The Shadow God Of War Returns

CHAPTER 5

The women were staring at him wide-eyed since he had managed to take down one of the strongest groups on his own, and not only that, his body had moved so quickly and smoothly.

To Zarek, he had just fought them like that without going too hard so that their bodies didn't hit the innocent women in the pool.

And now, he was leaning down, looking at the leader and wanting to know where Darian Veyron was.

After all, they seemed knowledgeable about the man.

Zarek’s hand shot out, grabbing the leader by the collar.

GRAB!

The man’s eyes went wide as his feet lifted off the ground, dangling helplessly.

His weight didn’t seem to faze Zarek in the slightest; he held him up effortlessly with one hand, as if the man weighed nothing at all.

“Where is Darian Veyron?” Zarek repeated, his voice low, sharp, and unyielding.

The leader’s jaw dropped, disbelief and fear twisting his features. “I… I… I don’t know what—how—?”

Zarek’s grip tightened slightly, just enough to send a clear warning.

“Don’t play games with me. Where is he?”

The man’s eyes darted to his fallen comrades, then back at Zarek.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, his voice shaking. “He… Darian Veyron? He’s… he’s in the northern wing… private quarters… please, don’t—”

Zarek’s eyes didn’t waver. “Northern wing. Private quarters. That’s all I need to hear.”

The leader’s face went pale, realizing the quiet, terrifying efficiency of the man holding him off the ground.

Zarek released him with a subtle push.

The man crumpled to the floor, gasping, as Zarek straightened, scanning the room with his calm, piercing gaze.

The women by the pool whispered among themselves, awed and slightly frightened, as Zarek’s gaze swept past them.

“He is not only handsome but strong too.”

“Right. He wouldn’t be bad in bed.”

“Hey, what are you thinking?!”

He moved toward the northern wing, coat flaring behind him like a shadow.

One of the women, cheeks still flushed from his earlier presence, stepped forward nervously, trying to make conversation.

“Excuse me… the northern wing?” she asked softly, pointing.

Zarek’s eyes flicked to her. “Which way exactly?”

She swallowed, biting her lower lip, and gave a quick, breathy answer. “Down that path… past the fountain… then the second corridor on your right.”

She quickly turned and walked away, cheeks still pink.

As she reached her friends, a giggle escaped her lips.

“He… he just spoke to me,” she murmured, eyes wide.

Aurelia Voss, the red-haired beauty from earlier, glared from the poolside. Emerald eyes narrowed, body tense, hands tightening around her drink.

She had always had one little obsession: handsome men.

Seeing Zarek talk to another woman only stoked her frustration.

Her boyfriend, Damian, noticed the flash of interest in her eyes again and bristled.

“Those bastards failed to deal with just one idiot. Why was I even paying them?” he snapped, voice low.

Aurelia shrugged, unable to hide her irritation at the situation.

Damian didn’t wait. He pulled out his phone, thumb tapping furiously. “Northern wing. Find him. Rough him up. Scar him if you can. Make it ugly,” he ordered sharply, his gaze tracking Zarek as the man moved with calm, unbothered precision toward the northern wing.

He then glanced around, as if looking for the men he had sent, and his eyes brightened when he spotted them.

The men he sent surged into motion, twelve bulky figures weaving through the party crowd.

“You’re dead,” Damian thought, grinning.

*****

At the northern wing.

Elder Veyron sat in the inner balcony, leaning forward as if the dancers below were a private show just for him.

His face was flushed, his eyes glassy, and a thin trail of drool at the corner of his mouth.

He watched the strippers with a leering grin, hands loosely clasped, lost in the noise and lights.

Beside him stood Lucien Ashbourne, the first son of the Ashbourne family. 

He was tall, pale, with the sort of arrogance on his face that came from always getting what he wanted.

He lounged back in his chair, a heavy glass of red wine resting in one hand, a thick cigar smoldering in the other.

He took a slow drag, exhaled a curl of smoke, and watched the crowd with bored interest.

“Pathetic lot downstairs,” Lucien said, voice smooth, amusement tucked under the words. He swirled his wine and studied Darian. “You enjoying the show, Elder Veyron?”

Darian didn’t answer right away. He kept his gaze fixed on the stage, breathing a little faster.

“Hmph,” he managed, voice rough. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Elder Veyron leaned back, a self-satisfied smirk curling his lips.

“No one will interrupt my fun tonight,” he thought darkly. “I’ll make sure whoever dares… whatever fool dares… pays for it.”

Just as the words left his lips, a thunderous crash split the music and chatter.

The front doors of the estate exploded inward, kicked open with raw force, wood splintering and metal groaning.

The dancers froze mid-step, eyes wide, bodies frozen in shock.

Strippers balanced precariously on poles and platforms, their movements halted as if the world had suddenly stopped.

A few gasped, clutching their outfits, while others spun in alarm, instinctively shielding themselves.

Lucien’s smirk faltered; his pale eyes narrowed at the sudden intrusion.

“What the—?” he hissed through clenched teeth, gripping his glass and cigar tighter.

Elder Veyron’s flush deepened, a mix of shock and outrage flooding his features.

“Who the hell dares—?” he started, but the words caught in his throat as all eyes were drawn toward the swinging doors, the source of chaos.

From the doorway, a lone figure stepped in, coat flaring behind him like a shadow stretching across the floor. 

The music thumped uncertainly, and the dancers instinctively took a step back.

Even Lucien, confident and unshakable, felt a ripple of unease pass through him as he studied the man approaching.

Zarek had arrived.