I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 021

Under the grim escort of the correctional officers, Julian Cross was marched toward the architectural anomaly that dominated the center of the prison complex.

Located east of the Purgatory stadium, the Command Tower pierced the gray sky like a jagged concrete tooth. It was a ten-story fortress of reinforced steel and darkened glass, the only structure in the entire Confinement Death Ward that dared to rise above three levels. It stood as a silent, monolithic sentinel, casting a long, oppressive shadow over the cages and killing fields below.

At the entrance, the atmosphere shifted perceptibly. The air here didn't smell of rust and unwashed bodies; it smelled of ozone and high-grade lubricant.

After a brief, tense exchange of credentials, the prison guards retreated, their job done. Julian, still weighed down by heavy steel shackles on his wrists and ankles, was handed over to a new security detail.

Two men stood guarding the blast-proof glass doors. They wore unmarked tactical uniforms, their faces carved from granite. Unlike the sloppy, s******c posture of the regular guards, these men stood with the stillness of coiled vipers. Their necks were thick columns of muscle, and their knuckles were flattened and calloused—telltale signs of men who had spent decades conditioning their bodies for lethal impact.

Julian, a grandmaster of Jeet Kune Do and a scholar of violence, assessed them in a single heartbeat.

Elite, he thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. Not prison staff. Not police. These are black-ops soldiers. Men who have waded through rivers of blood and come out the other side without a soul.

He calculated the odds. If these two men attacked together, their combined lethality would likely rival that of Sky Dance (Dante Romero).

The gatekeepers are this strong? Julian’s lips quirked into a faint, intrigued smile. That means the man sitting at the top of this tower isn't just a warden. He’s a kingmaker.

The stronger the dogs, the more terrifying the master. And right now, power was the only currency Julian was interested in.

They entered the elevator. The ascent was silent, save for the hum of the machinery. As the numbers on the display climbed, Julian felt the oppressive weight of the prison falling away, replaced by a different kind of pressure—the sterile, suffocating weight of authority.

The doors slid open on the tenth floor. The Deputy Warden’s penthouse.

After a final electronic security sweep, the heavy mahogany double doors swung inward.

A man stepped out to meet them. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit that likely cost more than the collective net worth of every inmate in Cataclysm Block. His hair was slicked back with military precision, not a single strand daring to be out of place. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles that gave him an air of scholarly refinement, but behind the lenses, his eyes were sharp, calculating, and utterly devoid of warmth.

He nodded politely to Julian, wasting no words. With a practiced motion, he produced a magnetic key and unlocked Julian’s heavy shackles. The steel cuffs clattered to the floor, a jarring sound in the quiet hallway.

The man gestured for Julian to enter.

Julian stepped across the threshold and found himself in a different world.

The office was a sprawling sanctuary, easily two thousand square feet of opulence. It was a jarring contrast to the industrial nightmare below. The floor was covered in plush, hand-woven carpets that swallowed the sound of footsteps. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, filling the air with the scent of old paper and sandalwood. Ancient artifacts—porcelain vases, a jade statue, a vintage globe—were tastefully arranged, creating an atmosphere of "old money" and intellectualism.

It was designed to calm the mind, to wash away the grit of the prison. But to Julian, it felt like the camouflage of a predator.

The room was sparsely populated. Two more soldiers, their eyes cold and predatory, stood like statues by the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the prison yard.

And sitting behind a massive desk carved from dark oak was the master of the tower.

He was a middle-aged man, perhaps in his late forties. He wore a simple, unpretentious grey tunic, giving him the appearance of a humble university professor or a retired philosopher. His face was round and kind, radiating a natural aura of approachability and warmth.

But Julian wasn't fooled.

He looked past the grandfatherly smile and saw the eyes. They were narrow, hooded, and flickered with a hidden, crimson light. It was the look of a man who could sign a death warrant with the same casual ease as ordering lunch. The contrast between his benevolent appearance and the suffocating aura of blood that clung to him was unsettling.

It gave him an air of something… unnatural. A demon wearing the skin of a saint.

A fox, Julian concluded instantly. Or perhaps a ghost.

