The Shadow God Of War Returns

CHAPTER 10

The small circle of onlookers held their breath, hearts pounding in unison.

Every eye was glued to the two men. Every muscle tensed, waiting for the first clash.

Dairan’s fist shot forward like a cannonball, aimed straight at Zarek’s head. The force of it sliced through the air.

Whoosh.

Zarek didn’t flinch. He didn’t step back. He simply bent at the waist, ducking under the punch with effortless grace.

Heads turned. Jaws dropped. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

Zarek straightened almost lazily, his left hand sliding into his pocket as if he hadn’t just dodged a blow powerful enough to shatter bones.

Dairan froze mid-swing, disbelief flashing across his face.

“He… he just—he ducked my punch!” he muttered under his breath.

Zarek said nothing. He just straightened fully, eyes fixed on Dairan’s fist.

“Was that supposed to be the strong punch that kills people?”

Rage flared in Dairan’s eyes.

He lashed out again, fists flying with blinding speed, striking for Zarek’s head and torso—wild, fast, desperate.

But Zarek moved like water, flowing around every strike, dodging and weaving with inhuman precision. 

Every blow met only air.

The onlookers whispered, their voices trembling with awe and fear.

“He’s… actually dodging him.”

“How is that possible?”

“He’s supposed to be stronger than anyone here!”

Dairan’s jaw clenched. “This is impossible,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “No one moves like that—not against me!”

Zarek’s eyes narrowed—calm, analytical. Every motion of Dairan’s was measured, every swing dissected. 

He wasn’t fighting to survive. 

He was toying with him.

The tension was electric. The air thickened with fear, sweat, and the faint tang of blood. 

Even those hiding near the exits leaned forward, unable to look away.

Dairan’s strikes grew faster, more savage—but Zarek’s body remained untouchable, slipping through every attack like smoke.

“You’re fast,” Dairan growled between swings. “But speed alone won’t save you!”

Zarek’s lips curved into a faint, deadly smile.

“No,” he said softly. “But precision will.”

His gaze sharpened. His voice dropped, cold and steady.

“Do you even remember what happened in that house you tried to take down years ago?”

Dairan’s fury exploded. “Shut up about the house!” he roared, voice echoing through the hall. “Focus on me—not old ruins!”

Zarek didn’t react. He simply watched him, calculating. Then, in one fluid motion, he struck.

The blow landed squarely on Dairan’s chest. The impact sent him flying backward, sliding several feet across the polished marble floor.

He scrambled to his feet, clutching his chest, pain twisting his features. He opened his mouth—but instead of words, blood splattered from his lips.

Silence fell again. Even the bravest onlookers stared in stunned horror.

Dairan’s eyes burned with rage and humiliation. 

His voice shook, but his tone was venomous. “You… you’ll pay for that!”

Zarek tilted his head, calm and almost bored. “Is that all you’ve got? Answer my question first.”

The tension between them crackled like live wires. Every breath, every heartbeat, felt amplified.

Dairan’s sneer returned. 

He glanced briefly at Lucien, seeking reassurance, then spat, “What does that rundown place have to do with you? Why bring up old trash?”

Zarek’s face didn’t move. His voice came low, sharp.

“Answer me. Do you know what happened in that house?”

Dairan laughed once—too loud, too forced.

“I’ve done worse things than whatever happened in some broken ruin. You think that matters to me? That’s… trivial.”

That was all it took.

Zarek snapped.

He closed the distance in two strides and drove his fist straight into Dairan’s chest.

No warning. No hesitation. Just brutal force.

THUD.

Dairan was lifted off his feet and slammed onto the marble floor.

Before he could breathe, Zarek’s boot came down hard on his ribs.

CRUNCH.

Another stomp. And another.

Each one landed with terrifying precision. 

Dairan’s body jerked under the impact, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. 

Blood spilled down his chin as his breath hitched and broke.

The few who remained watched in paralyzed horror.

“My God… he’s actually—” one began, but couldn’t finish.

No one dared to move. No one wanted to be next.

Zarek stopped only when Dairan’s body went limp beneath him, chest heaving, eyes unfocused.

He stepped back, boots scraping against marble, then crouched.

With one hand, he seized a fistful of Dairan’s silver-streaked hair and yanked his head up.

Dairan groaned weakly, his vision swimming.

Zarek’s voice came low—a whisper of ice.

“Did you know what happened there years ago?”

Dairan’s breath rattled in his chest. Blood dripped from his mouth as Zarek forced his head higher.

“Why… why do you care about some forgotten house?” he rasped, voice broken.

Zarek’s eyes narrowed. He needed to know—was Dairan one of the men who had attacked his family that night, or just another greedy buyer chasing the land?

For a heartbeat, Dairan’s pupils flickered—recognition? Guilt?—then he looked away, jaw locking tight.

He said nothing.

Zarek’s grip tightened. “Answer me,” he warned, his voice a quiet thunder.

Dairan only spat blood onto the floor. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

Zarek’s expression hardened. His fist rose slowly, veins tightening along his arm.

“Then I’ll make you—”

The words barely left his lips when a sharp whistle cut through the air.

Shink!

A knife grazed his cheek, slicing a thin line of blood. Zarek’s instincts kicked in—he dropped Dairan instantly and twisted aside.

The blade embedded itself in a marble pillar with a dull thud.

Gasps erupted from the onlookers.

Zarek’s head snapped toward the direction of the throw.

From the side door, an older man stepped into the hall—his pace unhurried, his posture commanding. His hair was streaked with gray, his suit immaculate, and his eyes cold as frost.