I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 081

Marcus Grady stood with a wry, bittersweet expression as he watched Kane Adler calmly take a tissue from Elias Thorne. Kane wiped the fresh, dark blood of his enemies from his knuckles with a slow, methodical rhythm, his movements as fluid and deliberate as a predator preening after a successful kill.

"Kane," Marcus said, his voice a mixture of awe and disbelief. "You... you’re a natural-born genius. There’s no other word for it."

Kane looked up, an amused glint in his dark eyes as he caught Marcus’s gaze. "What’s wrong? Our little fox looks a bit pale. Is the sight of a little blood making you lightheaded?"

Marcus let out a frustrated, self-deprecating laugh. "Kane, how in the name of all that is unholy did you manage to replicate my Tactical Flow? I spent over a decade—nearly fifteen years of grueling, bone-breaking practice—to master those footwork patterns. It’s an unnatural discipline, something that should take a lifetime. And you... you just... it’s frankly a little insulting to the rest of us mortals."

Kane chuckled, the sound low and melodic against the backdrop of the evening. "I didn't steal it, Marcus. I simply observed the geometric lines of your movement during our last spar. I spent a few minutes analyzing the weight distribution and the center of gravity shifts, and I realized I could integrate the core mechanics into my own combat style. I only grasped the basics, really. I just wanted to see if the theory held up in a live-fire exercise. It seems the results were... satisfactory."

While the two shared this moment of casual camaraderie, Adam Foster was in no mood for lighthearted banter. The excruciating, white-hot agony radiating from his severed right wrist was reaching a crescendo, threatening to pull him into the gray abyss of unconsciousness. As one of the six high-ranking vice-presidents of the Firecracker Crew, Adam was used to a life of absolute privilege and terrifying influence. In the circles of high-stakes crime across the Atlantic and within the United States, he was a man to be feared. Senators, CEOs, and titans of industry spoke his name with a careful, measured respect. He had lived a life of pampered luxury, surrounded by the finest bourbon and the most expensive security money could buy.

Never in his wildest, most fevered nightmares did he imagine he would end his days bleeding out in a nameless forest, his hand hacked off by a man he had initially dismissed as a common thug.

"A hand... my hand... it’s gone!" Adam hissed through gritted teeth, his face a contorted mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. He looked like a wounded, rabid animal, his voice a jagged rasp as he screamed toward the heavens. "Kane Adler! I swear to God, you will rot in the deepest pit of the Hades Crew's territory for this!"

Nathan Black, who had been standing by to act as the primary translator and intelligence officer for the encounter, moved forward to relay the threat, but Kane raised a sharp, silencing hand.

"Don't bother with the translation, Nathan. We’re done with the talking phase. The time for diplomacy ended the moment they drew steel. Let’s finish this quickly and move on to the next objective. Brothers of The Talons, consider this your live-combat drill. No firearms—just cold, hard Bowie Knives. If any of you let these guards survive more than three minutes, don't bother coming back to the Citadel. Don't embarrass the Shadow Eagle Clan."

"YES, KANE!"

The elite members of The Talons surrounding the Italians let out a series of low, predatory growls. They drew their blackened steel blades, the metal catching the dying light with a sinister gleam. With a collective, bloodthirsty roar, they lunged forward, closing the distance with the terrified bodyguards.

Meanwhile, the dark figure who had been locked in a high-stakes standoff with Nicholas began to pull back his tactical face-mask. Beneath the charcoal fabric, he revealed a face that was strikingly ordinary—a masterwork of a Hyper-Realistic Silicone Mask that obscured the identity of the Shadow Eagle Clan’s most lethal field commander. This was Owen, the man known within the Shadow Division as the 'Viper of the Pits.'

Owen looked at Nicholas, whose eyes were burning with a desperate, professional intensity. Despite the jagged Bowie Knife still protruding from his left shoulder, Nicholas stood his ground, his posture rigid and defiant. Owen gave a slight, dismissive snort and tossed his own blade aside, letting it clatter against the forest floor. He slowly curled his fingers, beckoning Nicholas forward with a mocking gesture.

"The Boss has finished his performance," Owen said, his voice a flat, emotionless rasp. "I’m tired of playing with you. Bring every ounce of your 'elite' training to bear. Let this be the final fight of your life. Make it worth my time."

Nicholas, of course, understood no Mandarin, but the universal language of a challenge was unmistakable. He stole a quick, frantic glance to his left. His men were being systematically dismantled by the superior speed and savagery of The Talons, though eight of his most loyal veterans had successfully formed a tight defensive perimeter around the wounded Adam Foster. For the moment, the Vice-President was shielded, but Nicholas knew the clock was ticking.

As a veteran of the brutal European underground circuits and a former champion of high-stakes Kickboxing Disciplines, Nicholas was a pragmatist. He looked at the man before him and realized, with a cold sinking feeling in his gut, that his chances of survival were astronomically low. He had seen Kane's power, and he knew that Owen was likely cut from the same lethal cloth.

His only hope was a tactical retreat. If he could tie Owen up in a prolonged struggle, he might be able to create a window for his remaining men to grab Adam and vanish into the dense foliage. Once they reached the deeper woods, their chances of evasion skyrocketed. If they could just make it back to the Italian mainland, the full weight of the Firecracker Crew's international empire would descend upon the Shadow Eagle Clan like a hammer of God.

