Chapter 115 – The Disciple's Conviction
The world's eyes were on Japan. News channels across the globe ran non-stop coverage, their broadcasts a somber litany of facts and figures.
"—a staggering 7.8 on the Richter scale, with the epicenter located just off the coast…" a CNN anchor reported, his face grim.
"…the number of missing persons has now climbed into the thousands," a BBC correspondent added, standing before a backdrop of collapsed infrastructure.
The tone was one of tragedy, of a nation grappling with a devastating natural disaster. But then, as footage from the ground began to pour in, the narrative began to shift.
In a crowded shelter on the outskirts of Tokyo, an Al Jazeera field reporter named Fatima Al-Jamil was delivering a live report. Her voice was steady, full of a practiced empathy as she detailed the plight of the displaced.
"The first responders are working tirelessly," she said into the camera, "but resources are stretched thin. The biggest challenge now is reaching those still trapped in the denser parts of the city, where the rubble is—"
Her professional composure faltered as two figures walked directly in front of her camera. They were identical men, both dressed in striking black hanboks and traditional Korean gat hats. They were carrying a man on a makeshift stretcher, their movements swift and efficient. Behind each of them, a long, black, monkey-like tail swayed with a life of its own.
"Excuse me," one of them said, not to her, but to the space in front of him, not even breaking his stride as they moved past her and into the shelter.
Fatima froze. Her mind raced, connecting the impossible dots. The tails. The anachronistic attire. The rumors from New York. This was him. The ruler of the Golden Peach. The supposed Santa Claus. The terror-bringer of politicians. Prince of Crime. Jack Hou.
This scene repeated itself across the disaster zone. Clones were everywhere, a silent, efficient army of helpers who had appeared from nowhere. Naturally, the reporters tried to get an interview. They swarmed any clone that stood still for more than a second, shoving microphones in their faces.
Fatima was the first to recover. She and her cameraman hurried after the two clones. "Sir! Jack Hou! Can you give us a statement about your presence here?"
One of the clones stopped, turning to her with a deadpan expression.
"The Boss has instructed me to inform you that for every question you ask, a politician somewhere in the world spontaneously develops a severe allergy to money. Please be responsible with your inquiries. Their suffering is in your hands."
He then turned and walked away, leaving Fatima speechless on live television.
A few blocks away, an aggressive Fox News reporter cornered another clone who was effortlessly lifting a car off a trapped civilian. "Jack Hou! What gives you the authority to operate in a foreign country? Are you working with the Japanese government?"
The clone finished lifting the car, then turned to the reporter with a grin that was far too sharp. "An interview? Sure. Here's the deal: for every question you ask, I will tell you one undeniable, cosmic truth about your own future. For example, your first question will reveal the exact date you'll die. Your second will reveal how." The clone leaned in closer, his golden eyes twinkling. "Do you really want to start this interview?"
The reporter swallowed hard and took a step back.
Elsewhere, a young, earnest reporter from a local Japanese news crew tried a gentler approach with a clone who was handing out peaches. "Excuse me, sir… Jack Hou. The people are grateful, but they are also confused. Could you explain what you are doing here?"
The clone paused, handing a peach to an elderly woman before turning to the reporter with a thoughtful expression.
"My public relations are handled exclusively by my agent," the clone said with utmost seriousness. "He's a sentient cloud wearing a blue scarf. If you can find him and offer him a sufficiently fluffy sheep as tribute, he may grant you a 30-second slot next Tuesday. No guarantees."
By noon, the media was in a state of collective frenzy. They had their hero, but he was an un-interviewable, unhinged enigma. One freelance blogger, determined to get a scoop, shoved his phone in the face of a clone who was calmly re-aligning a tilted telephone pole with one hand.
"People are calling you a god! What do you have to say to that? What is your message to the world?!"
The clone paused his work, leaned into the phone's microphone, sniffed it dramatically, and said with a deadpan expression: "This phone smells like desperation and un-ironed shirts. I only give interviews in exchange for high-quality, artisanal cheese. Your blog looks like a cheddar-string-cheese kind of operation." He straightened the pole with a final nudge. "No deal. Bring me a wheel of aged Gruyère, and we'll talk."
