image [https://i.postimg.cc/bN0YJhhn/Chapter-10-The-Wrath-of-the-Zharq-The-Judgment-of-the-Ascendants-Mindful-Matrix-Art.jpg]

A week later, night had fallen over the gloomy town of Shroudhaven like a heavy, suffocating shroud.

The air was cold, and the silence that enveloped the streets was broken only by the faint creak of the wind between the windows and the distant howl of some nocturnal animal.

The door of the tavern opened with a creak, and a small figure draped in a dark hood emerged, moving slowly.

Worn gloves covered its hands, and the hood obscured the figure's face, leaving only a white beard and mustache visible, contrasting with the surrounding darkness.

He wiped his beard, shaking off some remnants of drink caught in the strands.

—Where the hell could he have gone...? —he muttered, his tone a raspy mix of nostalgia and frustration.

It had been a week, and there was no trace of him.

He looked up at the dark sky, where clouds swirled slowly, reflecting the gloom of the place. The stars were barely visible, as if they too were avoiding the town.

And in his mind, doubt grew, an intrusive thought he could not ignore.

"Did he leave me here, in this miserable corner of the world?" He wondered, feeling a pang of resentment.

Shroudhaven, with its crooked houses and narrow streets, seemed to him a reflection of his own state of mind, a forgotten place drenched in shadows.

—Tch! Foolish old man, you’ve been waiting like a lost dog... —he scolded himself under his breath, as if the words could dispel the knot in his stomach.

With a final glance at the sky, he spat on the ground in contempt, as if the simple act was enough to erase any hint of weakness he might have shown.

With firm and determined steps, he began to walk away from the tavern, muttering under his breath like a grumpy old man complaining about the world.

—Not a single soul in these damned streets... As if the whole town swallowed itself. Bah!

His steps, firm but silent, guided him through the alleys, deliberately avoiding the main streets. Even though the town was nearly deserted, the old man preferred not to tempt fate.

He knew that even in a place as dead as this, unexpected encounters could be dangerous.

As he walked, his thoughts wandered again, always circling back to the same thing. That absence... that void left by that person.

He didn’t speak of it aloud, but inside, every step plunged him deeper into the feeling of having been abandoned.

—Damn this place... —he murmured, with a mix of rancor and resignation in his tone, as he continued his way.

The old man kept walking, cursing under his breath the world's miseries and the suffocating silence of Shroudhaven. But then, a crunch underfoot and a gust of wind alerted him that something was wrong.

As he stopped, his senses sharpened, and his grumpy expression intensified.

In front of him, a group of men emerged from the shadows, blocking his path. Turning slowly, he saw others blocking the way behind him.

"And now what, huh? Another damned setback?"

The faces of the men were distorted by a mix of disgust and contempt. They didn’t need to say anything, their hostility was evident.

The old man, however, barely flinched; he had survived many generations of humans, and their pettiness was nothing new to him.

—Look what we have here... —one of the men said mockingly, spinning a stone in his hand as if it were a toy—. A Zharq. The damned one still roams around here like it’s nothing.

—What do you want, bastards? —growled the old Zharq, not even bothering to hide his irritation.

—You know damn well what we want, old man —replied another, younger, who held a dirty knife in his hand—. Ever since you arrived, people have been disappearing. Children missing! Mothers crying! … This is no coincidence! We know it was you, Zharq!

The old man frowned, and his wrinkled mouth twisted into a sneer of disdain.

—Bah... Humans —he spat on the ground, his raspy tone making his voice sound like the crackle of dry branches—. Always looking for someone to blame for their miseries. No wonder you're all rotting in this cesspool of a town.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

—Disappearances? If it were my fault, you wouldn’t even have a damned town to worry about.

—Shut up, demon! —shouted one of the men from the back, raising a hand holding a sharp knife—. All of you are damned tricksters and liars!

The old Zharq snorted in contempt.

—Trickster? Maybe. Liar? Depends on the day... —he said, crossing his arms under his tattered cloak—. But if you think I have anything to do with those disappearances, then you're dumber than you look.

—We know what you are! —yelled a younger one, raising a stick threateningly—. You won’t fool us with your words. Your kind… all of you… only bring misfortune. You've deceived us, stolen from us, and now you're taking our people. Someone has to pay!

The old man observed him with a mix of weariness and mockery, a spark of defiance gleaming in his sunken eyes.

—Pay? —he repeated slowly, with a twisted smile that revealed his teeth—. Why don’t you ask your mother? Maybe she knows where they are... if she’s not too busy in someone else’s bed.

The men tensed at his words, and a couple of them let out growls of anger.

The one holding the stone lunged forward, clearly intending to smash his skull.

The old man, though seemingly frail, moved his foot with surprising speed, dodging the blow by a hair.

—Is that all you've got? —he said through clenched teeth—. You could try something heavier. Maybe a brain for a change.

The murmurs turned into shouts of fury as the men closed the circle, raising their makeshift weapons.

