The night stretched endlessly over the Great Abyss, its quiet broken only by the low, mournful wails of the desert winds. Kalrum, nestled atop its plateau of jagged stone, glowed defiantly in the darkness. The lights of its many torches flickered like beacons, visible for miles—a symbol of survival, even triumph, in a land that had swallowed so many others.
For those within its tall stone walls, the city represented more than a sanctuary. It was a reminder that even in the Abyss, life could thrive. Its wells ran deep, its markets were bustling, and its people clung to hope like the precious water they drew from the earth. Tonight, however, that hope hung by a thread.
The gates were sealed, reinforced by iron and prayer. Guards patrolled the walls, their pikes glinting under the pale light of the twin moons. They whispered among themselves, stealing glances toward the horizon, where the dunes rose and fell like the waves of a frozen sea. They had heard the rumors, the stories of what approached. Few dared to speak his name aloud, as though doing so might summon him faster.
But Zhan Arkheis did not need their invitation.
He came like a shadow born of the desert itself, his crimson cloak trailing behind him, a slash of blood across the pale silver sands. His armor glinted faintly with the pulsing light of Essence, each step radiating power that seemed to make the air itself shudder. He didn't hurry. He didn't need to. The weight of his presence was enough to set the guards on edge before he even came into view.
When the first man spotted him—a lone figure cresting the final dune—he froze. "Someone's coming," he murmured. His words spread quickly, panic rippling through the ranks like a fire catching dry reeds.
At the gates, three men gathered, each clutching a weapon with white-knuckled hands. Their leader, a grizzled veteran with a face carved by years of sun and battle, stepped forward. He planted his pike in the ground and raised his voice, though it betrayed his unease.
"Stop where you are!" he called. "This is Kalrum, and we do not welcome strangers after dark. State your name and your purpose."
Zhan stopped a dozen paces from the gate. He lifted his head, his face illuminated by the faint glow of his armor. For a long moment, he said nothing, his cold gray eyes sweeping over the guards with detached indifference. Finally, he spoke, his voice soft but sharp, cutting through the still night like a blade.
"My name is Zhan Arkheis," he said. "You know it already."
The guards stiffened. They did know the name. Everyone did. Zhan the Scourge. The Demon of the Sands. The Destroyer of Oases. He was a tale whispered around dying fires, a warning spoken to children to keep them from straying too far into the desert.
But the man before them was no story.
"We owe you nothing," the leader said, his voice faltering as he spoke. "Kalrum is a free city. Turn back, or face the wrath of our walls and steel."
Zhan's lips curled into something that might have been a smile but held no warmth. "Wrath?" he said softly. "Is that what you think your steel will bring me?"
The sand beneath their feet shifted suddenly, subtly. The men glanced down, their grip tightening on their weapons, but it was too late. The ground erupted with a deafening roar, tendrils of sand rising like serpents to encircle the guards. The first man screamed as the sand wrapped around his legs and pulled him downward, his voice choking off as it filled his mouth and lungs.
The second guard lunged forward, his pike aimed at Zhan's chest. The weapon dissolved in his hands, turning to dust before his eyes. He stumbled back, but the sand surged upward to meet him, encasing him in a suffocating grip.
The third man dropped his weapon and ran, his boots kicking up frantic clouds of dust. He made it five steps before the ground beneath him split open, a jagged spike of sand bursting upward to impale him through the chest. He hung there for a moment, suspended in the moonlight, before the sand crumbled, and his body fell lifeless to the earth.
Zhan stepped over the remains, his cloak trailing behind him. Before him, the gates of Kalrum loomed tall and unyielding, their iron reinforcements glowing faintly in the light of the torches above. To Zhan, they were an insult.
He raised his hand, and the air around him shimmered. A low, groaning sound filled the air as the gates began to twist, their wood and metal buckling under an invisible force. The sound grew louder, a deafening crescendo, until the gates finally exploded inward with a thunderous crash. Shards of wood and iron rained down into the city square, sending the first screams of panic echoing through the streets.
Inside, the city stirred to life. Bells rang out, their mournful tones cutting through the chaos. Shadows flickered behind shuttered windows as the inhabitants scrambled to hide. A small crowd began to gather in the square—merchants clutching knives, priests holding symbols of their gods, and guards gripping weapons they suddenly weren't sure how to use.
Zhan stepped into the square, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. The glow of his armor cast an eerie light, the shadows around him twisting and writhing like living things. The sand beneath his feet shifted with each step, moving in unnatural patterns, as though the desert itself obeyed his will.
A priest stepped forward, his staff held high. He was an older man, his face lined with age and fear, but his voice was steady.
"You will not defile this city, demon," the priest said, his words firm. "Leave now, or face the wrath of the divine."
Zhan stopped, tilting his head. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the weight of the silence crush the man's resolve.
"Divine wrath," Zhan said finally, his tone almost amused. "Show me."
The priest muttered a prayer under his breath, raising his staff higher. A faint light began to form at its tip, flickering like the dying embers of a fire. The crowd held its breath, their hope pinned on this frail man and his fragile magic.
Zhan didn't move. He didn't need to. With a flick of his wrist, the staff shattered into splinters, the light snuffed out in an instant. The priest staggered back, clutching his empty hands, as the crowd's hope crumbled into despair.
"Your gods have abandoned you," Zhan said, his voice calm and cold. "Why haven't you?"
The priest fell to his knees, trembling. "Please," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Have mercy."
Zhan crouched down, his face inches from the man's. His eyes, cold and unfeeling, bore into the priest's very soul.
"Mercy," Zhan said quietly, "is a lie the weak tell themselves before they die."
He raised his hand, and the priest screamed as his soul was ripped from his body. The Essence coalesced into a glowing orb, which floated lazily into Zhan's waiting palm. He crushed it between his fingers, the energy flowing into his armor with a soft, satisfying hum.
The crowd erupted into chaos. Some fled, their cries fading into the labyrinth of streets. Others dropped to their knees, clutching their loved ones and begging for mercy. A few stood their ground, their faces pale but defiant.
Among them was a boy no older than twelve, clutching a rusted knife. His hands shook, but his eyes burned with rage.
"You're a monster!" the boy shouted, his voice cracking. "And monsters deserve to die!"
The boy lunged, the knife aimed at Zhan's chest. The blade never connected. Zhan's hand shot out, catching the boy by the throat. He lifted him off the ground effortlessly, his expression unreadable.
"Brave," Zhan said, tilting his head. "But bravery without power is foolish."
The boy struggled, his legs kicking uselessly. For a moment, Zhan hesitated. The boy's defiance reminded him of something, though he couldn't place what. With a sigh, he dropped the boy.
"Run," Zhan said softly.
The boy didn't hesitate. He bolted, disappearing into the shadows.
Behind Zhan, the city began to collapse. The sand rose in great waves, swallowing streets and buildings, silencing the screams of those too slow to escape. By the time the sun rose, Kalrum would be nothing more than another forgotten ruin in the endless expanse of the Great Abyss.
At the edge of the ruins, Zhan paused. He turned back, his voice carrying across the desolation.
"The sands remember all who defy me," he said. "Let them remember you."
And with that, he vanished into the night.