The footage from Japan hit the internet not like a wave, but like a global tsunami. The clips of Jack's clones giving their bizarre, nonsensical answers went viral in minutes. The world, already fascinated and terrified by the "Prince of Crime," now had a new title for him: The Un-interviewable Madman. The internet, in its infinite and chaotic wisdom, began to react.
The platform became a digital battlefield for concerned relatives and armchair political analysts.
In the "Concerned Moms of Metro New York" group, a post by a user named Brenda P. gained thousands of comments:
Brenda P.: "I just don't know what to think. On one hand, he's saving people, but on the other hand, my cousin in Tokyo said he looks like a 'handsome demon.' Is this really the kind of role model we want for our children? What if my little Timmy starts thinking it's okay to have a tail?"
Karen S. replied: "Brenda, relax. My son's teacher said the Golden Peach is the safest place in the city. I'd rather have a handsome demon with a tail protecting my kids than another corrupt politician."
Sharon L. replied: "THE TAIL IS A SIGN OF THE ANTICHRIST. IT IS IN REVELATIONS."
Meanwhile, a post from a Japanese citizen named Yuto Tanaka was being shared globally:
Yuto Tanaka: "I don't care what the news says. One of these men pulled my grandmother from a collapsed building. He didn't ask for thanks. He just handed her a peach and disappeared. To me, he is a hero. Thank you, Hanbok-san."
Twitter, as always, descended into a glorious pit of chaos, hot takes, and trending hashtags. #DaddyJack, #PoliticianAllergy, and #WhereIsTheTailFrom dominated the global trends.
@NyxTheGamerGrl: Okay but can we talk about the REAL question… what would it be like to have seggs with the tail? Just asking for a friend. And for science. Mostly science. 👀 #DaddyJack #SorryNotSorry
@ChaosQueenTTV replied: GIRL I WAS THINKING THE SAME THING. Does he wag it when he's happy? Can it hold things? The possibilities are endless! But like where does it even… start from?
@BigMikeNYC replied: It's gotta be from his butthole right? Like a back penis. Has to be.
@DrHelenCho ✓ replied: Anatomically speaking, if a human were to have a tail, it would be an extension of the coccyx, or tailbone. It would not originate from the anus. Hope this helps clear up any confusion.
The debate was promptly, and clinically, halted.
YOUTUBE
The platform became a library of Jack Hou content, ranging from serious analysis to utter nonsense.
MSNBC: "VIGILANTE OR SAVIOR? The Ethical Dilemma of Jack Hou's Intervention in Japan." (300k views, comments disabled)
The Daily Bugle: "MENACE IN A KUNG-FU COSTUME! Jack Hou's CLONE ARMY Invades Japan - The TRUTH!" (2 million views, a fiery comment section calling JJJ both a hero and a clown)
Penguinz0: "Jack Hou Situation in Crazy" (5 million views)
VINE
The 6-second video app was having a field day. The most popular Vines included:
A loop of a clone saying, "Their suffering is in your hands," remixed with the dramatic "dun-dun-dunnn" sound effect.
A teenager trying to kiss his confused cat's paw, imitating Jack's hand-kiss to Ami Han, with the caption "He's a bad influence."
A clip of a clone shushing the firefighter, with the "Thug Life" sunglasses and music edited over it.
The world tried to categorize him, to label him as a hero or a villain, a menace or a messiah. But the internet, in its infinite wisdom, had decided he was something far more powerful: a living, breathing meme. And Jack Hou, somewhere in Japan, was probably loving every second of it.
…
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, weary shadows across the ruins of Japan, the people saw that the man in the black hanbok and gat never rested. His clones were a constant presence, an army of tireless saviors. In the areas they had cleared and secured, the hum of heavy machinery from the Japanese government finally joined the rescue effort, a tentative, unspoken alliance formed in the face of tragedy.
Amidst it all, Cheng Wudao pushed his aching body to its limits. He had steeled himself, determined to walk among the wreckage and help where he could. He saw his master—or at least, hundreds of him—saving lives, bringing hope. If this was the path of a disciple, then he would walk it, no matter the pain.