As Julian analyzed the man, the man was analyzing him. He sat motionless, a faint smile playing on his lips, his gaze traveling from Julian’s boots to his eyes, dissecting him layer by layer, muscle by muscle. He did this seven times, methodically, like a buyer inspecting a prize racehorse.

The silence stretched, heavy and thick.

Finally, the middle-aged man nodded. A single, slow dip of his chin.

It was a command.

Without a word, the two soldiers standing by the window exploded into motion.

There was no warning. No shout. Just a sudden, violent release of kinetic energy. They crossed the room in a blur, moving with a synchronized lethality that spoke of thousands of hours of joint training.

They converged on Julian from the left and right, their bodies torquing as they launched a dual assault. Their right legs snapped out in perfect unison, aiming high-velocity kicks directly at Julian’s chest. The speed was blinding—a double tap of lightning designed to break ribs and collapse lungs.

Julian’s mind slowed the world down.

A test? He thought, a cold sneer forming in his mind. You want to weigh my soul? Fine. I found the warm-up with Ethan Skyler boring anyway. Let’s see what your dogs can do.

He didn't block. He didn't brace for impact.

In the microsecond before the tips of their combat boots could crush his sternum, Julian moved.

He took a single, casual step backward.

It wasn't a retreat; it was a manipulation of physics. By vacating the space he occupied at the very last possible moment, he created a vacuum. The soldiers, fully committed to the strike, found their targets gone. Their momentum carried them forward into the empty air, their balance compromised for a fraction of a second as they overextended.

And in that fraction of a second, Julian struck.

As their extended legs met nothing but air, their feet naturally converged in the center of the void Julian had left. Julian’s right leg lashed out—a whip-c***k of motion that was faster than thought.

THWACK!

His kick connected with the sides of their ankles, knocking their legs together with a sharp, bone-jarring c***k.

But he wasn't done.

Using the recoil of the impact, Julian dropped his center of gravity, crouching low. He spun on his heel, transforming his body into a gyroscope of destruction. His unretracted right leg swept out in a devastating, low arc—a perfect execution of the "Dragon Sweeps the Tail."

The angle was vicious. The speed was terrifying. The air whistled as his leg cut through it.

If that sweep connected with their planted legs while they were off-balance, their knees would shatter like glass. They would be cripples for the rest of their lives.

The soldiers, realizing the catastrophic danger, abandoned all offense. Panic flashed in their stoic eyes. They threw themselves backward, executing desperate, clumsy backflips to escape the kill zone of Julian’s leg.

They landed safely, breathless, skidding on the carpet, ready to re-engage.

But the fight was already over.

While they were mid-flip, Julian had checked his momentum. He didn't complete the sweep. Instead, he used the torque to launch himself upward and forward, bypassing the guards entirely.

Before the middle-aged man behind the desk could even blink or process the blur of motion, he felt a weight on his neck.

A hand—cold, steady, and heavy as iron—was resting gently on his throat. The fingers were positioned over his windpipe, ready to crush it with a mere twitch.

"Sir," Julian whispered, his face inches from the man’s ear. "Is this speed satisfactory?"

The middle-aged man froze. His heart hammered against his ribs, betraying his calm exterior.

He was one of the most powerful men in the nation’s shadow government. He had been guarded by the best. He had seen killers, martial arts prodigies, and special forces operators perform inhuman feats. But he had never felt a chill like this.

Is this… human speed?

He glanced at his two elite bodyguards. They were standing ten feet away, flushed with shame, their right legs trembling uncontrollably. The "light tap" Julian had given their ankles earlier had likely caused severe bruising or hairline fractures.

Terrifying speed. Terrifying precision. He dismantled my best men in two seconds.

But the man didn't rise to the top of the food chain by showing fear. He took a slow breath, composing himself. Then, he lifted his hands and clapped.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

"Excellent," he said, a warm, genuine smile returning to his face as if he didn't have a claw around his throat. "Truly excellent. General Vance recommended you highly, but seeing is believing. You are even better than the reports suggested."

Julian slowly removed his hand from the man’s throat. He stepped back to a respectful distance, his expression neutral.

"May I ask," Julian said calmly, "who I have the pleasure of addressing?"

