Revelations and Revenge
Jason Lee confronts Sierra about her betrayal and the truth behind Finn's death, while facing his enemies who threaten his remaining family.Will Jason succeed in protecting his family and exacting vengeance on those who wronged him?
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Always A Father: When Dragons Walk Into a Modern Banquet Hall
Let’s be honest: if you walked into a venue labeled ‘Enrollment Banquet’ expecting speeches, cake, and awkward family photos—you’d be dead wrong. What unfolds in this opulent space, beneath crystal chandeliers and beside walls adorned with serene seascapes, is less graduation ceremony and more mythic tribunal. The centerpiece? Li Fei. Not a businessman. Not a politician. A man wearing history like armor—literally. His outfit is a paradox: layered silk embroidered with writhing dragons in vermilion and gold, overlaid with black scale-mail pauldrons, studded with silver rivets, cinched by a belt whose buckle is a snarling lion’s head, teeth bared in eternal warning. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He simply *is*, like a statue that breathes. And yet—his presence fractures the room. Because everyone here knows, deep in their marrow, that he is not a guest. He is the reckoning. The first casualty is Zhou Wei—a man whose tailored navy suit and confident stride suggest he’s used to commanding rooms. But confidence shatters when Li Fei doesn’t raise a hand. He doesn’t need to. A flick of the wrist, a surge of golden energy (yes, CGI, but deployed with operatic flair), and Zhou Wei is airborne, then down, then crawling, blood trickling from his lip like a confession he can’t take back. His eyes—wide, wet, disbelieving—are the most telling detail. He expected negotiation. He got revelation. The violence isn’t physical; it’s ontological. Li Fei didn’t attack him. He *unmasked* him. And in that unmasking, Zhou Wei realizes: he’s not the protagonist here. He’s a footnote in someone else’s epic. Always A Father isn’t just a theme—it’s the gravitational pull of the scene. Every character orbits Li Fei, whether they admit it or not. Then there’s Xiao Man. Red skirt, ivory blouse, hair tied high with a crimson ribbon—she looks like she stepped out of a wuxia film, not a banquet hall. When the chaos erupts, she doesn’t flee. She runs *toward* the fallen—specifically, toward a young man in a dark suit, lying limp, face slack. She cradles his head, whispers his name, her voice breaking not with hysteria, but with a grief so practiced it feels ancestral. Her tears are real. Her fear is real. But her resolve? That’s inherited. When she finally stands, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, her posture shifts. Shoulders square. Chin lifts. And she walks—not away, but *forward*, directly toward Li Fei, who watches her with the patience of a mountain. No words are exchanged. Yet the air between them hums with decades of silence, of letters never sent, of birthdays missed, of a father who chose duty over diapers. She stops three feet away. Breathes. And then, quietly, she says: “You knew he was mine. And you still let him come here.” Li Fei doesn’t deny it. He simply nods, once. A father’s admission. Always A Father—even when he’s absent, he’s present. Even when he’s silent, he’s speaking. The turning point arrives not with a sword, but with a gesture. Li Fei raises both hands, palms open, and golden light spirals upward, coalescing around Xiao Man and a man in a mustard-yellow blazer—Chen Hao—who had been standing rigidly near the stage. Chen Hao flinches, then gasps as the light touches him. His expression shifts from confusion to dawning horror, then to something like surrender. He drops to one knee. So does Xiao Man. Not in worship. In acknowledgment. They kneel together, side by side, as if performing a ritual older than the building they stand in. Behind them, the security team—four men in black uniforms, caps pulled low—follow suit, squatting in unison, fists pressed to their chests. It’s not obedience. It’s lineage. They’re not guards. They’re heirs. Or maybe just witnesses to a truth too heavy to carry alone. Meanwhile, Zhou Wei, still on the floor, tries to rise—only to be seized by another man in a royal-blue suit, tie askew, eyes wild with panic. This is Wang Lei, the so-called ‘protector’, the one who thought he could shield Xiao Man from the past. He drags her back, shouting something incoherent, but his voice cracks. He’s not angry. He’s terrified. Because he sees what the others are beginning to understand: Li Fei isn’t here to punish. He’s here to *restore*. To reset the balance. When Wang Lei finally releases Xiao Man, she doesn’t run to him. She turns back to Li Fei, and this time, her voice is clear, steady: “You took his name. You gave him yours. Why did you let him believe he was just… ordinary?” Li Fei’s reply is barely audible, yet it cuts through the room like a bell: “Because ordinary men survive. Dragons burn.” The final sequence is almost balletic in its restraint. Li Fei walks slowly toward the center of the room, where the two fallen figures lie—one conscious, one not. He pauses beside the unconscious youth, places a hand on his forehead, and for a moment, the golden light returns—not violent, but tender, like sunlight through stained glass. The youth stirs. Opens his eyes. Looks at Xiao Man. And smiles. A small, broken thing. But real. Li Fei withdraws his hand, stands, and addresses the room—not with authority, but with exhaustion: “The banquet is over. The war was never here. It’s waiting outside.” He turns, walks toward the exit, and as he does, the camera catches something few notice: the lion-headed belt buckle glints, and for a split second, the lion’s eyes seem to *follow* Xiao Man. Always A Father. Not because he stayed. But because he *remembers*. The armor isn’t decoration. It’s memory made manifest. The banquet wasn’t about celebrating success. It was about confronting the cost of legacy. And as the doors close behind Li Fei, the room remains suspended—not in silence, but in the echo of a question no one dares voice aloud: What happens when the dragon finally comes home?
