The Shadow God Of War Returns

CHAPTER 9

Roland’s voice cracked, his body trembling uncontrollably.

“Fine… fine! It was… it was Damian! He sent me! Please… please don’t—”

Zarek’s brows lifted as he waited for more. He hadn’t done anything to provoke this before the men attacked him. 

Perhaps the person who sent them was one of the people he was looking for. He couldn’t take any chances.

Darian’s eyes snapped wide, an alarm flashing across his face. Damian… his son? The words hit him like a thunderclap.

Roland’s desperation surged; tears streaked his bloodied cheeks. “I’ll… I’ll tell you everything about the young man! I swear! Just… just don’t—please!”

Before he could finish, a sharp whistle split the air.

A knife, swift and deadly, struck the back of Roland’s throat. 

Blood sprayed as his scream was cut off. His body went limp, eyes wide in shock; the words died on his lips.

The room fell into stunned silence. 

Murmurs stopped mid-sentence; faces froze in horror and disbelief. Some gasped and backed away, others stumbled toward the exits.

“Was he just killed like that?” someone whispered.

“After breaking his legs and arms, someone else finished him?” another muttered.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” a third asked, voice shaking.

People shoved past one another to get away, fear palpable in every movement.

Only a few stood their ground, expressions tight and faces steeled—curious, defiant, or simply too stubborn to flee.

Zarek raised his head slowly and fixed his piercing gaze on the source of the knife. 

There, on the balcony, stood Darian. He had thrown the blade and killed Roland before Roland could reveal more.

Their eyes locked—calm, cold, measuring.

“It’s rude,” Zarek said softly, almost mocking, “to kill someone else’s target before I even get my answers.”

Darian’s lips curled into a faint, cold smirk. “Do you think this is a hunting ground?” he drawled, voice icy.

In one fluid motion, Darians leapt from the balcony. 

The rush of air preceded his landing on the marble; dust and debris scattered at impact. 

He took a few measured steps forward, eyes locked on Zarek. 

He had silenced Roland to stop him from naming his son. His son was not a fighter, and he could not risk Zarek tracking him down and destroying him.

“Prepare yourself,” Darian said, voice low and deadly. “This is where you die.”

Zarek’s eyes narrowed; his fists clenched. Tension spiked as two lethal forces faced off—silent, poised, ready.

The broken men on the floor watched as Dorian dropped. 

Relief flickered across a few faces. 

Those who could still move pushed themselves upright; pain was momentarily forgotten, hope igniting in their eyes.

“Finally,” one rasped, clutching a fractured rib. He managed a crooked grin and a wet laugh. “He actually came down.”

Another, cheek purple and swollen, spat on the marble. “You saw him—he’s fast. But he’s one man. Darian’s been fighting for years. He’ll finish this.”

Murmurs rippled through the cluster—bravado stitched together from bruises and fear.

“Darian’s kicks?” a man announced like scripture. “No one survives a clean kick from him.”

“And his punch?” another added, rubbing a sore jaw. “Nobody walks after that.”

“He breaks you like a twig,” a third said, eyes gleaming. “If he wants him dead, he will make sure he dies. We’ll feed him to the dogs afterward.”

They beamed at one another, feeding on the sight of their leader finally facing the stranger. 

Pain had turned into hunger—for victory, for spectacle, for survival by riding Darian’s triumph.

Lucien hovered near the balcony rail, unease flickering across his face. 

Even he felt the shift: men who’d been broken now betting everything on Darian’s boot and fist.

“You’ll handle this, right?” he asked quietly.

Darian’s eyes did not leave Zarek. 

A slow, cold smile curved one corner of his mouth. 

“Oh, I’ll handle him,” he said softly, almost conversational. The promise hung heavy in the air. “I’ll make him wish he’d never shown his face.”

A broken man on the floor spat, “Do it quick, Elder. We don’t want him getting up again.”

“Keep your mouths shut and watch,” Darian snapped. He stepped down, boots finding the marble, voice loud enough for the small circle of stubborn onlookers to hear. “This ends now.”

Zarek did not flinch, his gaze unbroken. “Do you remember the house by the mountain? Three o’clock to the south?”

Darian’s brow furrowed, confusion crossing his features. 

“What are you talking about? Which house?” His voice sharpened, wary.

Zarek’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. 

“The abandoned one. Not far from the mountain—crumbling stone walls, roof half collapsed, windows caked with dust. Overgrown ivy climbs its sides, paint long faded, the front door hanging crooked on its hinges. You must have been there often. Remember it now?”

Darian’s eyes narrowed; suspicion replaced his confidence. 

“How do you know about that house? Who told you?” his voice rose, tension coiling between them.

Zarek stepped closer. “You remember what happened there a few years back, don’t you?”

Darian’s gaze flicked to Lucien, sharp and suspicious. 

“Call the men I sent to that house,” he ordered quietly. “Find out what’s going on—what did he do there?”

Lucien hesitated, thumbs hovering over his phone.

“There’s no need,” Zarek said, calm but lethal. 

His eyes darkened, and a murderous calm radiated off him. “I killed all the men you sent there. Every last one.”

Darian froze. His frown deepened as Zarek’s words sank in.

He remembered, with a sudden cold clarity, the land he had fought over years before—the arguments, the bribes, the scraps of ownership. 

Every memory of that abandoned house snapped into focus like a live wire.

“You… you dare—” Darian began, but the words caught as Zarek’s gaze burned into him.

“For sending men there to ruin it,” Zarek continued, voice low and deadly, “it is your doing. Everything that happened there is on you.”

Darian’s fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. “You little—” he cursed under his breath, pride and rage colliding.

With a sudden roar, Darian lunged forward, boots slamming the marble, his body coiling like a spring ready to strike.