The old man spat on the ground in disdain, looking at the men with a mix of boredom and scorn.

He growled under his breath as he pulled back his hood, revealing his face in the dim light.

It was barely visible under the faint streetlight, but those close enough could make out his deep green skin, wrinkled and marked by age.

His long, thick white beard hung like a cascade, contrasting with the dark tone of his skin. His eyebrows were dense, and his pointed ears, typical of his race, protruded from the sides, accentuating his non-human nature.

The old Zharq shook his beard, letting out a grunt of annoyance as the men looked at him in disgust.

—What? —he spat the words like venom—. Are you just going to stand there drooling, or do you have something more to say, you damned slabs of meat?

One of the men, the one holding the dirty knife, frowned, clearly irritated by the old man's disrespectful tone.

—Vulgar and ill-tempered, like all your kind —the man spat in disgust, raising his knife—. You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as us, Zharq. Not after everything you’ve done!

Jarvick let out a dry, hoarse laugh, as rough as dry leaves in the wind.

—Done? —he repeated mockingly, his dark gaze piercing through them—. If I had done something, boy, you’d be regretting much more than a few disappearances. But go ahead, continue your pathetic attempts at being a hero. We’ll see how long that illusion lasts.

One of the men, a young man holding a stick, stepped forward, his face contorted with fury.

—We’re going to kill you, Zharq! —he shouted, his voice trembling, though his determination was undeniable—. If you're responsible for the disappearances, everything ends here! And if you’re not, at least we’ll rid ourselves of an abomination like you.

The old Zharq smirked.

—Heroes! —he muttered mockingly, his voice dripping with scorn—. How pathetic. Do you really think a council of useless fools and a rotten town will give you anything? Rewards, maybe? —he spat on the ground again—. The only thing you’re going to get is a good place in the mass grave... if you're lucky.

The men grew even more enraged at the old man’s words, their eyes gleaming with fury.

The hands holding stones, sticks, and knives trembled, eager to strike. But the Zharq showed not a hint of fear, only that weariness tinged with mockery that seemed to irritate his attackers even more.

—We’ll make you pay! —one of the men roared, and with that, the tension in the air snapped.

The first to lunge was the one with the knife, followed by the others, their shouts filling the night as the circle closed around the old man.

The old man growled in disdain as he saw the men rushing toward him, driven by rage and ignorance.

With a snort of contempt, he muttered to himself:

—Fools... You have no idea who you’ve tangled with.

His wrinkled lips began to mutter ancient words, words that hadn’t been heard by human ears in decades.

At first, the sound was barely a murmur, almost drowned out by the shouts and clamor of the approaching men, but soon those words gained a palpable power, charged with a primal rage.

His gloves, tattered and stained by time, began to glow with an orange radiance. Vibrant flames burst from his hands, consuming the old leather and rising toward the night sky.

In the blink of an eye, the alley, which had been steeped in oppressive darkness, transformed into an infernal scene.

The flames danced with fury, as if reflecting Zharq's own temperament, illuminating the space with a brightness that resembled the fire of the sun itself.

The shadows that once embraced the corners of the alley fled before the onslaught of that glow, while the heat began to suffocate the men who, blinded by their hatred, had made the mistake of confronting him.

One of them stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide open, unable to comprehend what was happening.

—Damn demon! —he managed to scream, before the fire devoured him in a thunderous roar.

The old man didn’t even flinch. To him, this was as common as breathing.

His lips continued to whisper curses in the tongue of the Zharq, and with a simple gesture of his hands, the fire spread with uncontrollable fury.

The men's screams were extinguished as quickly as they had begun, smothered by the flames that engulfed them. The smell of charred flesh filled the air, but in a matter of seconds, there was nothing left but silence. A profound silence, broken only by the crackling of the charred bodies.

—Idiots... —muttered old Zharq, as he extinguished the flames in his hands with a snap of his fingers, as if it were a minor inconvenience—. They always want to be heroes, but they end up as ash beneath my boots.

The alley, now desolate, was cloaked in a dark glow, as if the flames had been a fleeting illusion in the stillness of the night. Only the charred bodies of the men, twisted on the ground, stood as mute witnesses to what had occurred.

He pulled the hood over his head, shaking the ashes from his gloves while casting one last contemptuous glance at the smoldering remains.

—Let the worms have a feast... —he muttered, spitting on the ground once more before turning sharply.

With a determined stride, he left the alley, cursing under his breath at the men for their stupidity.

—Who the hell do they think they are, huh? —he grumbled—. Idiots, I kill them in seconds and they don’t even thank me!

The cold air once again enveloped the streets of Shroudhaven, and the distant echo of the wind drowned out any trace of the screams that had echoed in that place.

If anyone had seen the brief glow of the flames, they’d surely think that fatigue and shadows had played tricks on them. But in the alley, amidst the desolation, the charred bodies remained as a grim warning.