The sun hung mercilessly overhead, twin blazing orbs casting sharp, angular shadows across the expanse of cracked earth. The oasis was an unremarkable place—a shallow pool surrounded by brittle shrubs and a dozen ramshackle huts. For those who lived here, it was life itself. Without it, they would be swallowed by the endless sands.

The villagers had gathered in the center, clutching their children and muttering prayers to gods who no longer answered. Their fear was palpable, a tangible weight in the hot, still air. They stared out at the horizon, where the figure was approaching. The sun's glare blurred him at first, but there was no mistaking the way the sand shifted and trembled in his wake.

Zhan Arkheis.

The Scourge.

He came alone, but there was no comfort in that. Alone, Zhan was more terrifying than any army. His armor shimmered faintly with the iridescent glow of Soul Essence, a swirling energy that pulsed beneath the surface like trapped lightning. His crimson cloak dragged along the ground, stirring eddies of sand that twisted unnaturally around him, as though the desert itself obeyed his will.

A man stepped forward from the crowd, his weathered face stoic but his hands trembling. He was the elder, the village's chosen voice. He had known this moment would come, had prayed futilely that it wouldn't.

"Lord Arkheis," the elder began, his voice cracking under the weight of the title he hated to speak. "We have prepared the Tribute as demanded. Please, take it and leave us in peace."

Zhan stopped a few paces away, tilting his head as if studying a curious insect. His eyes, cold and gray as storm clouds, swept over the villagers. He said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch until it became unbearable.

"Peace," Zhan said at last, his voice soft but cutting like a knife. "You think peace is earned with scraps? Show me."

The elder gestured, and two young men stepped forward, dragging a makeshift cart covered with a tattered cloth. When they pulled the cloth away, the Tribute was revealed: jars of water from their precious well, small sacks of grain, and a collection of battered tools. It was everything the village had to give—and still not enough.

Zhan's expression didn't change. He raised a gloved hand, and the sand beneath the cart began to move, lifting the offerings into the air. The jars cracked and shattered; the sacks burst open, spilling grain like golden tears. Zhan let the remnants fall, useless, back to the ground.

"This is what you offer me?" he asked, his voice low. "This... pittance?"

"Please!" the elder said, dropping to his knees. "It's all we have left! We've already lost so much—drought, raiders—we can't survive another harvest if you take more. Have mercy."

Zhan's lips curled into something resembling a smile. "Mercy?" he echoed. "The sands have no mercy. Why should I?"

With a flick of his hand, the air shimmered. The sand around him rippled, rising into jagged shards that hovered menacingly in the air. The villagers shrank back, clutching their children tighter. A woman sobbed, her cries quickly stifled by the hand of a terrified neighbor.

Zhan turned his gaze to the elder. "You have water. You have food. You could have given me half your number, and I would have been satisfied."

The elder paled. "No, please—"

"Enough."

The shards of sand shot forward, striking the ground like spears. They didn't touch the villagers—not yet—but the message was clear. Zhan extended his hand, palm upward, and the elder began to rise into the air, his body encased in a swirling vortex of Essence. The elder gasped and clawed at the invisible force pulling him, but it was futile.

"The Tribute is your souls," Zhan said. "You should have known this."

The elder screamed as the Essence began to pour from his body, an ethereal light drawn from his mouth and eyes. It swirled into Zhan's hand, coalescing into a shimmering orb that pulsed with life. When the light faded, the elder's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, nothing more than an empty shell.

The villagers erupted into chaos. Some tried to run, but the sand rose up like walls, penning them in. Others dropped to their knees, wailing and begging for forgiveness. Zhan ignored them. He walked among the crowd, plucking his next victims with a casualness that bordered on contempt.

A young man tried to fight back, lunging at Zhan with a makeshift spear. The weapon never reached its mark. With a snap of his fingers, Zhan turned the weapon to dust. The young man froze as the sand beneath him shifted, encasing his legs and pulling him to his knees.

"You have courage," Zhan said, tilting his head as if appraising a curiosity. "But courage without power is useless."

The young man's scream was short-lived as his soul was ripped from his body, joining the growing collection of Essence swirling around Zhan. By the time the last of the villagers' cries had faded, the once-bustling oasis was silent.

Zhan stood in the center of the carnage, surrounded by lifeless bodies and shimmering orbs of Essence. He held one in his hand, studying it. The light flickered weakly, a fragment of a life now extinguished.

"This is what you are," he said, his voice cold. "Fuel for something greater."

He crushed the orb in his fist, letting the Essence flow into his armor. It shimmered briefly before subsiding, its hunger momentarily sated.

As he turned to leave, his gaze fell on a small figure huddled behind one of the huts. A girl, no more than ten, stared at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. She hadn't run or begged, only watched.

Zhan paused. Something in her gaze—fear, anger, defiance—made him hesitate. He raised his hand, the sand shifting beneath her feet, but he didn't strike. Instead, he lowered his hand and turned away, his cloak billowing behind him as he walked back into the desert.

The girl remained frozen, her tears streaking lines through the dust on her face. She didn't know why he had spared her, and she wasn't sure if it mattered. All she knew was that she was alone now, left with nothing but the silence and the weight of the bodies around her.

And the name burned into her memory.

Zhan Arkheis. The Scourge.