(Flashback – High Noon)
The sun was a merciless, scorching eye in the sky. Wudao, his body a symphony of agony from Jack's "introductory" training, was slumped against a half-crumbled wall, trying to will his muscles to obey. He pushed himself up, his arms trembling violently, only to collapse back down.
A shadow fell over him. He looked up to see one of the clones standing there, but this one was different. His usual manic grin was gone, replaced by a calm, almost serene curiosity.
"What are you doing?" the clone asked, his voice soft.
The scorching sun made Wudao's head swim. He squinted up at the standing figure. "I want to help," he grunted, the words a struggle.
"Why?" the clone repeated, his tone gentle but insistent.
"Because I can," Wudao forced out.
"But you clearly can't," the clone stated, not cruelly, but as a simple observation of fact.
Wudao gritted his teeth, a fire of defiance igniting in his chest. "Like you said, Master… this pain will be my daily state from now on. If I cannot help others while living in this state, then I cannot call myself your disciple."
The clone tilted his head. "And what are you going to do? Preach the Dharma to the victims until they die of neglect?"
The question was a sharp, pointed jab at his old life. "The Dharma teaches that compassion without action is a boat without oars," Wudao retorted, his voice gaining strength. "Prayer may point the way, but only our hands can carry the suffering to shore."
A slow smile spread across the clone's face. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a single, peach, offering it to Wudao. "It will help you, for the very least," he said.
Wudao took it, his large, calloused hand trembling slightly. "Thank you, Master." He ate the peach, and a wave of warm, life-giving energy flowed through him, soothing the screaming needles in his blood.
The clone let out a soft laugh. "I'm just a clone, not your master."
"It doesn't matter," Wudao said, a new, unshakeable resolve in his eyes. "For you have steeled my conviction."
The clone's smile widened. "It looks like I never needed to in the first place."
(Back to the Present)
Wudao moved with purpose, lifting a heavy piece of rebar from a trapped woman's leg. His body still ached, but his spirit was a fortress. As he worked, he saw a massive, metal-skinned man approaching him. It was Colossus, his form gleaming in the setting sun.
"Hello," Colossus said in English, his voice a deep, respectful rumble. "You are Jack Hou's student, right?"
Unfortunately, Wudao had not yet started his high-altitude, life-threatening English lessons. He simply stared at the metal man, his face a mask of polite confusion. The interaction went on for another moment in awkward, well-intentioned silence.
…
From his perch high above the city, Jack Hou watched the organized chaos of the rescue effort unfold. The perimeter was shrinking. His clones moved like a tide, clearing rubble, healing the wounded, and restoring a semblance of order where only despair had existed hours before. He could see the end in sight; the area would be cleared in another hour, maybe less.
He let out a long sigh. He had come here to find his new disciple a weapon, hoping that a man as influential as Bakuto, one of the five Fingers of the Hand, would have a respectable collection of mystical armaments. But that plan was on hold. The entity that had caused the earthquake, the one whose chaotic energy still lingered in the air like a bad taste, was far more formidable than he had initially thought.
Jack's thoughts were a whirlwind. The mystery of the entity and its human catalyst. Bakuto's strategic retreat to Japan. And deeper than that, an aching feeling that had settled in his bones the moment he set foot on this land. It was a strange, ancient tension, as if the very air was pregnant with the ghosts of old conflicts, a divine war brewing just beneath the surface of reality.
Just as his mind was spiraling into a new thread of cosmic theory, the air beside him tore open. A shower of golden sparks erupted, twisting into a perfect, shimmering circle—a sorcerer's portal.
From the swirling gateway, Yao, the Ancient One, stepped out, trading the hallowed halls of Kamar-Taj for the dusty, disaster-stricken skies of Japan.
Jack turned, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. "Ah, good to see you, brother." He gestured to the ruined city below. "But seeing the circumstances of your visit, it seems this earthquake is much more than I thought, huh?"
Yao, knowing that beating around the bush with Jack Hou was a fool's errand, was direct. He met Jack's golden gaze, his own eyes full of a gravity that could anchor worlds.
"I need your help."
**A/N**
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**A/N**