I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 062

Thomas Walker was no ordinary brawler; he was the vanguard of The Brotherhood’s new blood. One of the three "young lions" forged in the alleys of Larkspur, he had been groomed by Hector Quinn alongside Joseph Romano to serve as the iron fist protecting his son, Ray Quinn.

Following the patriarch's urgent command, Thomas wasted no time. He mobilized four hundred battle-hardened veterans with practiced efficiency. Minutes later, the silence was shattered by the roar of engines. A convoy of nearly seventy vehicles—black SUVs, reinforced sedans, and transport vans—peeled out of the estate’s secondary gates, speeding toward the Central Hub like a hungry predator.

As the taillights faded, a patch of dense weeds near the perimeter shifted. Jax Lewis rose from the grass like a massive shadow, his joints popping. Adjusting a tactical vest that struggled to contain his bulk, he wiped dirt from his face and lowered his infrared binoculars. A predatory grin spread across his rugged features.

"Finally," Jax muttered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in his chest. "Those bastards took their sweet time. My legs were starting to go numb in that ditch."

One of his lieutenants, a lean man who had been shadowing Jax for years, stepped up beside him. "Seventy vehicles, Boss. If they’re packed to the gills, that’s at least four hundred men off the board. Do you think John Rivers can handle that kind of heat on the road?"

Jax let out a dismissive snort, his eyes fixed on the now-vulnerable estate. "Handle it? John has six hundred of our best guys waiting in ambush, and he’s got Manny Miles riding shotgun. If those two can’t dismantle a disorganized convoy of four hundred, they might as well turn in their colors and go work in a bakery. No, don't worry about them. Our job is right here. We’ve got about six hundred 'trash-tier' leftovers to sweep up inside that house."

The lieutenant gave a sharp, wicked chuckle. "We’ve got a thousand men hidden in these woods. If we can’t take down a single crumbling g**g headquarters with those odds, we’ll never be able to look Kane Adler in the eye again."

Jax checked his heavy, steel-encased watch. "Wait twenty minutes. Let them get far enough away that they can't turn back when the screaming starts. Then, we move."

Exactly twenty minutes later, Jax Lewis rose to his full height. In the stark, silver light of the moon, he looked less like a man and more like an ancient, vengeful deity. His massive frame cast a long, suffocating shadow across the gravel path, radiating a heavy, suffocating aura of violence.

Behind him, the "grass" seemed to come alive. One by one, then ten by ten, a thousand members of the Warlords stood up from their hiding spots. They moved with a disciplined, eerie silence, the only sound being the soft metallic clink of blades being unsheathed and the heavy breathing of men prepared to kill.

Without a word of inspiration—for the Warlords needed no speeches— Jax gripped the hilt of his massive, customized broadsword. He began a slow, deliberate march toward the towering iron gates of Hector Quinn’s private residence.

The two sentries at the gate were struggling to stay awake, their heads nodding against their chests. They were the bottom of the barrel, the men deemed too inexperienced or too lazy to join the main combat units. They only noticed the approaching army when the collective footsteps of a thousand men began to vibrate the ground beneath their boots.

Their eyes snapped open, and for a heartbeat, they were paralyzed by the sight of a wall of black-clad figures emerging from the gloom. Terror, cold and sharp, pierced through their sleep-deprived haze. They didn't even try to fight; they spun around, fumbling with the gate controls and sprinting toward the inner courtyard.

"Attack! We’re under attack!" they shrieked, their voices cracking with high-pitched desperation.

Jax didn't even break his stride. Six of his strongest men, carrying heavy, industrial-grade sledgehammers, surged forward. They swung the massive iron heads with terrifying power, the sound of the impacts echoing through the night like thunderclaps.

CRACK. SMASH.

The heavy iron chains and the reinforced deadbolts, designed to withstand a ramming vehicle, stood no chance against the sustained, rhythmic fury of the hammers. Within seconds, the gates groaned and buckled, the metal shrieking as it was torn from its hinges.

Jax Lewis threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter that seemed to shake the very foundations of the estate. " Mr. Quinn! Are you still breathing up there, you old fossil? Your junior, Jax Lewis, has come to personally escort you to hell! Hahaha!"

