I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 013

The cafeteria gasped as Landon Reeve executed a brilliant "Divide and Conquer" tactic. By utilizing the chaotic impact of the table, he isolated his opponents, leaving Marcus Grady exposed.

Using the pillar as a springboard, Landon twisted in mid-air, launching himself like a missile of pure kinetic energy. His leg snapped out in a ferocious, executioner-style arc aimed directly at Marcus’s head.

Marcus, the "Undying Fox," froze for a microsecond under the suffocating pressure. He knew he couldn't match the former champion's raw horsepower. If he tried to block that kick, his arms would snap like dry twigs.

Subterfuge, he thought. The art of the lie.

With a desperate roar, Marcus lunged forward, seemingly meeting force with force. The crowd braced, expecting the "Fox" to be broken by Landon’s unstoppable kick. However, at the last second, Marcus executed a brilliant feint. His trajectory shifted violently, allowing him to slide underneath the deadly arc of Landon's leg.

Ghosting to the right, he unleashed the "Eagle Claw" technique. His fingers, curled into iron-hard hooks, struck with the speed of a cobra, raking viciously toward the exposed back of Landon’s skull.

"Whoa!" A collective shout rose from the kitchen crew watching from the serving line.

At the center table, Julian Cross and Rex Dalton leaned forward simultaneously, their eyes locking onto the blur of motion.

"Interesting," Rex Dalton muttered, his voice low and appreciative. "Is that kid practicing some kind of unnatural stuff? That speed… Boss, he’s almost as fast as you."

Landon Reeve, suspended in the vulnerable moment of his descent, felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A chill of genuine danger shot down his spine. He hadn't expected the little rat to be this fast. In their previous skirmishes, Marcus had been slippery, yes, but not explosive. Not like this.

There was no time to turn. No time to block. Gravity was already pulling him down.

With a growl of frustration, Landon tucked his chin to his chest and hunched his massive shoulders, sacrificing posture for survival. He couldn't dodge, so he had to tank it.

RIP.

The sound was wet and tearing, like a butcher pulling a rack of ribs apart.

Marcus’s crossed claws missed the base of the skull but dug deep into Landon’s right shoulder blade. Fingers conditioned by years of striking sandbags tore through the prison uniform and sank into the muscle. When Marcus ripped his hands back, he took a ragged chunk of wet, red meat weighing nearly half a pound with him.

Blood sprayed across the linoleum.

But Marcus didn't get a chance to celebrate his strike.

"Look out!" Jackson Hayes screamed from across the room, his voice filled with panic.

Marcus’s heart skipped a beat.

Landon Reeve was a monster. The pain didn't stop him; it fueled him. The tearing of his trapezius muscle seemed to act like a shot of adrenaline. He landed on his feet with a heavy thud, and before the blood had even hit the floor, he spun.

He ignored the agony in his shoulder. His movement was a blur of violence. His hands shot out, executing a flawless, military-grade grappling maneuver. He caught Marcus’s left wrist and forearm as the smaller man tried to retreat.

"Got you," Landon hissed, his eyes burning with a demonic light.

He clamped down, his grip like a hydraulic press. He yanked Marcus off balance while simultaneously driving his left leg upward—not a kick, but a brutal knee strike aimed directly at the armpit fulcrum.

CRACK.

"AAAAHHH!"

Marcus Grady screamed, a high-pitched, curdling sound that echoed off the concrete walls. The sound of the humerus bone snapping was audible twenty feet away. The limb went limp, dangling at a grotesque angle.

In the face of absolute power, the "Fox’s" tricks had run out.

Landon wasn't finished. The pain in his shoulder demanded a blood price. He didn't release Marcus. Instead, he pivoted on his heel, using Marcus’s own weight against him. He loaded the smaller man onto his hip and executed a perfect shoulder throw.

He didn't throw him onto the floor. He threw him into the furniture.

Marcus flew through the air like a sack of wet cement and slammed spine-first into the edge of a heavy steel dining table.

BANG.

The impact was sickening. Marcus bounced off the metal and crumpled to the floor, motionless. Blood began to pool around his head.

The cafeteria fell into a dead silence. It was a visual shock that no one was prepared for. Even the inmates who had been cheering moments ago forgot to breathe. They forgot their breakfast trays. They stared, mesmerized, at the four men in the center of the room who looked less like humans and more like rabid beasts.

