I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 080

In the humid, tension-thick air of the Pacific Northwest evening, a duel of lethal precision was unfolding. Nicholas had launched a desperate, high-velocity throw, the military-grade knife whistling through the air with a trajectory that should have been fatal. Yet, the dark figure before him—the lead operative of the Shadow Division's local cell—didn't flinch. The black-clad fighter lunged forward with his Bowie Knife, eyes fixed on his target with a terrifying, single-minded focus.

Just as Nicholas’s blade was about to find its mark, a sudden flash of silver erupted from the periphery. A precisely aimed projectile struck the flat of the flying knife with a resonant clang.

The sudden external force was absolute. The trajectory of Nicholas’s throw was forcibly altered, the blade shearing a clean strip of black fabric from the dark figure’s shoulder before clattering uselessly against the pavement.

In that same heartbeat, the dark figure and Nicholas collided in a brutal display of close-quarters combat.

Thwack.

Bam!

The Bowie Knife sank deep into Nicholas’s left shoulder, the steel biting through muscle and scraping against the bone. Nicholas, fueled by a surge of pure adrenaline and raw survival instinct, ignored the searing pain. He let out a primal roar, his right fist coiling and then exploding forward into the dark figure’s solar plexus. The impact was sickeningly solid. With a muffled groan, the black-clad operative was sent reeling backward, his body skipping across the asphalt.

Adam Foster, finally shaking off the paralysis of the sudden ambush, stared in horror at the scene. His eyes darted from the man in the tactical black suit to the gleaming... throwing star that had just saved the operative's life. His hands trembled as he fumbled for his smartphone, his fingers sliding over the screen as he desperately tried to dial the Firecracker Crew’s emergency hub.

"We’re under attack! Assassins—professional tier! Multiple targets! Get—"

He never finished the sentence. From the tree line, three knives and three heavy steel spikes whistled through the air in a coordinated, surgical strike aimed directly at Adam's right hand and the device it held.

CRACK.

Adam let out a high-pitched, agonizing shriek. The smartphone was pulverized into a heap of plastic and glass. Two steel spikes had buried themselves in his palm, while a throwing knife had sliced clean through his knuckles. His right hand was a ruin of blood and mangled tissue.

Clap... clap... clap...

The slow, rhythmic sound of applause emerged from the dense foliage. One by one, silhouettes detached themselves from the darkness of the woods, stepping into the dim light.

Adam, cold sweat pouring down his face as he clutched his bleeding hand to his chest, stared at the men surrounding him. He forced a name through his gritted teeth, the syllables dripping with hatred.

"Kane Adler..."

Kane stepped forward, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips as he looked at the high-ranking vice-president of the Firecracker Crew. "Mr. Foster, thank you."

"Thank me?" Adam spat, his voice shaking with a mixture of shock and blood loss.

"Yes. Thank you for making that phone call just now."

Adam’s heart skipped a beat. His mind raced as he tried to decipher the game being played. "You’re trying to frame the Kuro-Ryu Clan? You think a few throwing stars are enough to start a war between the Japanese and the Italians?"

Kane nodded slowly, then shook his head, his dark eyes shimmering with a cold, calculative light. "Framing the Kuro-Ryu Clan is part of it, yes. But my real goal is much more ambitious. I want to drown the Firecracker Crew in a swamp of paranoia. Imagine this... when you and the Japanese are locked in a blood feud, I arrive at the Tomahawk Tactical headquarters. I hand them your head as a peace offering. Do you think they’ll refuse an alliance then? Do you think they’ll miss a chance to join a war that promises to wipe their oldest rivals off the map?"

Adam inhaled sharply, the cold air stinging his lungs. "Kane... you’re a goddamn sociopath."

Kane remained unfazed, his voice as calm as a summer lake. "The Firecracker Crew and Tomahawk Tactical have been at each other's throats for decades. Even without me, the tension is a powder keg. I’m just the spark. By delivering your head, I’m giving them the confidence they need to commit. Once you are pinned down by the Kuro-Ryu Clan on one side and Tomahawk Tactical on the other, the Firecracker Crew—the 'undisputed' kings of Italian crime—will be forced to abdicate. Your allies in the Five-Star Council will lose their primary source of muscle, and the rise of the Shadow Eagle Clan will no longer be a dream. It will be an inevitability."

Adam glared at Kane, trying to find a c***k in the man's armor. "You think the Firecracker Crew is that fragile? I am just one man, Kane. Even if I die, the organization follows the code: the interest of the syndicate comes before any single life. We won't be baited into a multi-front war just because one vice-president got his throat cut. Strategic stability is our law! Your plan is a fantasy."

