I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 011

Sending Victoria away, Julian ascended to the fifth floor, his mind besieged. Why would General Vance—the nation’s top military commander—pluck a condemned killer from the abyss? It wasn't charity or Victoria’s affection; in the world of power, there were no free lunches.

Julian realized he was being moved like a pawn, but for what purpose? His mastery of Jeet Kune Do? Enlistment? The notion was laughable. Asking a branded "homicidal maniac" to salute the flag was a joke without a punchline. He had value to the General, but the nature of that value remained a dark, unanswered question.

So, what did the old man want? Empire. That was the word Victoria had whispered.

Although Julian resented the idea of being manipulated, of being a puppet dancing on the strings of the Vance family, Victoria’s emotional plea had struck a resonant chord deep within his psyche.

My parents…

The thought of his parents hiding in shame was a t*****e worse than the Confinement Death Ward itself. For the first time, Julian genuinely desired to leave this hellhole. He had avenged Eliza Bennett, and perhaps Victoria was right: Eliza wouldn't want him to rot here consumed by guilt. She would want him to live.

But a darker change was taking hold. The boy who sought justice was fading, replaced by a cold entity that craved the thrill of violence. He recalled his mentor’s warning from the dojo: to walk the path of the extraordinary, one must feed the internal "Bloodlust," merging the rigid discipline of Jeet Kune Do with the savagery of a beast.

At the time, it seemed like a metaphor. Now, stalking the rusted corridors of the Cataclysm Block, Julian understood. The Bloodlust wasn't a demon; it was raw ambition—the primal desire to dominate and conquer. This concrete tomb wasn't designed to break him; it was the perfect incubator for his inner beast to awaken.

And as for the "Empire" the General mentioned…

If it was a warning, Julian could handle it. Paranoia was a survival trait in here. But if it was a command… Build an empire? Here? In the Confinement Death Ward?

Sure, the raw resources were here. The place was packed with violent potential. But could he really control men like Rex Dalton—the infamous Mad Tiger? Could he unleash a man like that onto the streets and expect to hold the leash? And not just one, but a legion of them?

Lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts, Julian didn't notice the transition from the administrative wing back to the cell blocks until the heavy stench of the fifth floor hit him. He looked up, and the scene before him snapped him back to reality.

He stopped, momentarily stunned.

The fifth floor was usually a place of isolation and screaming silence. But today, the corridor was packed. The eighteen other death row inmates, along with Rex Dalton, were not locked in their cages. They were standing in the narrow hallway—a space barely wide enough for five men to walk abreast—creating a wall of muscle, scars, and tattoos.

The air was thick with testosterone and the unspoken threat of violence. Nearly twenty of the most dangerous men in the state were gathered in one place, unrestrained.

Rex Dalton spotted Julian emerging from the stairwell. A grin split his rugged face.

"Boss! You’re back," Rex called out, waving his hand casually. "I was just having a little chat with the boys. The guards gave us the green light."

Behind Julian, the escorting correctional officers nodded nervously. They quickly unlocked the series of heavy security gates, their hands shaking, before retreating as fast as dignity allowed. They wanted no part of what was about to happen on the fifth floor.

As the final gate clicked shut, the eighteen prisoners straightened up. The atmosphere shifted instantly from a casual gathering to a military inspection.

"Boss," they chorused, their voices echoing off the concrete. The tone was respectful, bordering on reverent.

Julian nodded, his expression unreadable. He turned to Rex. "What kind of meeting is this?"

Rex Dalton laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Recruitment drive. Like we talked about. We need soldiers, right? I figure we stop looking for 'loyal little brothers' and start looking for warriors."

Julian’s gaze swept across the crowd. Every man he looked at straightened their spine, puffing out their chest, desperate to project vitality and strength. The brutal display of power Julian had unleashed a few mornings ago had done its job. It had seared a permanent mark into their minds. In the world of the Cataclysm Block, violence was the only language that mattered, and Julian Cross spoke it more fluently than anyone they had ever seen. These men were arrogant, untamable wolves who bowed to no one—but they recognized an alpha. To follow a leader like this? That wasn't submission; it was an opportunity.

