITCHELL SPOTTED BEGGING FOR EMERGENCY LOANS AT GLOBAL SUMMIT
A photo appeared on the screen.
Lisa looked thin. Desperate. Invisible.
Ethan stared at it in silence.
A flicker of his old self stirred—then vanished.
He remembered the spit.
The cuffs.
The betrayal.
He closed the screen.
"The Mitchell Group is for sale?" Ethan asked calmly.
"They're desperate," Miller answered. "They'll sell to anyone with cash."
Ethan leaned back as the car rolled forward.
"Good," he said coldly. "Let's buy a company."
His lips curved into a faint smile.
"I want to see her face when she finds out who her new boss is."