"Is it?" Kane’s smile widened, becoming something genuinely predatory. "Mr. Foster, my brother Nathan Black... he isn't just a master of the d**g trade. He has a very expensive little hobby. He loves collecting the things people try hardest to hide. Secrets. Infidelities. Debts. And unfortunately for you, he took a very keen interest in the internal workings of the Firecracker Crew. Even more unfortunately... he found that 'little' secret you’ve been keeping from your own Boss. Would you like to know exactly how much he knows?"

Adam looked at Nathan Black, who was leaning against a tree nearby with a somewhat awkward, knowing smirk. Adam’s stomach dropped. The bravado he had been trying to maintain evaporated, replaced by a cold, hollow dread.

"I don't want to know anything," Adam said, his voice dropping an octave. "You think fifty men are enough to hold us here? You’re arrogant, Kane. You’ve forgotten that my men are the best-armed unit in this region."

Kane’s gaze was like a laser, seemingly boring into Adam’s soul. "It seems Nathan's intel was solid. That reaction tells me everything I need to know. And as for your men... Mr. Foster, you should pay closer attention. Your guards might be experts with a rifle, but in this environment? Look around. There are no firearms here. This... this is a cold-steel battlefield."

Before the words had even fully landed, Kane’s silhouette blurred. To the guards, it felt as though their vision had suddenly glitched. They stared at the space where Kane had been standing, only to find he was already among them, a dark whirlwind of lethal motion.

He appeared directly in front of the two lead bodyguards protecting Adam. His hands, calloused and strong, formed the signature Shadow Eagle Clan "talon" strikes. He crossed his arms before his face and then snapped them outward with the force of a high-tension spring. His fingers, as rigid as steel hooks, whistled through the air, aimed with surgical precision at the men's throats.

No one had expected Kane to strike while he was still talking. The sheer, explosive speed of the movement was beyond human comprehension.

CRACK.

The sound of shattering windpipes was a sickening, dry pop that echoed through the clearing. It was a heavy, visceral sound that made everyone’s breathing hitch in their chests.

The two guards stood frozen for a fraction of a second, their eyes bulging as the air was cut off. Then, the agony hit—a white-hot explosion of pain that radiated from their crushed throats. Before they could even raise their hands to their necks, the sheer momentum of Kane’s strike sent them spinning backward. They hit the ground, blood spraying from their mouths, their bodies twitching in the dirt.

Kane didn't even glance at the dying men. He planted his left foot, pivoting his entire body to kill the momentum of his charge. Using that stored energy, he launched his right leg in a devastating Piston Kick, the strike aimed directly at the jaw of the lead security detail.

SNAP.

The man’s head was whipped back with the force of a cannonball. The sound of his jaw disintegrating was followed by a wet, strangled cry as his body was launched into the air.

As the man flew past him, Kane’s right hand moved with the fluid grace of a master. In a single, blurring motion, he snatched the military combat knife from the falling guard’s belt.

His lips curled into a sharp, lethal grin. He flicked the blade, the steel tracing a shimmering, deadly arc as he slashed downward... directly across Adam Foster’s right wrist.

Squelch.

AAAAAAAAGH!

Blood sprayed the grass as the remnants of Adam's right hand were severed by the razor-sharp edge. Kane’s strike was as cold as it was precise.

Before the rest of the bodyguards could even clear their holsters or register the shift in the battle, Kane had already ghosted back to his original position. He stood there, as calm and composed as if he were standing in a boardroom, while the clearing erupted into the screams of the wounded and the shocked silence of the survivors.

The efficiency of the attack was terrifying. The sheer, unbridled lethality of the Shadow Eagle Clan’s leader had left every man in the clearing—friend and foe alike—in a state of absolute shock. The Italian guards, who had never encountered the true depth of the Shadow Eagle Clan's Tactical Flow, stared in disbelief at their fallen comrades. Even the members of The Talons, many of whom had only heard rumors of Kane's true strength, found their breath caught in their throats. For those who hadn't been in the Confinement Death Ward to witness the duel with Rex Dalton, this was a revelation of power that defied the imagination.

Tia Valentine and Sienna Summers stood in the back, their eyes wide and glittering with a mixture of fear and adoration. Their mouths had formed perfect "O" shapes, their breaths coming in short, excited hitches as they watched their "husband" dismantle an elite security team in a matter of seconds.

However, amidst the awe, Marcus Grady’s expression remained dark. His eyes were fixed on the tree line, his body coiled and ready. He knew that in a world of wolves and eagles, a single display of power was never the end of the story.

"Kane," Marcus whispered, his voice a low, warning rasp. "We’re not alone."