They had just returned from the yard when Rex mentioned looking for recruits. They had swarmed him, demanding a chance to stand before Julian.

"Boss!"

A voice cut through the tension. It was Michael Harris, known as "Long Face." He shoved his way to the front, his face plastered with an ingratiating, oily smile. He was the most confident of the bunch, mostly because he had been the first to "welcome" Julian and Rex when they arrived, acting as a tour guide for the East Wing.

Julian looked at him, his eyes cold and devoid of emotion. A faint, mocking smile touched his lips. "Ah. The tour guide."

"Uh… yes! Heh heh, that’s me! Just wanted to say, I’m ready to serve," Michael Harris stammered, rubbing his hands together.

Julian took a slow step forward. "You know… in my entire life, there is one type of person I despise more than any other. It’s people like you."

Michael Harris froze. His smile faltered, twitching at the corners. "I… uh…"

He never finished the sentence. He never even saw it coming.

Rex Dalton materialized behind him like a ghost. There was no warning, no shout. Just a sudden explosion of movement. Rex’s right hand, fingers stiffened into a spear-hand formation, shot forward with the torque of a hydraulic piston. The air whistled as the strike cut through it, spiraling with devastating rotational force.

THWACK-CRUNCH.

The sound was wet and sickening.

Because the speed was so blinding and the force so absolute, Michael Harris didn't even fly backward. His body merely shuddered. Rex’s hand had struck the man’s back with such catastrophic power that it shattered the ribcage and pulped the internal organs, the force exiting through the chest in a spray of crimson mist.

Michael Harris stood there for two seconds, the sycophantic smile still frozen on his face, his eyes wide with a confusion that would never be resolved. Then, the light went out. He collapsed into a heap of meat and bone.

Thud.

Rex Dalton shook his hand, flicking off the blood and gore, and kicked the corpse toward the corner of the hallway as if it were a bag of trash.

"Clean up on aisle five," Rex grunted.

The reaction from the other seventeen prisoners was chilling. There were no gasps. No screams. No one backed away. Instead, a few of them smirked. The violence didn't appall them; it validated them. This was the league they were playing in.

A stocky, thick-necked man with a face like a bulldog scoffed, spitting on the floor near the body. "Dying like that was too good for a rat like him."

Next to him, a younger man with a lean, wiry build and a perpetually cynical smile shook his head, looking at the corpse with clinical interest. "Tsk, tsk. Shame. We should have castrated him first. Let him sing soprano for a few years."

Julian looked at the two speakers. He liked what he saw. No fear. Just calculation.

"Gentlemen," Julian said, his voice calm, cutting through the heavy air. "Introduce yourselves. Use your cell numbers."

The stocky man stepped forward, looking Julian in the eye. He grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "Cell 503. Name’s Jackson Hayes. No nickname worth mentioning. I used to be a scout in the Reconnaissance corps. Did my time, came back, tried to live a normal life working construction. But I couldn't stomach the way the developers were bulldozing people’s homes. I snapped. Killed four of them. Turns out, one of them was a major tycoon. So, here I am."

The cynical youth stepped up next, twirling an imaginary knife in his fingers. "Cell 504. Marcus Grady. They call me the 'Undying Fox.' I studied martial arts for a few years, killed a few people who needed killing. My specialty is endurance—I can take a beating and keep coming—and I’m handy with a blade."

A third man, with a face as stiff and emotionless as a tombstone, spoke up. "Cell 505. Mr. Blackwell. Nickname: 'Cold-Faced Ghost Hand.' Ex-military. Killed a man, landed here. I specialize in Close Quarters Combat, but I’m better with a gun."

The introductions continued down the line. Each man was a walking resume of violence. When the seventeen men had finished, Julian and Rex exchanged a look of shared understanding. This was it. This was the foundation.

Julian smiled—a genuine, dangerous smile.