Always A Father: The Dragon Armor and the Blood-Stained Banquet
In a grand hall draped in shimmering chandeliers and turquoise wave-patterned carpet—where celebration should reign—the air thickens with dread, betrayal, and something far more ancient than modern suits and smartphones. This is not just a banquet; it’s a stage where myth collides with reality, and every gesture carries the weight of legacy. At its center stands Li Fei, clad in ornate Ming-era-inspired armor—black lacquered scales, embroidered dragons coiling across his chest like living omens, a lion-headed belt buckle gleaming like a silent judge. His mustache is neatly trimmed, his gaze steady, but his eyes… they flicker—not with fear, but with the quiet fury of a man who has seen too many lies wear silk masks. He is not merely a guest. He is the axis upon which this entire spectacle turns. Always A Father isn’t just a title here; it’s a curse, a vow, a burden passed down through bloodlines no one dares name aloud. The first rupture comes not with a shout, but with a crouch. A man in a navy suit—Zhou Wei, sharp-featured, slick-haired, wearing a blue striped tie like a badge of corporate legitimacy—suddenly drops to his knees beside the pool-like carpet, eyes wide, mouth agape. He doesn’t speak. He *reacts*. And then—*impact*. A blur of motion, a ripple of golden energy (CGI, yes, but deliberately theatrical), and Zhou Wei is flung backward, choking, blood blooming at the corner of his lips like ink spilled on parchment. The camera lingers on his face: sweat, shock, disbelief—and beneath it all, a dawning horror that he’s been outplayed by rules he didn’t know existed. Meanwhile, Li Fei remains upright, arms relaxed, as if he hasn’t moved at all. That’s the trick: power isn’t always in the swing. Sometimes, it’s in the stillness before the storm. The audience—security guards in black caps, a woman in olive-green dress clutching a white handbag, a young man in gray blazer standing stiffly beside her—watch in frozen silence. No one rushes forward. No one calls for help. They know better. This isn’t an accident. It’s protocol. Then comes the resurrection—or rather, the *reanimation*. Li Fei raises his hands, palms outward, and golden light swirls around him like incense smoke caught in a draft. The fallen Zhou Wei gasps, staggers up, and collapses again—not from injury, but from awe. He crawls, literally crawls, across the carpet, fingers splayed, as if approaching a shrine. Behind him, two others lie motionless: a young man in dark suit, face pale, and a woman in red skirt and ivory blouse—Xiao Man—cradling his head, tears streaking her kohl-lined eyes. Her grief is raw, unfiltered, yet when she lifts her gaze toward Li Fei, it shifts—not to anger, but to something colder: recognition. She knows him. Not as a warrior. As a father. Always A Father. The phrase echoes not in dialogue, but in the way her shoulders tense, the way her breath hitches when he finally speaks, voice low, resonant, carrying the cadence of old poetry: “You thought the world changed. But blood remembers what names forget.” The tension escalates when Xiao Man rises, wiping her tears with the back of her hand, and strides forward—not toward Li Fei, but *past* him, eyes locked on Zhou Wei, now kneeling beside the unconscious youth. Her voice, when it comes, is not shrill, but precise, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath: “He didn’t deserve this. He was just trying to protect me.” Li Fei doesn’t flinch. He watches her, head tilted slightly, as if studying a puzzle he’s solved a hundred times before. Then he points—not at Zhou Wei, not at the fallen youth, but *at her*. A single finger, deliberate, unwavering. And in that moment, the room holds its breath. Because everyone sees it: the resemblance. The shape of her jaw, the set of her brows, the way her left eyebrow lifts just a fraction higher when she lies. Always A Father. The truth isn’t hidden in documents or diplomas. It’s written in the tilt of a chin, the tremor in a hand, the way a daughter looks at a man who once held her as a child—and then vanished into legend. What follows is less fight, more reckoning. Zhou Wei, now recovered enough to stand, grabs Xiao Man by the arm—not violently, but desperately—as if she’s the only anchor in a sinking ship. She struggles, but not with rage. With sorrow. Her eyes lock onto Li Fei’s, and for three full seconds, no one moves. Then, softly, she says: “You left us. You chose the armor over the cradle.” Li Fei’s expression doesn’t crack. But his knuckles whiten where they rest at his sides. The dragon on his chest seems to writhe in the light. Behind them, the screen flashes characters: Shēngxué Yàn—“Enrollment Banquet”—a cruel irony. This isn’t about academic success. It’s about inheritance. About who gets to wear the mask, who bears the name, who pays the price for glory no one asked for. The security guards shift uneasily. One mutters into his sleeve mic: “Is this part of the script?” Another shakes his head. “No. This is older than the script.” The final act unfolds in near-silence. Li Fei walks toward the fallen youth—not to strike, but to kneel. He places a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and golden light pulses once, gently, like a heartbeat. The youth stirs. Opens his eyes. And stares—not at Li Fei, but at Xiao Man, who has collapsed to her knees beside him, whispering his name like a prayer. Li Fei rises, steps back, and addresses the room, voice calm, final: “The banquet is over. The real test begins now.” He turns, and walks toward the exit, armor clinking softly with each step. No one stops him. Not Zhou Wei, still panting on the floor. Not the guards, who bow their heads instinctively. Not even Xiao Man, who watches him go, lips parted, tears drying on her cheeks, her hand unconsciously touching the small pendant at her throat—a lion’s head, identical to the one on his belt. Always A Father. Not because he raised them. But because he *is* the reason they exist. The armor isn’t costume. It’s skin. The banquet wasn’t celebration. It was confession. And as the doors close behind Li Fei, the camera lingers on the carpet—still damp in places, stained with blood and sweat and something older: the residue of a truth too heavy to speak aloud.