Landon Reeve stood over the broken body of the "Fox," his chest heaving. He didn't even look down at the man he had just neutralized. He turned his gaze, burning with fury, toward Jackson Hayes and Elias Thorne.

"You're next!" Landon roared, raising his fists. They were the size of bowling balls.

Jackson and Elias, who had been recovering from the table impact, saw their comrade fall. A mixture of guilt and rage washed over them. They had been careless. They had underestimated the champion.

"Kill him!" Jackson bellowed, his face twisting into a snarl.

The pause ended. The violence resumed with terrifying intensity.

It was a whirlwind of heavy impacts and lethal intent. To the uninitiated, it might have looked like a brawl. To the experts watching—the senior officers and the g**g leaders—it was high-level warfare.

Two thousand prisoners, four hundred correctional officers, and a hundred members of The Kitchen Crew watched with white-knuckled anticipation. The tension was unbearable, worse than waiting for a verdict in a courtroom, worse than waiting for a child to be born. It was the thrill of the coliseum. They wanted to rush in, to join the fray, to feel the bone-jarring impact of fist on flesh, but fear held them back. To step into that circle was to invite death.

In the center of the storm, Marcus seemed to be out of the fight, presumably unconscious or dead.

Jackson Hayes took the lead. He was the shield. He met Landon head-on, trading blows that would have dropped a horse. Fist met fist. Shin met shin. Knees clashed with the sound of cracking stone.

Elias Thorne, true to his name, was the ghost. He circled the perimeter, wielding the splintered leg of the stool like a dagger. He struck from the blind spots, moving like a viper. Every time Landon committed to a heavy strike against Jackson, Elias would dart in, slashing and stabbing. Within seconds, Landon’s uniform was shredded, with seven new lacerations weeping blood across his torso.

But Landon was a tank. He absorbed the damage, laughing through gritted teeth.

Suddenly, Jackson caught Elias’s eye. A micro-expression passed between them. A signal.

"RAAAH!"

Both men screamed in unison.

Jackson stopped defending. He dropped his guard completely and threw his body forward, tackling Landon. But Landon was ready. He unleashed a piston-like right straight, aimed purely at destruction.

Jackson didn't dodge. He turned his body slightly, presenting his shoulder to the blow.

CRUNCH.

Jackson’s right shoulder dislocated instantly under the force of the punch. The joint popped out with a nauseating sound.

But the gambit worked. The force of the impact, combined with Jackson’s forward momentum, threw Landon off balance. He stumbled backward, his defenses wide open for a fraction of a second.

It was all Elias needed.

He materialized on Landon’s right side. In his hand, the jagged, splintered leg of the stool was gripped like an icepick.

He swung.

SHUCK.

The sound of wood piercing bone and gristle made the entire room flinch.

Elias drove the makeshift stake with the force of a thunderclap. It smashed through Landon’s already damaged scapula, shattered the bone, and punched clean through the shoulder girdle. It entered from the back and exited through the armpit, before diving back into the flesh of Landon’s ribcage.

"AAAAGGGHHH!"

The scream that tore from Landon Reeve’s throat was inhuman. It was the sound of a predator finally realizing it is prey.

He collapsed. The pain was absolute, blinding, white-hot agony that short-circuited his nervous system. He hit the floor hard, writhing, his body convulsing as shock set in. His face, usually a mask of arrogance, was twisted into a grotesque rictus of suffering.

He rolled on the floor, leaving a smear of blood, tumbling until he came to a stop near the "unconscious" body of Marcus Grady.

And then, the impossible happened.

Marcus Grady, the man who had been thrown like a ragdoll, snapped his eyes open. There was no grogginess. No confusion. Only cold, crystal-clear clarity.

In his right hand, hidden beneath his body the entire time, was a white plastic fork.

Landon, blinded by pain, rolled right into him.

Marcus sat up. The movement was mechanical, precise. He raised the flimsy plastic utensil—a tool designed for eating soggy prison eggs—and transformed it into an instrument of execution.

He drove it down.

THWIP.

He buried the fork into Landon’s temple.

The screaming stopped instantly. It was as if someone had pulled the plug on a radio.

