I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 012

For the thirty days following the establishment of the Shadow Eagle Clan, the fifth floor of the Cataclysm Block became a black box. No news leaked out. No prisoners were seen in the yard. To the rest of the prison population, it was as if the earth had simply opened up and swallowed Julian Cross, Rex Dalton, and their seventeen chosen disciples whole.

But inside that sealed corridor, a metamorphosis was taking place.

It was a month of hell. A month of iron and sweat. Before Julian’s arrival, these men were aimless killers, jagged shards of glass. Under Julian’s guidance, and with the terrifying oversight of Rex Dalton, they were melted down and forged into a single, cohesive blade.

They trained in the darkness of their cells and the narrow confines of the hallway. Deprived of gym equipment, they turned their own bodies and the architecture of the prison into tools of war. They practiced silent takedowns, drilling the brutal efficiency of Jeet Kune Do until their reflexes were sharper than shivs.

More importantly, their mindset shifted. The suffocating nihilism of death row evaporated. In its place grew a fanatical sense of purpose. They were no longer just men waiting to die. They were part of an Empire in the making. They were the Shadow Eagle Clan.

One month later.

The heavy silence that had shrouded the fifth floor finally broke. At 6:30 AM, the shrill breakfast bell echoed through the concrete bowels of the Cataclysm Block. The heavy automated doors groaned open, and the general population began their sullen shuffle toward the cafeteria.

Then, they saw them.

Escorted by a phalanx of thirty nervous correctional officers—double the usual detail—Julian Cross and his men emerged from the stairwell.

The atmosphere in the vast, cavernous cafeteria shifted instantly. The usual cacophony died down, replaced by a suffocating silence. Hundreds of pairs of eyes locked onto the group—admiration from the young, suspicion from the veterans, and raw fear from those who had heard the rumors.

A new power had arrived, and every existing faction felt the threat.

Julian Cross walked at the head of the formation, his face a mask of calm indifference. Flanking him was Rex Dalton, the Mad Tiger, who strutted with a predatory arrogance. Rex scanned the room, grinning maniacally, and even blew a mocking kiss at a table of five hardened g**g leaders near the back. The leaders twitched, but none stood up.

Marcus Grady, the "Undying Fox," moved with fluid grace beside Julian. He carried two trays of food and set them down on an empty table in the center of the room—prime real estate, a territorial claim.

"Eagle," Marcus whispered as he sat down. "Take a look at your ten o'clock. See that guy?"

Julian picked up his spoon, stirred his oatmeal, and casually shifted his gaze.

Sitting at a prominent table near the window was a man carved out of granite. His physique rivaled Rex’s, and a distinctive patch of white hair grew right at the front of his hairline.

"That," Marcus murmured, "is Landon Reeve. The man they call 'White Chalk' or the 'White Mouse.' He was released from the infirmary yesterday. Before you arrived, he was the undisputed champion of the Cataclysm Block."

There was a fundamental difference between Landon and Rex. Rex fought for the chaotic joy of battle; Landon fought to rule. His eyes were cold, calculating, and filled with suffocating, narcissistic pride.

At the exact moment Julian looked at him, Landon’s gaze snapped back. His eyes narrowed into slits. He slowly set down his cup of milk, the plastic clicking against the table in the silence.

Then, he stood up.

The sound of benches scraping against the floor echoed through the hall as Landon walked toward Julian’s table. The cafeteria froze. This was it. The old king versus the usurper.

At a distant table, Ethan Skyler, the man known as "Yellow Springs," sighed. To Ethan, the outcome was written. Landon was a bully who relied on fear. Julian was a force of nature.

The correctional officers tightened their grips on their shock batons, but a senior officer in the corner held up a hand. He caught Landon’s eye and gave a subtle nod.

"Landon," the officer called out. "I’m authorizing you to enforce the g**g rules of the Cataclysm Block. Right here. Keep it contained."

It was a sanctioned hit.

Landon stopped, a smug grin spreading across his face. He clasped his hands in a mock salute. "Thank you, Correctional Captain."