"I have decided to form an independent organization within this prison," Julian announced, his voice raising just enough to command absolute silence. "It will be called… the Shadow Eagle Clan. The membership will be exclusive. I don't need a mob. I need a unit. The cap is fifty men. Maximum. I want elites, and I demand absolute, unwavering loyalty. If I sense even a fragment of betrayal… I won't send Rex. I will handle you myself."

Marcus Grady, the "Undying Fox," chuckled. "Boss, you don't have to worry about that. Honestly, if we’re talking raw combat potential, the Cataclysm Block isn't any weaker than the Aether Block upstairs."

"Is that so?" Rex Dalton’s eyes flashed.

Without warning, Rex moved. His right hand, still stained with Michael Harris’s blood, formed into a claw and lashed out. He attacked from a blind angle, aiming a vicious strike at Marcus’s ribs. Even though Rex was supposedly recovering from injuries, his speed was terrifying.

Marcus’s face froze for a split second—he hadn't expected the Mad Tiger to test him right then and there. But unlike the late Michael Harris, Marcus was a predator. His body twisted instinctively, unnaturally fluid, sliding out of the path of the claw like a slippery eel. Simultaneously, he brought both arms up in an X-block to absorb the follow-up roundhouse kick Rex launched.

BAM!

The impact echoed down the hall.

Rex Dalton didn't budge. Marcus Grady stumbled back two steps, his face flushing red as the breath was knocked out of him. But he stayed on his feet. He didn't collapse.

For a man to take a direct hit from Rex Dalton and only take two steps back? That was extraordinary.

Rex’s eyes lit up with genuine surprise. To dodge the ambush and block the power shot… this kid was legitimate. Rex glanced over at Jackson Hayes, wondering if the big scout was just as tough.

Marcus shook out his arms, grimacing but smiling. "Thanks for pulling the punch, Mad Tiger. I guess my kung fu isn't totally useless."

Rex nodded at Julian. "He’s adequate. He passes."

Marcus’s eyes brightened. He stepped forward eagerly. "Boss, Mad Tiger. Listen to me. My skills aren't any worse than that Vincent Marino guy. And Jackson here? He can go toe-to-toe with Landon Reeve. If Jackson and I team up, I guarantee we can lock Landon down. If we go all out, we can force a draw. And if we add Caleb Mercer to the mix? We can take Landon’s head."

He paused, his expression darkening. "As for loyalty… you don't have to worry. We are all sworn enemies of Landon Reeve. That guy is arrogant, paranoid, and treats everyone like trash. The strongest of us here have all clashed with him and ended up on his blacklist. We’ve been rotting in these special cells for months because of him. If you give the word, Boss, we will personally deliver his head to you on a platter."

Rex turned his gaze to the hulking Jackson Hayes. "You. Fight to the death against Landon Reeve. How long do you last?"

Jackson puffed out his chest, his voice booming. "Sixty moves. Within sixty moves, I guarantee I won't fall."

"You certain?"

"Dead certain."

Rex Dalton’s eyes, glowing with a faint crimson hue in the dim light, slowly swept over the seventeen men. He let his aura flare—a suffocating pressure that made the air feel freezing cold.

"The Shadow Eagle Clan is limited to fifty seats," Rex growled. "We aren't going to waste a single spot on garbage. Today, you are merely… probationary members. I will be testing you. Again and again. If you give me a reason to doubt you, I will make you wish you had died like 'Long Face' over there."

Julian stepped forward, closing the deal.

"Make your choice," he said softly. "If you want out, step to the right. If you want in, step to the left. But know this: once you step to the left, there is no turning back. You pay the price for the path you choose."

There was no hesitation. No shuffling of feet.

As one, the seventeen men slammed their boots onto the concrete, stepping to the left. They stood tall, chests out, eyes burning with a new, fanatical fire.

Rex Dalton licked his lips, a savage, bloodthirsty grin spreading across his face.

"Lucky choice," he whispered. "If you had stepped to the right… heh… heh heh…"