The Shadow God Of War Returns

CHAPTER 7

Zarek stopped midstep and turned his gaze to the new arrivals, calm and unbothered. His voice cut through the murmurs like a blade.

“And who exactly are you?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, curiosity sharper than threat.

The first man forward was Roland, the leader of the group and the one Damian had contacted directly. 

Irritation and disbelief softened into a flicker of begrudging acknowledgment as he studied Zarek.

So this was the man Damian was wary of: handsome, strong, and honed by countless fights, yet oddly unscarred.

Roland’s jaw tightened as he took him in. Zarek stood almost too flawless, too composed, in the wreckage of his men.

Roland stepped closer, fists clenching at his sides. 

“Quiet,” he barked, silencing the murmuring crowd behind him. His gaze bore into Zarek, sharp and unwavering. “How dare you ask us who we are?”

Zarek didn’t flinch. 

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, as if the question itself were beneath him.

Roland’s teeth clenched. “I should teach you a lesson right here,” he said, each movement measured, the restrained power of a man who knew he didn’t need to explode to be deadly. 

“I could break you, make you regret ever opening your mouth. Or I might leave you with a scar on your face, something to remember me by. But I won’t waste all my strength on you.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at Zarek’s lips.

One of Roland’s men snorted and jabbed Roland’s elbow. “You’re smirking, huh? Real brave until you’re the one in trouble.” 

He jabbed a finger at Zarek’s chest.

“You think you’re funny?”

The others closed in, voices rising, hungry for a show. “Kneel,” one barked.

“Apologize. Kiss our feet. Maybe then we’ll only leave you with a scar.”

“Yeah, better yet, scar your own face and save us the trouble. We’ll give you a little beating afterward.”

They laughed, hard, loud, ugly, their voices ricocheting off the walls.

Zarek watched them, face calm. Their words slid off him, but his mind drifted briefly, precisely, to his brother.

He had kept his face clean for a reason. It was the one thing the little boy might remember. 

If his brother grew and changed and couldn’t place features anymore, a photograph would still show him clearly, unmarked. 

That face had been protected, treated, shielded.

No scars. 

No marks.

He had guarded it like a promise.

Zarek tightened his grip on the empty wine glass until his knuckles whitened.

The men’s laughter bubbled like noise underwater. 

In that suspended second, his eyes turned colder. He would not let them touch what he had sworn to keep whole.

Zarek’s hand shot out. 

He grabbed the nearest man by the collar and hauled him forward hard enough to tear a gasp from the circle. 

Before anyone could react, Zarek slammed the man into a pillar, then shoved him across the floor like a rag doll.

The man skidded and crashed into a low table.

CRUNCH!

Glasses shattered. 

Heads turned.

Mouths fell open.

The twelve froze, shock ripping through them; their confident sneers melted into something thinner, rawer.

“Not one step closer,” Zarek said, voice flat and cold. “Or you’ll end up like him.”

He dropped the man where he lay and looked each of the others in the eye.

They stared back for a long beat, faces hardening, jaws tightening. 

The shock faded, giving way to anger.

Roland spat on the floor, eyes icy. “Enough,” he snapped. “Take him. Now.”

The ring moved as one.

Fingers went to belts and sheaths. 

Cuffs unbuttoned. 

Metal flashed, knives drawn, batons slapped into palms, a few men yanking brass knuckles free. 

The sound of weapons being readied was ugly and efficient: clicks, scrapes, the whisper of leather.

They lunged together, blades flashing, fists swinging, a wall of fury crashing toward him.

Zarek moved the way he always moved: clean, precise, every motion purposeful. He didn’t throw wild punches. He used their force against them.

A knife came in low; Zarek stepped aside, caught the attacker’s wrist, and twisted.

Crack!

The man dropped the blade, doubling over.

A baton swung; Zarek hooked it with his forearm and yanked, sending the wielder stumbling into a row of chairs.

Another charge. 

Zarek planted a foot, pivoted, and let the man’s own momentum carry him into a display table.

Glass rattled.

Zarek didn’t pause. 

A fist came at him from the left; he sidestepped, spun, and drove his elbow into the man’s ribs. 

The impact forced a grunt; the man crumpled.

Another swung with a brass knuckle, aiming for Zarek’s jaw. 

Zarek caught the wrist midair, twisted sharply, and hurled the man across the hall. He skidded along the marble and hit a pillar with a sickening thud.

A third lunged with a knife.

Zarek ducked, rolled, and drove his knee into the man’s stomach, then followed with a sharp uppercut that lifted him off his feet. 

The man hit the floor with a groan, eyes wide in shock.

The fight was fast, brutal, and relentless.

Zarek ducked under punches, blocked strikes with his forearms, and sent men flying with precise, economical blows. 

His body was a weapon, every hand, elbow, knee, and foot a sharp, practiced strike.

One after another, the twelve attackers fell, beaten, bruised, struggling to rise. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and fear. 

Chairs overturned, bottles shattered, and the sound of groaning men echoed off the marble walls.

“R Roland! Help me!” one groaned, clutching his ribs.

“Get him off me! I can’t—ugh!” another shouted, staggering up only to be thrown back down.

“Move, Roland! Do something!” a third yelled, voice cracking with panic.

“Argh! He’s too fast!” one screamed, swinging wildly before Zarek sent him sprawling across the floor.

Finally, only Roland remained.

He stepped forward, chest heaving, fists clenched, a vein throbbing at his temple. His men lay scattered and broken, some barely moving, others clutching shattered bones or bloodied faces.

Roland’s eyes locked on Zarek, hatred and humiliation coiling tight.

“This isn’t over,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous.

“Where’s your backup now?” Zarek asked quietly, mocking calm in his tone as his gaze swept over the fallen men.

“Shut up! Don’t, don’t mock me!” Roland growled, fists tightening. Around them, his men groaned and whimpered.

“Help me, Roland!” one wheezed.

“Don’t leave me!” another cried.

Zarek’s lips curved slightly, his eyes cold. “You fought poorly, and yet you still think you can stop me?”

Roland’s jaw flexed. He took a careful step forward, scanning for an opening, knowing brute force wouldn’t win. Still, he had one last move.

His eyes darted around, calculating. His men were down, the floor littered with their bodies. Anger and desperation twisted his face.

“Enough of this!” he snarled.

With a sudden lunge, he grabbed a woman who had been trying to slip away amid the chaos. 

She screamed, arms flailing, as he dragged her tightly against his chest.