He turned back to Julian, his arrogance swelling. He loomed over the table, ignoring Rex Dalton completely—a calculated insult—and fixed his glare solely on Julian.

"So," Landon rumbled. "You are Julian Cross? You’re the one who killed Vincent Marino?"

Julian didn't blink. He didn't look up. He scooped a spoonful of oatmeal, blew on it gently, and placed it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the bland taste. To waste food on a posturing fool like Landon Reeve would be the real crime.

Ten seconds passed. Twenty.

The silence stretched thin. The disrespect was palpable. Landon’s fists clenched, knuckles turning white. Veins bulged on his forehead. He couldn't just stand there and be ignored.

One of Landon’s lackeys, a nervous thug, couldn't take it anymore. He stepped out, pointing a shaking finger at Julian.

"Hey!" the lackey screamed. "Are you deaf or just retarded? Boss Landon is talking to y—"

He never finished the word.

Elias Thorne, "Cold-Faced Ghost Hand," had been sitting silently next to Julian. His right hand moved in a blur. He snatched a plastic fork and, with a flick of his wrist utilizing pure Jeet Kune Do snap-punch mechanics, launched the utensil like a throwing knife.

Thwip.

The plastic fork struck the lackey squarely in the throat, burying itself deep into the windpipe.

Gurgle…

The lackey clawed at his neck, blood frothing at his lips, and collapsed. The cafeteria gasped. To kill a man with a plastic fork from ten feet away? That was art.

Landon Reeve stared at his fallen man, then back at Elias. The shock turned into incandescent rage.

"Elias!" Landon roared. "You have a death wish!"

Landon reacted with the instinct of a seasoned fighter. He hooked his foot around a heavy oak stool, kicked it up, and swung it like a war hammer, aiming directly for Elias’s head.

CRACK!

The stool exploded into splinters, but Landon staggered backward, groaning.

Standing in front of the unmoving Elias were Marcus Grady and Jackson Hayes.

It had happened in a split second. Marcus had leaped up, shattering the stool with a hardened shin block, while Jackson Hayes launched a front kick straight into Landon’s chest.

"Careful there, 'White Mouse,'" Marcus said, dusting sawdust off his shoulder. "You aren't qualified to challenge the Eagle or the Mad Tiger. You have to go through the gatekeepers first."

Rex Dalton leaned back in his chair, looking at Landon with mock pity. "Hey, White Mouse. These are my new recruits. If you can survive three minutes with them, maybe… just maybe… I’ll finish my breakfast and give you a proper beating."

Landon’s face twitched violently. Since entering the underworld, he had been a king. He had never been treated as a warm-up act. A dark, violent aura began to radiate from him—a palpable wave of Bloodlust.

"Jackson Hayes," Landon hissed. "I spared you before out of respect for the uniform. But today? That mercy is gone." He shifted his gaze. "And you two. Fox. Ghost Hand. I’m going to snap your necks."

"If you want to fight, then fight," Marcus laughed. "Quit yapping."

Then, Marcus vanished. He dropped his center of gravity and weaved into the crowd.

Seizing the distraction, Jackson Hayes roared like a bear and launched a spinning aerial kick at Landon’s jugular. Simultaneously, Elias Thorne slid forward, wielding jagged stool legs like daggers in a mesmerizing rhythm.

It was a three-pronged assault: Tank, Assassin, and Rogue.

Landon’s eyes went cold. He stomped his right foot onto the edge of the heavy solid wood dining table in front of him.

BOOM!

The table flipped into the air, becoming a massive wooden shield hurtling toward Jackson and Elias. Landon leaped, punching through the momentum to add kinetic energy.

CRASH!

Jackson and Elias were blown backward by the sheer force of the collision. They tumbled, their boots skidding on the floor as they fought to regain their balance.

Landon, however, used the recoil to his advantage. He pushed off the disintegrating table in mid-air, twisting his body like a cat. He didn't land near the two men he had just engaged. Instead, he flew toward the right, landing in a crouch behind a pillar.

Exactly where Marcus Grady—the Undying Fox—had just popped his head out to ambush him.

Landon grinned, his face covered in dust and sweat, looking like a demon.

"Found you, little fox."