The silence that followed was heavier than lead. It was a silence so profound you could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights and the dripping of a leaky faucet in the kitchen.

Hundreds of eyes stared at the fallen champion. Landon Reeve, the White Chalk, lay still. His eyes were wide open, bulging, staring at nothing.

Marcus Grady didn't look away. His eyes were savage, filled with a dark, satisfied hate. He kept his hand on the handle of the fork protruding from Landon’s skull.

He twisted it.

Crrrk.

He twisted it again. Making sure.

Thirty seconds passed. No one moved.

Finally, Julian Cross stood up from his table. He walked calmly over to the c*****e. He looked down at Marcus, who was panting heavily, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side.

Julian extended his right hand.

"Congratulations," Julian said, a faint smile touching his lips. "You passed."

Marcus let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for five minutes. He reached up with his good hand and gripped Julian’s.

"I’m okay," Marcus grunted as Julian hauled him to his feet.

"Are you sure?" Julian asked, glancing at the broken arm.

Marcus grinned. His teeth were stained red with blood from a bitten lip. "Hey, Eagle. You didn't forget my nickname, did you? I’m the Undying Fox. Undying means I don't break easy."

Elias Thorne limped over, supporting the injured Jackson Hayes. Elias looked at the b****y mess on Marcus’s chest and punched him lightly on the good shoulder.

"Good work," Elias said, his stony face cracking into a rare, grim smile.

The Shadow Eagle Clan had won. The hierarchy of the Cataclysm Block had been rewritten in blood.

But the show wasn't over.

Rex Dalton, the Mad Tiger, was still standing by the breakfast table. He hadn't moved to help the wounded. He hadn't congratulated the victors.

He was squinting, his eyes scanning the crowd like a radar seeking a target.

Suddenly, an aura of terrifying Bloodlust exploded from him. It wasn't the focused anger of a fight; it was the chaotic, suffocating pressure of a natural disaster. It rolled over the cafeteria like a shockwave.

The prisoners nearest to him didn't ask questions. They scrambled backward, tripping over benches, crawling over each other to get away. Panic spread like wildfire. They didn't know who had offended the Mad Tiger, and they didn't want to be collateral damage.

Rex Dalton’s gaze locked onto the southwest corner of the room. He let out a roar that shook the trays on the tables.

"RAAAH!"

He launched himself forward. He didn't run; he charged. He vaulted over tables, ignoring the food and the debris, moving with the momentum of a runaway freight train. His target was clear.

Standing in the corner was a man who resembled a human mountain. He stood over six feet five inches tall, a wall of muscle and scar tissue. It was Brandon, known as Tai Shan.

Brandon saw the beast coming. He felt the killing intent directed solely at him. His eyes narrowed.

Rex closed the distance in seconds. As he reached the final table, he leaped. He launched his entire body into the air, spinning like a top. The rotation generated massive centrifugal force.

He came down from the sky. His right arm bent, his left hand gripping his right fist to lock the joint in place.

It was the power elbow. The same move he had used against Julian Cross in their first duel. A move designed to c***k concrete.

Brandon roared in defiance. He didn't dodge. He couldn't dodge. He planted his feet, rooted like the mountain he was named after, and threw a punch upward. His fist was the size of a lunchbox.

BOOM!

The collision sounded like a car crash.

Brandon’s knees buckled. His body sank inches into his stance. He staggered back, his boots screeching against the floor.

But Rex was relentless. He landed on the balls of his feet and instantly transitioned. He dropped low, his leg sweeping out in a vicious arc—the "Wheel of Samsara" sweep kick—aiming to snap Brandon’s ribs and kidneys.

Brandon was huge, but he wasn't slow. Even as he stumbled backward, he reacted. He slammed his left leg into the ground to brake his momentum and brought his right knee up high, creating a wall of bone to block the sweep.

THUD!

Another heavy impact.

Rex used the rebound to flip backward, landing lightly on a tabletop five meters away. He crouched there, panting slightly, a grin of pure, unadulterated savagery plastered across his face. He looked at Brandon with the eyes of a starving wolf looking at a prime steak.

Brandon stumbled back two more steps, clutching his arm. He glared at the man perched on the table.

"Rex Dalton!" Brandon bellowed, his voice shaking the walls. "What the hell do you think you are doing?"