the tallest peak near Bay City.
The seaside slope at the mountain's base had been fully developed—schools, malls, parks, even gated villas like the Sierra Heights Residences.
But the backside of the mountain remained rugged and wild. On one of its rocky trails, several off-road rigs were gridlocked, the air heavy with tension.
Holly Larson, Aly and a few classmates had gotten into a heated clash with seven or eight rough-looking men and a couple of women.
After Jason hung up the phone with Aly, the group tried to de-escalate, with Aly apologizing and smoothing things over as best he could—just like Jason had advised.
But just as things seemed to calm, a heavyset woman with a red slap mark on her cheek stormed toward Holly.
She lunged, yanking Holly's hair and slamming her toward the dirt.
"Look at you, dressed like some cheap tramp—zipper wide open like you're begging for attention. And you dare fight back?!"
Holly's outfit was nothing outrageous—sports jacket unzipped low over a bandeau, stylish and athletic. But her figure made it stand out, and the woman latched onto that.
The other girls rushed to pull them apart, but more women from the opposite side piled in. In seconds, the scuffle reignited into chaos.
Two sharp cracks rang out—Holly's counter-slaps.
She wasn't just a dancer—her body was toned, flexible, and fast. A few well-aimed hits sent the other women stumbling back.
That was when the men stepped forward.
Jake and the guys tried to intervene, but they were hopelessly outmatched. One burly man swung down a palm strike at Holly's head—she blocked, but the impact rattled her bones. He grabbed at her again, yanking her forward, the sheer difference in strength dragging her down.
Jake leapt in front, yelling:
"What kind of man hits a woman? You cut us off first—you're the ones in the wrong! Don't push it!"
Then he blurted the only card he had left:
"And you better think twice. Holly's Jason's girlfriend. Do you even know who you're messing with?!"
Truth was, Holly and Jason weren't officially together. But Jake had seen the spark between them, and right now, Jason's name was the only shield they had.
The brute sneered.
"Jason? Who the hell is that? You bring him here—I'll beat his ass too."
He shoved Jake aside like nothing, grabbed Holly's hair again, and tried to grind her face into the mud. Holly fought, but his grip was firm.
And then—
Thup-thup-thup-thup-thup!
The deep chop of rotor blades split the sky. A helicopter roared into view, a black silhouette growing larger by the second.
Heads snapped upward. Dust whipped across the road as the aircraft descended fast, the noise drowning out shouts and curses.
Everyone froze, staring as the machine tore through the air above the treetops, closing in on the standoff.
No one knew why a chopper had appeared out here. But the way it bore down on them, blades flashing in the sun, made the mountain trail feel like the stage for something far bigger than a roadside brawl.
The roar of helicopter blades split the air, deafening and violent. Dust, smoke, and leaves whipped up in a storm as the massive machine hovered above the ground, searching for a place to land.
But there was no open space here.
Instead, the chopper dipped low, shaking the earth with its downdraft, before holding steady mid-air. The side door slid open, and every gaze turned upward.
From the cabin emerged a figure.
A tall man in a sleek green tactical jacket and dark sunglasses stepped into view, calm against the chaos. With a rope hooked to the hatch, he leapt out and slid down with effortless grace, posture elegant, movements sharp as if cut from steel.
Jason.
Aly, Holly, and the others all froze in disbelief.
Aly's breath caught in her throat. She had called Jason earlier, and he had said he was on his way. But none of them expected this.
They thought he would show up in his Mercedes G-Wagon—already flashy enough.
But a helicopter? Dropping down from the sky like some movie hero? That was the kind of entrance they'd only ever seen on TV.
Even Holly Larson, who had been cornered by the brute moments before, stood stunned. From her angle, Jason was backlit by the fading sun, his silhouette glowing, as if wrapped in light itself.
She suddenly remembered a line from an old book she loved: "One day he would appear, clad in gold and stepping down from the clouds."
And now… that day had come.
Jason touched down with a thud, unhooked the rope without a glance, and strode straight toward Holly and the man gripping her arm. Without a word, he seized the brute's wrist.
The thug's eyes widened. He tried to pull away, but Jason's grip was unyielding—like iron. With one sharp twist, a sickening crack echoed. Pain shot through his arm, dropping him to his knees in an instant.
Jason's strength was monstrous—his body hardened through relentless training, his power far beyond any ordinary man.
A swift kick sent the thug sprawling to the dirt, groaning in agony. Jason didn't even look at him. Instead, he reached down and gently brushed Holly's hair back, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.
The gesture broke the dam inside her. She had been holding her fear in for too long. Tears welled in her eyes before spilling down her cheeks. In the next moment, she threw herself against him, sobbing into his chest.
Jason wrapped his arms around her, steady and warm, patting her back in reassurance.
The other thugs—men and women alike—had been shocked silent by the helicopter's arrival, by Jason's effortless dominance. They began to recover, muscles tensing as they prepared to jump him.
But then one of them froze. His eyes had locked on Jason's wrist, where his shirt cuff had slid back during the embrace.
A watch gleamed under the fading light.
"Wait," the man whispered, his face draining of color. "Don't move."
"What the hell?" another snapped. "Our guy's getting wrecked, and you're just—"
"That watch…" Zhao's voice trembled. Cold sweat slid down his forehead. "It's a Richard Mille Black Samurai. List price—over 2 million."
The others gasped, their bravado evaporating in an instant. They knew the saying well: fight the poor, but never touch the rich man's watch.
The thug writhing on the ground also froze, staring at Jason in shock. The weight of 2 million dollars strapped casually on his wrist made his own strength and status feel laughable.
And then came another sound.
Engines. Dozens of them.
From around the bend, headlights flared to life as a convoy rolled in: a Mercedes G63 at the lead, followed by a Mercedes Unimog, a Hummer H1, a Lexus LX, a Land Rover Defender, a Tank 300, and more.
The line of off-road luxury cars came to a halt, kicking up dust as doors swung open. Men in designer suits and high-end watches stepped out one by one. They formed a ring around Jason and bowed slightly in unison.
"Mr Jason."
The words thundered like a declaration.
The thugs didn't dare move.
Holly, still clutching Jason's chest, slowly looked up through tear-streaked eyes. For the first time, she realized—he wasn't just strong.
He was someone untouchable.
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