The Shadow God Of War Returns

CHAPTER 4

They moved as one toward him, boots soft on the stone, faces hard.

Zarek didn’t look up; he sat, one hand around the stem of his glass, the other loose on the table. He sipped, calm as a statue.

The men snickered low, talking among themselves.

“This’ll be fun. Beat the pretty boy down.”

“Yeah, teach him to steal looks from real men.”

“Right. As long as we kick him out, the boss will reward us.”

“At least we’ll be able to get some cash tonight.”

“What if we ruin his perfect face? Will the boss increase our reward?”

Their voices were full of false bravado.

As they brushed past a cluster of women by the pool, whispers followed them. The women were the same ones who had fawned over Zarek as he walked past earlier.

“Ugh, look at them, so ugly.”

“They’re just jealous he’s getting all the attention.”

“Look at them. How can they compare to him?”

“No wonder they’re going after him.”

The women’s words sliced through the men’s swagger like cold water. Their faces tightened, anger flaring.

“He thinks he can stroll in here and take what’s ours,” one muttered. “Kick him out. Now.”

“How dare we be compared to such a loser?”

“I haven’t seen him before. He must have come here without an invitation.”

Zarek finished his glass in one slow motion, set it down, and reached for another from the tower of wine glasses stacked nearby, an elegant, risky pyramid they’d left unattended.

Before his fingers closed, a bulky hand shot out and shoved the tower hard. Glasses wobbled, crystal chiming, the top ones teetering.

“Wow! That’s a nice shot!”

“Fuck yeah, it is.”

Someone cursed. The men grinned, thinking they’d ruined whatever move Zarek had planned.

However, Zarek's hand was faster. With a quiet, precise motion, he snatched a single glass free—no crash, no spill—skillful like the man he’d been made to be.

He held it up, small and steady, as the circle tightened around him.

The leader stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. “You lucky bastard. That was meant to humiliate you.”

Zarek lifted the glass to his lips and drank slowly, looking each of them in the face.

No fear. No hurry.

Their smirks faltered. The air knotted.

The men shifted on their feet, ready to lunge. Zarek set the empty glass down with deliberate care and stood.

“Try anything,” he said quietly, “and you’ll regret it.”

The men froze at his words, then erupted into laughter, loud and cruel.

“Hah! Who does he think he is?” one barked between chuckles. “Just some guy talking big!”

“Yeah!” another joined in. “We’re six, and you’re… what? One man? How do you think you can beat all of us?”

Zarek’s gaze swept over them, cold and unyielding. The laughter faltered as his eyes locked on theirs, cutting through their bravado like a blade.

“Since you’ve been so disrespectful,” he said, voice low and deadly calm, “I could let you off… if you tell me where to find Darian Veyron. The last place he was seen.”

They bristled at his question like he’d slapped them.

“What do you mean, ‘Darian Veyron’?” one snarled, stepping forward. “Who are you to ask about him? You don’t even know who he is. You—” He waved a hand, scoffing. “You’re not worthy to hear his name.”

“Yeah,” another chimed in, sneering. “You don’t call him by his first name. He’s Elder Veyron. You show respect, or you don’t speak his name at all.”

Zarek’s eyes flicked to them, slow, unfazed. Elder Veyron, an old man, then. The detail should have made him hesitate, but it didn’t. He kept his voice flat.

“If you tell me where he is, you walk out of here,” Zarek said. “All of you will live for disrespecting me.”

Their faces twisted. Pride flared into ugly anger.

“You think we’ll just hand him over? You think you can bargain with us?” one spat.

“Listen,” the leader said through clenched teeth, “our boss told us to rough you up, find out who you are. If he says you’re trouble, we take care of you. You should hate yourself, having that pretty face, walking in here like you own the place.” He barked a laugh that was half threat, half bravado.

Too slow. Too loud,’ Zarek thought. ‘Come at me already.’

They lunged as one, fists flying.

Zarek moved like water, calm, economical. He didn’t waste energy. He used the world around him.

A waiter’s tray clattered as a man shoved past; Zarek hooked it with his free hand and swung.

CLANG!

The tray hit the nearest thug across the ribs. He dropped, wind knocked out of him.

Another swung a bottle. Zarek caught the wrist, twisted, and the bottle smashed against a table.

CRACK!

Glass sprayed. He shoved the broken neck into the man’s forearm; the man flinched, staggered back, clutching at his arm.

Someone grabbed a pool umbrella. Zarek yanked it free, jammed the pole between two attackers like a lever; they tumbled over it with a surprised grunt.

THUMP!

A chair scraped across the stone. Zarek spun it, snapped an attacker’s knee with the chair’s leg.

SNAP!

The man screamed and fell to his knees.

Two more tried to surround him. Zarek kicked the bottom of a stacked wine crate; it toppled, boxes sliding, knocking one into another.

RATTLE!

Both men tripped and went down in a scramble.

One of them reached blindly for a towel-wrapped bottle; Zarek seized the towel, swung, and the blow landed hard on the man’s jaw. He hit the ground, teeth chattering.

They tried to get back up, fumbling, breath ragged. The music, the chatter, everything blurred into the pulse in Zarek’s chest. He moved through them like a blade through silk, efficient, final.

When it was over, six men lay groaning on the stone, some clutching limbs, some gasping. No dramatic theatrics, just men broken enough to know they’d lost.

Zarek straightened, dusted his coat, and looked down at them. The pool glittered behind him, women staring wide-eyed.

He bent the knife in his pocket, a quiet threat, and asked the leader again, voice cold and clear,

“Where is Darian Veyron?”