With a powerful kick, Jax sent the mangled gate swinging wide. He led the charge, flanked by four elite bodyguards, their boots thundering on the pavement as the Warlords poured into the estate like a dam-break of black ink.

Inside the mansion, the chaos was absolute. Members of The Brotherhood were jolted from their sleep by the screams and the sound of breaking iron. They stumbled into the hallways, half-dressed and disoriented, clutching their machetes and pistols with trembling hands. They had no idea who was attacking or how many enemies had breached their walls. They were fighting ghosts in their own hallways, fueled by nothing but the blind, panicked instinct of cornered animals.

On one side, you had the Warlords—their morale soaring, their movements synchronized, and their hearts hardened by the prospect of a total victory. On the other, you had the remnants of The Brotherhood—groggy, terrified, and leaderless. The result was not a battle; it was a systematic, mid-night execution.

Jax Lewis was a whirlwind of destruction. He moved with a deceptive, terrifying speed for a man of his size, his broadsword whistling through the air. He didn't just cut; he obliterated. He swung the heavy blade in wide, horizontal arcs, cleaving through anything that stood in his path—bone, wood, and steel alike.

Under the protection of his four guardians, Jax carved a literal river of blood through the center of the estate. He didn't bother with tactical finesse; he simply used his overwhelming physical power to split the Brotherhood’s defensive lines in two, like a hot knife through wax.

The Warlords filled the gaps he created, their blades rising and falling in a relentless rhythm.

"Haha! Look at them run! It’s like cutting a birthday cake!" Jax shouted. His face and shoulders were splattered with gore, and bits of torn fabric clung to his armor. He swung his blade again, the edge already beginning to dull and notch from the sheer number of bodies it had passed through. He was looking to make another diagonal cut to isolate the left flank when a sudden, whistling wind caught his ear.

Jax, though appearing clumsy, possessed the honed instincts of a street-fighter who had survived a thousand brawls. He didn't think; he simply threw his massive body into a heavy roll across the b****y floor.

He avoided the strike, but the bodyguard to his right wasn't as fortunate. The man tried to pivot, but a slender, gleaming blade hissed through the air with surgical precision.

SHLUCK.

The guard let out a choked, gurgling scream as the blade took off half of his face. He collapsed into the red slush on the floor, his hands clutching at a wound that could not be closed.

Jax scrambled to his feet, his eyes narrowing as he locked onto a lean, wiry figure holding a Bowie Knife. " Benjamin Anderson!"

Benjamin, leading a desperate counter-attack of eighty men, glared at the giant. " Jax Lewis," he spat, his voice trembling with rage. "You fat piece of filth. You actually had the stones to crawl out of your hole and attack our headquarters?"

Jax licked a stray drop of blood from his lip, a cold, jagged smile on his face. "Hey, Benjamin. You were always a loudmouth because you had Hector Quinn backing you up. Everyone gave you a pass because of that dying old man. But look around, kid. The old man is taking his last breaths, and your 'Empire' is a burning pile of trash. You think you’re a big shot? When I was running these streets, you were still crying for your mother’s milk. Today, I’m going to teach you a lesson in manners. Low-profile, kid. That’s how you should have lived. In the next life, try not to be such a prick."

With a roar that shook the chandeliers, Jax swung his massive blade in a brutal, unrefined overhead strike. Benjamin, his face flushed with fury, let out his own war cry and raised his Bowie Knife to parry the blow.

CLANG!

The sparks flew as the two blades collided. Jax used the momentum of the impact to slide his massive frame surprisingly low, retreating into the sea of his own men.

Benjamin blinked, momentarily stunned. He expected a duel of honor, a test of strength. He didn't expect the legendary leader of the Warlords to play like a common coward. Before he could recalibrate, three of Jax’s bodyguards surged forward, their blades coming from three different angles.

One lunged for his throat, another leaped into the air for a downward cleave, and the third dropped into a roll, aiming a horizontal strike at Benjamin’s shins.

