Chapter 018
1688 Words
The speed and brutality of the shift were so profound that for a split second, the human brain simply refused to process the data.
Adrian Starr was one of the premier assassins in the Confinement Death Ward. His reflexes were legendary, his instincts sharpened by years of surviving in the shadows. And yet, against Marcus Grady—the relatively unknown "Undying Fox" wearing the face of Julian Cross—he had been dismantled like a novice.
The spectators didn't even see Marcus’s hands move. One moment Adrian was grappling; the next, his arm was torn apart. The sheer kinetic violence of it sent a shockwave of silence through the stadium. Ten thousand inmates sat paralyzed. A thousand correctional officers lowered their weapons slightly, their eyes wide with disbelief.
On the field, the melee ground to a halt. Men froze mid-swing, staring in horror at the East Wing’s third most powerful warlord, who was now screaming at the sky, clutching a stump that was spurting arterial blood.
But Marcus Grady wasn't finished.
The scream had barely left Adrian’s throat when Marcus moved again. There was no hesitation, no mercy, only fluid, lethal intent. His right hand flattened into a spear-hand—a nukite strike honed to diamond hardness. He slashed it through the air in a perfect, terrifying arc.
The sound was audible in the silence—a sharp, whistling thwip as his hand cut the air.
It struck Adrian Starr directly in the throat.
CRUNCH.
SNAP.
The scream cut off instantly, replaced by a wet, gurgling rattle. The force of the strike didn't just crush the windpipe; it shattered the cervical vertebrae. Adrian’s head snapped back at an unnatural angle, his neck broken.
The assassin crumbled to the grass, dead before he hit the ground. A warlord of the East Wing, extinguished in two moves.
Marcus didn't pause to gloat. He had tasted blood, and the adrenaline was screaming in his veins. He pushed off the ground, his legs pumping like pistons, and blurred into motion again.
At the same time, the real Julian Cross—who had shed his disguise of being a "random inmate"—burst from the crowd on the opposite flank.
Together, the Fox and the Eagle converged on the remaining enemy commanders like guided missiles.
Silas Carter and Nash Ryker, the enforcers for Radiance and Umbrage blocks, were frozen. They stared at the approaching figures of Marcus and Julian with eyes wide with terror.
Their minds couldn't reconcile the reality. Adrian Starr was dead. The plan was shattered. And now, two demons were rushing toward them with the intent to harvest their souls. Panic, cold and primal, seized their hearts.
In that moment of fear, they made the fatal mistake. They decided to run.
Without a word, the two men who had been double-teaming Rex Dalton turned their backs on the Mad Tiger to flee. They thought they could escape the pincer movement.
But you do not turn your back on a tiger.
Rex Dalton saw them break. A savage grin split his face.
"LEAVING SO SOON?" Rex roared.
As Silas Carter turned to sprint, Rex ignored the pain in his own shoulder and planted his left leg into the turf. He pivoted, using his leg as an axis, and unleashed a low, sweeping kick that carried the momentum of a wrecking ball.
WHAM.
The sweep caught Silas perfectly on the calf. Silas, already off-balance from his panic, felt his legs swept out from under him. He stumbled, arms flailing, pitching forward toward the ground.
Rex didn't wait. With a guttural bellow, he spun a full 360 degrees, channeling every ounce of his massive strength into his right leg. He delivered a roundhouse kick that screamed through the air, aiming directly for Silas’s exposed ribs.
BOOM!
The impact sounded like a gunshot.
Silas Carter, weighing over 180 pounds, was lifted off the ground as if he were made of straw. He flew through the air, a broken ragdoll spraying a mist of blood, tumbling in a grim arc directly toward the path of the oncoming Marcus Grady.
Marcus, seeing the human projectile hurtling toward him, didn't dodge. A cold smile touched his lips. He adjusted his stride, leaping into the air.
He flipped—a perfect 180-degree front somersault—and as he inverted, his hands crossed over his chest, fingers hooked into rigid claws.
He descended like a hawk striking a rabbit.
Just as his hands were about to make contact with Silas’s neck, Marcus ripped his arms outward with explosive force. It was like releasing a coiled steel spring.
SNAP!
Blood sprayed in a gruesome fountain. The sound of tearing flesh and snapping bone echoed across the field.
Silas Carter’s body hit the ground in two distinct pieces. Head and torso, separated in a blink of an eye.
It happened so fast that Silas likely never felt it. His brain simply ceased to exist before the pain signals could travel up his spine.