The man waved a hand, dismissing the two limping guards. They bowed stiffly and retreated to the corners of the room, nursing their injuries.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the man said, standing up and smoothing his tunic. "I am Frank Sterling. Deputy Director of the National Security Bureau."

Hiss.

Julian took a quiet, sharp intake of breath. The name hit him like a physical blow.

The National Security Bureau.

This wasn't the police. This wasn't the FBI or the DEA. This was the invisible hand of the state. The agency that operated in the shadows, dealing with threats that officially didn't exist. Spies. Black ops. Assassinations. Regime changes.

Frank Sterling watched the flicker of surprise in Julian’s eyes with satisfaction. He cleared his throat, breaking the tension.

"I know you have questions," Sterling said, gesturing to a tea table set by the panoramic window. "We have time. Sit. Let’s talk."

Julian walked over to the table and sat down. One of the limping bodyguards hobbled over to pour tea for them, his hand shaking slightly from the pain in his ankle.

"Drink," Sterling urged, lifting a delicate bamboo cup. "This is Highland Summit. A rare, first-flush blend grown on the highest peaks of the southern mountain ranges. It is my absolute favorite."

He brought the cup to his nose, inhaling the steam with a look of pure ecstasy, then took a slow, deliberate sip.

"Do you know why I love this tea, Mr. Cross?"

Julian turned the bamboo cup in his hand, feeling the warmth seep into his calloused fingers. He smiled faintly. "Apologies. I don't know much about tea culture. Or rather, I never had the capital to study it."

Frank Sterling laughed heartily, shaking his head. "Honest. I like that. Young people should be direct."

He placed the cup down. "I like it because of the name: Summit. I love the feeling of standing on the peak. The sensation of looking down at the world, of moving pieces on a board while the rest of humanity scurries below like ants… it is a sensation that is dangerously addictive. Don't you agree?"

"Perhaps," Julian replied, his voice even. "But you must also know the other saying: 'It is lonely at the top.'"

Sterling paused. He tilted his head, looking at Julian with renewed interest, his eyes twinkling with a strange light.

"Lonely at the top? You like that phrase?"

"No," Julian said, locking eyes with the Deputy Director. "That phrase isn't for me. It’s for you."

Sterling stared at him. The room went silent.

"Young man," Sterling murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "You are smarter than I expected. Smarter than you look. Sometimes… I really like smart people. But sometimes… I hate them. Tell me why."

"Because smart people are hard to control," Julian answered without hesitation.

"Hahaha!" Frank Sterling slammed his hand on the table, laughing loudly. "Good! Good! In the face of my identity, knowing who I am, you stay calm and speak daggers. That shows depth. That shows a spine."

He leaned forward, his gaze intensifying. "They say a boy can become a man overnight. I think you are living proof of that theory. So tell me… Julian Cross… should I let you out of this cage?"

Julian swirled the tea in his cup, watching the leaves dance in the amber liquid. A smirk touched his lips.

"That isn't up to me," Julian said coolly. "It’s up to you. It depends on what your ultimate goal is."

He took a sip of the tea. "But consider this: you are a high-ranking leader of the National Security Bureau, a man who moves armies with a phone call. And yet, you personally flew down to this frozen hellhole—a death row prison—just to see me. I think that answers the question. Releasing me isn't just an option. It is the only logical choice you have."

Frank Sterling looked at Julian with deep appreciation. He pointed a finger upward.

"My evaluation of you just went up another level," Sterling said. "Go on. Continue. Let’s see how high you can climb."

Julian shook his head, placing the cup down. "Let’s stop there. I don't like being transparent. especially in front of someone who might hold my leash in the future. It makes me feel… unsafe."

"Hahaha!" Frank Sterling laughed again, a sound of genuine delight. "Excellent. Truly excellent."

He sat back, crossing his legs and clasping his hands over his knee.

"Kid, you are sharp. I have a habit: I prefer dealing with smart people. It seems General Vance wasn't just going senile when his granddaughter begged him to save you. You are a pleasant surprise."

Sterling’s expression grew serious, the humor fading from his eyes to be replaced by cold steel.

"Do you know?" Sterling whispered. "I have been sitting in this office for two months. Since the moment you defeated Rex Dalton in your first duel… I flew from the capital directly to this frozen wasteland just to watch you. I have seen every move you made."