Benjamin was fast, but he was no match for three coordinated elite killers. As he desperately raised his knife to block the overhead strike, his center of gravity shifted. The guard attacking from the center slammed into him with a shoulder-charge that felt like a localized earthquake. Benjamin staggered back, his boots slipping on the blood-slicked floor.

"Hahaha!"

Before he could regain his footing, Jax Lewis reappeared from the crowd behind him. With a triumphant roar, Jax shoved aside two of his own men and brought his heavy blade down in a vicious diagonal s***h across Benjamin’s back.

TEAR.

The sound of steel parting flesh was sickening. Benjamin let out a high, ragged scream of agony as the force of the blow sent him face-first into the dirt.

He didn't stay down. Driven by pure, blind adrenaline, Benjamin didn't even look back. He scrambled on all fours, rolling desperately into the thick of the melee, trying to lose himself in the shifting forest of legs and swinging blades.

But it was a fatal mistake.

In his blind panic, he rolled directly into the main corridor that the Warlords had already cleared and occupied. He was no longer in a contested zone; he was in a kill-box.

A group of Warlords, their eyes red with battle-l**t, saw a man they didn't recognize rolling toward their feet. They didn't care who he was. Six heavy blades descended simultaneously, burying themselves in his chest and stomach.

PLOW.

Benjamin Anderson, the rising star of The Brotherhood, never even saw it coming. His eyes bulged, his fingers clawing at the air as his life-force drained into the floor. He died with his fists clenched, his gaze fixed on nothingness.

"Haha! Good job, boys!" Jax stepped forward, grabbing Benjamin’s hair and severing the head with a single, brutal stroke. He held the trophy high for all to see.

"Everyone listen to me!" Jax bellowed, his voice echoing over the clash of steel.

The Warlords paused, shoving their opponents back to look at their leader. The remaining members of The Brotherhood, already on the brink of collapse, felt their hearts sink into their stomachs as they saw the severed head of their most capable commander.

"Listen up, you Brotherhood losers!" Jax shouted, his voice dripping with mockery. "I’ve got fifteen hundred men in this yard! Wiping out your remaining six hundred is a walk in the park. Your fortress is gone. And don't bother looking for help—no one is coming! Your main headquarters is being liquidated by thousands of Shadow Eagle Clan warriors as we speak! Your 'Young Master' Ray Quinn? He’s already been butchered! The Brotherhood is a ghost story now! Drop your weapons and get on your knees, or I will personally ensure not a single one of you lives to see the sunrise!"

The words hit the defenders like physical blows. The sheer numbers, the alliance between the Warlords and the Shadow Eagle Clan, and the news of Ray Quinn’s death... it was too much. Their morale, already fragile, shattered completely.

Suddenly, a voice rang out from the back of the Brotherhood ranks. "Don't listen to that fat pig! He’s trying to scare you! Our reinforcements are minutes away! We just have to hold! The Old Man is right upstairs watching us—don't let him down! Kill them!"

Reinforcements?

The defenders wavered. They didn't know who to believe. But the mention of the "Old Man" gave them a flicker of hope. If Hector Quinn was still up there, maybe there was a plan. They gripped their blades tighter, preparing for a final, suicidal stand.

The Old Man?

Jax’s eyes lit up with a predatory fire. He wanted to find the man who had shouted that and give him a medal—he had just confirmed exactly where the prize was hiding.

"Wipe them out!" Jax roared to his main force. Then, turning to his guards, he snarled, "Pick a hundred men. We’re going upstairs to finish this."

Inside the fortified sickroom, Hector Quinn and his remaining inner circle felt the world closing in. They had calculated every move, every betrayal, but they had never imagined a wolf like Jax Lewis had been crouching in their shadows all along.

Andrew Wilson tried to call Thomas Walker again, but the call was met with nothing but the hollow, rhythmic tone of a dead line.

What had happened to the convoy?

Hector Quinn, who had briefly rallied his strength, felt the last of his energy vanish. He slumped back onto the pillows, his face a mask of profound, ancient grief. Two heavy, clouded tears traced paths through his wrinkles, soaking into the linen as he realized the empire he had built on blood was finally returning to the earth.