I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 093

When Owen—the lethal operative known as Venom—burst onto the rooftop of the department store, his senses were dialed to a razor’s edge. His eyes instantly locked onto a silhouette lying prone near the ledge. The figure was motionless, peering through the high-magnification glass of a sniper rifle, adjusting for a follow-up shot on the street below.

A cold, murderous intent flooded Owen’s pupils. He gripped the hilt of his Bowie Knife, his boots tapping the concrete in a blurring, high-speed sequence. He moved like a ghost, leaving flickering, phantom-like afterimages behind him as he closed the distance in absolute silence.

Just as he neared the unsuspecting shadow, Owen launched himself into the air. He gripped the blade with both hands, bringing it down in a savage overhead arc aimed directly at the sniper’s neck. The strike was a masterpiece of speed and lethality—a move designed to end the threat before a single neuron could fire a warning.

But at the final micro-second, the sniper reacted with the desperation of a cornered animal. Instead of turning, he swung the heavy chassis of the rifle backward in a desperate, wide arc.

CLANG!

The heavy steel of the rifle collided with Owen’s blade just ten centimeters from the target's throat. The sheer force of the impact vibrated through Owen’s arms, forcing the knife off its trajectory. The blade bit deep into the concrete roof, the tip snapping off with a sharp, crystalline c***k.

The sniper rolled away, a cold, mocking smirk touching his lips. He didn't stay to trade blows; he scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the far side of the expansive roof.

Owen didn't hesitate. He pursued, the two of them becoming streaks of motion across the five-hundred-meter expanse of the rooftop. They darted between ventilation ducts and heavy industrial AC units, a high-stakes hunt in the gray Jersey City winter.

As Owen rounded a low partition wall, a primal instinct screamed a warning in the back of his mind. Before he could check his momentum, a massive sledgehammer—the kind used for demolishing reinforced concrete—whistled through the air with the force of a tidal wave.

Trapped by his own speed, Owen threw his left hand against the flat of his broken blade, bracing it as a makeshift shield.

CRACK—THUD!

The thin steel of the Bowie Knife was never meant to withstand the kinetic energy of a ten-pound sledgehammer swung by a giant. The blade shattered instantly, and the hammer head slammed directly into Owen’s lower abdomen.

Cough!

A spray of bright crimson erupted from Owen’s mouth as the air was hammered from his lungs. The impact lifted him off his feet, sending him hurtling backward to crash against the hard rooftop.

Owen curled into a fetal position, his body twitching as he gasped for air that wouldn't come. His face contorted into a mask of pure agony, a low, guttural hiss escaping his throat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The heavy, rhythmic sound of boots approached. Three figures emerged from the shadows, their faces etched with cruel amusement.

Leading the group was a massive wall of a man, over six feet tall and built like a professional powerlifter. He swung the long-handled sledgehammer, letting the head strike the ground with every step. Beside him was the sniper, his expression cold and detached. The third was a younger man, his face a sickly, translucent white—the mark of someone who had recently lost a significant amount of blood.

If Dante Romero had been there, he would have recognized them instantly. These were three of the six elite enforcers who had ambushed Rex just nights before. The giant and the sniper had escaped that encounter with only minor scrapes, but the pale youth had been nearly disemboweled by Rex’s counter-attack. Though he had survived, his weakness was palpable.

The giant looked down at the writhing Owen. "This is the ghost we saw on the camera last night, right?"

"If the intel is solid," the sniper replied, his voice a chilling monotone, "this is the leader of the Talons. He’s known in the East Wing as Owen. The shadow of Hawkeye himself."

The pale youth let out a jagged laugh. "I heard the Talons were gods. This one looks pretty mortal after one hit from Titus."

The three of them erupted into a chorus of arrogant laughter.

In that heartbeat of perceived victory, the man on the ground changed. Owen’s spine snapped straight. With an explosion of core strength that defied the laws of medicine, he launched himself upward like a coiled spring. The broken shard of his blade—barely the length of a palm—was gripped tight in his fist. He became a blur of silver light, aimed directly at the throat of the pale youth.

The laughter died instantly. They hadn't expected anyone—not even a survivor of the Confinement Death Ward—to stand after a strike that could have cracked a sidewalk.

The pale youth gasped, his reflexes slowed by his existing injuries. The cold steel was upon him before he could draw a breath. In a desperate move, he threw his left hand up to shield his face.

Squelch.