On the other side of the field, Nash Ryker saw his comrade disintegrated and nearly vomited in terror. He abandoned all pretense of fighting and sprinted away, desperate to put distance between himself and the monsters of Cataclysm Block.
But he had overestimated his speed and underestimated Julian Cross. He hadn't made it ten steps before a shadow fell over him.
Julian Cross lunged. He didn't tackle; he dove forward, planting his hands on the ground to brake his momentum. Using his arms as a pivot point, he swung his legs around in a devastating sweeping arc—the "Dragon’s Tail" maneuver.
Nash Ryker, focused entirely on running, never saw the ground attack coming. The sweep took his legs out from under him, sending him crashing face-first into the dirt.
Panicked, Nash Ryker scrambled to push himself up, his hands clawing at the grass. He was tough—a veteran fighter—and his survival instinct kicked in hard.
But Rex Dalton was already there.
Propelled by the recoil of his kick on Silas, Rex had spun around and charged. He arrived at the exact moment Julian Cross’s sweep connected.
It was a symphony of violence. A perfect duet.
Before Nash Ryker could rise, Rex let out a roar that shook the stadium. He didn't punch; he coiled his massive right arm back like a ballista and unleashed a spinning backfist, aiming for Nash Ryker’s upper back, right over the heart.
The timing, the angle, the coordination with Julian Cross—it was flawless. It looked rehearsed a thousand times.
THUD.
Nash Ryker’s body convulsed as the blow landed. He arched his back, spitting a geyser of blood into the air as his internal organs ruptured under the concussive force.
And then, from the periphery, a third figure joined the execution.
Jackson Hayes, who had been fighting nearby, saw the opening. With a low growl, he stepped in. His massive fist hammered down like a gavel, aiming for Nash Ryker’s exposed, upturned neck.
CRACK!
The neck snapped instantly, a grotesque concave depression appearing where the spine used to be. Jackson didn't stop; he drove the fist down, grinding the vertebrae into dust. Combined with the shockwave from Rex’s strike to the back, the force was catastrophic.
Nash Ryker’s head was nearly severed by the sheer blunt force trauma, launching slightly into the air before gravity reclaimed it.
Five seconds.
That was all it took.
Two more warlords—Silas Carter and Nash Ryker—joined Adrian Starr in hell. Their heads rolled on the grass, their eyes staring blankly at the sky.
The triple execution—delivered by the combined might of Julian Cross, Marcus Grady, Rex Dalton, and Jackson Hayes—hit the spectators like a physical blow.
Three top-tier fighters. Three legends of the prison. Gone in ten seconds.
In the stands, Nathan Black sat frozen, his face the color of ash. On the sidelines, Lucas Bright looked like he had been hollowed out. The moment Adrian Starr died, they knew it was bad. But this? This was the end of the world.
Ten seconds had dismantled their coalition, their power base, and their future. Their most trusted lieutenants, men they had called brothers, had been butchered in front of them without even a chance to utter a last word.
Regret washed over them—a bitter, choking tide. They shouldn't have challenged the Eagle. They should have swallowed their pride. If they had submitted, maybe they would still be alive. Maybe their brothers would still be breathing.
But "maybe" was a luxury for the living. The reality was stark. The old guard of the East Wing was dead. Ethan Skyler and Brandon were now powerless to stop the rise of Cataclysm Block.
And the star of the show wasn't even Julian or Rex. It was the Undying Fox.
Marcus Grady stood panting over the corpse of Adrian Starr, his hands dripping red. In this melee, he had shone brighter than anyone. His name would be etched into the memory of every prisoner in the stadium. The Fox was no longer a sidekick. He was a nightmare in his own right.
On the field, standing amidst the c*****e, Jackson Hayes stepped back. Julian Cross waved his hand, his cold gaze sweeping across the stunned battlefield.
"Rex! Seventeen! Fall back!" Julian commanded, his voice cutting through the silence.
He turned to the eighty-one remaining recruits of Cataclysm Block, who were watching their leaders with awe-struck, fanatical eyes.
"Brothers of Cataclysm Block!" Julian shouted. "I am giving you a chance! Anyone who claims five enemy heads on this field today… earns a place in the Shadow Eagle Clan! I keep my promises!"
The eighty-one men, who had been paralyzed by the shock of the violence, suddenly ignited. Their eyes burned with a fervent, terrifying madness. This wasn't just a fight anymore; it was a religious rite. To follow a leader like this? It was the only glory left in their miserable lives.
"KILL!"
With a collective scream that shook the heavens, the eighty-one recruits charged the demoralized, leaderless remnants of the coalition army.
The s*******r began in earnest.
- Writer