Driven by this desperate logic, Nicholas suppressed the agonizing throb in his shoulder. he began to circle Owen with a slow, predatory gait, his eyes searching for a flaw in the commander's Tactical Flow. With a sudden, explosive roar, Nicholas launched the first strike. His heavy boots hammered against the earth, the ground seemingly vibrating under the force of his charge. He transitioned into a thunderous Spinning Back Kick, his thick right leg whistling through the air with the power of a sledgehammer. The timing was impeccable, a perfect marriage of speed and raw, unbridled force designed to crush Owen’s ribs before he could even mount a Guard.

In the world of international underground fighting, the European style was built on a single, uncompromising principle: absolute power. The goal was to end the fight with a single, devastating impact—to overwhelm the opponent with a sheer volume of force that no human frame could withstand.

In this life-or-death moment, Nicholas pushed his physical limits to their absolute breaking point. He was a whirlwind of muscle and intent, a man attempting to strike down a god.

Owen, however, was a champion of the East Wing, a man who had survived years of the most s******c combat trials known to man. His experience was a vast, b****y library of violence. Facing the ferocious Spinning Back Kick, Owen merely shifted his weight a few inches to the side. His hands moved with a deceptive softness, his palms tracing a circular path through the air. It looked like Fluid Combat System training, but it carried a hidden, bone-shattering rigidity. He struck the incoming iron leg with a precisely timed palm thrust.

THUD.

The sound of the collision was a heavy, visceral impact. Owen appeared to be overwhelmed by the sheer mass of the kick, his body swaying as he lost his balance and tumbled toward the grass.

A flicker of hope ignited in Nicholas’s chest, but it was extinguished before it could even form a thought. Owen wasn't falling; he was descending. As his body dropped toward the earth, he planted his left foot and pivoted his entire center of gravity. Taking advantage of the fact that Nicholas was still committed to the momentum of his kick and standing on a single leg, Owen launched a brutal Leg Sweep.

Nicholas’s eyes widened in horror. He was mid-air, unable to adjust. He tried to vault over the incoming strike, but Owen had already accounted for the movement. Owen’s hands shot upward like twin vipers, his fingers locking onto Nicholas’s ankle with a grip that felt like crushing hydraulic pliers.

Snap!

The sound of the leather boot straining against the sudden pressure was followed by a muffled grunt of pain. Owen let out a low, guttural roar of effort. He channeled the full power of his core, using Nicholas’s own massive weight against him. He swung the mountain of a man in a wide, punishing arc, treating the elite bodyguard like a common ragdoll.

Despite his "slender" appearance, Owen's frame was composed of high-density muscle and sinew, a body forged through the extreme gravity of the Cataclysm Block. His explosive power was a terrifying surprise to anyone foolish enough to judge him by his silhouette.

WHOOSH.

Nicholas let out a high-pitched cry of panic as the world began to spin. He tried to deliver a desperate Aerial Flip to kick Owen's head, but just as he reached the peak of the arc, Owen suddenly released his grip.

CRUNCH.

Nicholas's massive frame was sent hurtling through the air, his body slamming into the trunk of an ancient oak tree with the force of a high-speed car crash. Even with his layers of corded muscle and defensive conditioning, the impact was catastrophic. The sound of ribs snapping and the air being driven from his lungs filled the clearing.

He slid down the bark, a wet, choking sound emerging from his throat as he coughed up a thick spray of blood.

Owen, like every survivor of the eighty elite death-row inmates, possessed zero capacity for mercy. The years of the Confinement Death Ward had stripped away the concept of pity, replacing it with a cold, mechanical drive for total neutralization. In the world of the Shadow Eagle Clan, an opening was not an opportunity—it was a command to execute.

Before Nicholas could even draw a fresh breath or clear the stars from his vision, Owen was already upon him. His hands were a blur of Strike Offense, his "iron palms" delivering a rhythmic, unrelenting barrage of blows. He didn't waste energy on wide swings; these were short, high-velocity strikes that carried the weight of a sledgehammer. Each hit pulverized muscle and rattled the brain, a relentless Chain Kicking Sequence following the hand-strikes to keep the bodyguard pinned against the wood.

Nicholas was trapped, his arms barely able to rise into a broken Guard. He took twenty, thirty, forty hits in the span of seconds. His skin began to tear, his forearms turning into a purple, mangled ruin of burst capillaries and shattered bone. He had no strength left to fight, no air left to scream.

Owen let out a sharp, final grunt. He delivered a twin-palm Sternum Strike that lifted Nicholas off the ground, pinning him momentarily against the oak, then launched into a final, barbaric Spinning Back Kick aimed directly at the man’s temple.

THUD.

The impact was absolute. Nicholas’s head snapped sideways with a sickening velocity, his brain rattling against the interior of his skull. The light in his eyes flickered and died instantly.

As the giant’s body began to slump toward the forest floor, the ground-level Owen didn't let him fall. He delivered one final, vertical Piston Kick, the tip of his boot driving into the man's temple with the force of a spike-driver.

CRACK.

A spray of gray matter and dark blood erupted from the point of impact. The legendary bodyguard of the Firecracker Crew was dead before he hit the grass.

"NICHOLAS!"

Adam Foster, who had been watching the duel with a growing, icy terror, let out a raw, broken cry of despair. He stared at the lifeless remains of his most trusted protector, his eyes wide and bloodshot. The reality of his situation was finally settling in—there would be no rescue, no retreat, and no mercy.

Owen stood over the corpse, his breathing calm and rhythmic, as if he had just finished a light jog. He looked over at Kane Adler and gave a sharp, professional nod. Then, he turned his cold gaze toward the remaining members of The Talons.

"Don't let them see you slack off," Owen barked, his voice carrying the authority of a general. "Finish them!"