The broken blade buried itself entirely into the youth’s palm, the hilt slamming against his flesh. But Owen wasn't finished. His left hand, fingers rigid and curled into a hooked claw, struck like a bolt of lightning. This was the Sternum Strike discipline, modified for the face. His fingers dug deep into the youth’s left cheek, and with a violent, wrenching motion, he tore backward.

Rrip!

A horrific, wet tearing sound echoed across the roof. The youth’s left cheek was ripped away in a single, b****y mass, exposing his teeth, his tongue, and the white of his jawbone.

The youth let out a high-pitched, gurgling scream. He clutched at the ruin of his face with his right hand, trying in vain to stem the fountain of blood that sprayed out like a broken hydrant.

Owen delivered a brutal front kick to the youth's chest, sending him sprawling. He landed lightly, crouching low, his palms flat against the concrete. Before the giant or the sniper could react, Owen was moving again. He shot forward like a high-velocity round, aiming for the giant. His left hand formed a defensive guard at his chest while his right palm slashed toward the giant's carotid artery.

It was a masterclass in Fluid Combat System—offense and defense merged into a single, lethal flow.

The giant, Titus, felt a shiver of genuine fear. He kicked the handle of his sledgehammer upward, catching it in both hands and swinging the massive weight in a horizontal arc. It was a tool designed for demolition, and in the hands of a man this strong, it carried the momentum of a car crash.

Owen didn't try to block it. As the hammer approached, his rigid palm "softened," transforming into a redirection technique. He used a Fluid Combat maneuver to pat the side of the heavy hammer head, bleeding off its momentum and guiding it harmlessly past his ribs.

Simultaneously, he performed a graceful, 180-degree mid-air rotation. His boots snapped out in a rapid-fire double kick to the giant’s chest, the force of the impact pushing the massive man back five full steps. Owen used the recoil to backflip, landing perfectly outside the circle of the three attackers.

He dropped into a predatory crouch, his eyes darting between the stunned sniper and the giant who was struggling to regain his balance.

In that brief trade, Owen had sized them up. In their prime, these three might have stood a chance against the Talons. But they were wounded, overconfident, and their internal cohesion was shattered. One was already effectively dead, clutching his missing face. The other two... they were just obstacles now.

The giant gripped his hammer with white-knuckled intensity, his eyes wide as he stared at the man who seemed immune to pain. "You... you aren't hurt?"

Owen let out a low, chilling chuckle. "Thinking a piece of hardware like that could stop me... that’s the real joke."

Owen was the elite of the elite. Aside from Rex and Ethan Skyler, he was the most formidable combatant in the Shadow Eagle Clan, a man who had once ruled an entire section of the Confinement Death Ward through sheer, calculated violence.

He had anticipated the ambush at the wall. He had slowed his pace, bracing his core and using the "soft-body" technique to absorb the impact of the hammer. He had allowed the kinetic energy to throw him, mimicking a grave injury to draw them in close.

It was a masterpiece of Subterfuge.

Owen’s cold gaze drifted to the youth on the ground, who was now shivering in shock, his blood staining the concrete a dark, bruised purple.

"Brother Kane came here because he respects the strength you once had," Owen said, his voice dropping into a register of pure, frozen malice. "He wanted to offer you a seat at the table. He wanted to give you a chance to win this game with a 100% survival rate. But you... you’re just arrogant trash. You lack the vision to see the king standing in front of you."

He took a step forward, the broken shard of his blade held loosely. "If you wanted to assassinate Hawkeye, you should have sent someone with actual talent. Sending three broken-down dogs to take the head of a wolf... it’s an insult."

The giant and the sniper felt a wave of icy dread wash over them. It was a sensation they only felt in the presence of Fenris during his most violent episodes. But this was different. This was a calm, professional promise of extinction.

Titus growled, trying to shake off the fear. "The Warwolf Division doesn't fold. We have Fenris. We have the Syndicate. We’ll burn you and your 'Clan' into the dirt."

"Keep telling yourself that as you bleed out," Owen hissed. "The only thing waiting for you is the silence. You’ve crossed the line, and the penalty for touching the Shadow Eagle is death."

Owen suddenly roared—a sound that echoed off the skyscrapers of Jersey City like a thunderclap. He exploded forward, his body a tight coil of lethal intent.

"DIEEE!" Titus screamed, his massive arms bulging, the serpentine muscles rippling under his skin as he swung the sledgehammer one last time with every ounce of his remaining strength.

The air around the hammer groaned under the pressure, but Owen didn't flinch. He was the tide, and the giant was just a wall made of sand.