I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 004

The first pale, anaemic ribbon of sunlight struggled through the window—a square aperture no larger than a human palm—and sliced across the damp gloom of the cell. It washed over the sleeping figure, signaling the start of the day.

Julian Cross opened his eyes.

There was no grogginess, no moment of disorientation. He awoke with the instant, razor-sharp clarity of a predator.

He rose from the thin, lumpy mattress and shed his prison shirt, leaving only shorts. In the dim light, his body emerged: lean, corded, bronzed—every muscle taut with latent power. To a casual eye, a slender, athletic teen. But beneath it lay density and strength honed for one thing: devastating efficiency.

He dropped to the concrete floor, his palms pressing against the cold grit. He began his routine.

One. Two. Three.

His body moved with metronomic precision: a hundred push-ups, a hundred sit-ups, a hundred pull-ups on the rusted bedframe. This ritual, drilled into him since childhood, kept his muscles taut and his tendons snapping. In the silent cell, only his breath and the faint creak of joints broke the stillness.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The tranquility was shattered by the aggressive mechanical grinding of heavy iron doors sliding open. The noise echoed down the corridor, a domino effect of metal on metal.

Boots hammered against the floor. A tactical unit of thirty correctional officers, dressed in full riot gear—helmets, vests, and reinforced padding—stormed onto the fifth floor. Their presence was overwhelming, a show of force designed to intimidate. They were here to escort a mere twenty prisoners from the fifth floor to the mess hall.

"Line up! Face the wall! Move!"

Under the watchful eyes of the guards and the crackle of static from their radios, Julian Cross and the others were marched out of the cell block.

The cafeteria sprawled behind the housing unit, cavernous as two football fields. The air was thick with overcooked vegetables, industrial cleaner, and the metallic tang of suppressed aggression. Hundreds of gray-uniformed inmates filled the room, a shifting, silent mass watched over by armed guards.

Despite the violent crowd, order reigned, enforced by the low hum of stun batons—one misstep, and an electric shock would follow.

Julian Cross moved through the line, receiving a plastic tray with his ration of breakfast. Flanked by two guards who watched his every move, he was directed to a small, four-person steel table near the center of the room.

He sat down, his posture straight, and picked up his spoon.

Almost immediately, a shadow fell over his table. Rex Dalton—the man who called himself the Mad Tiger—slid into the seat next to him. He grinned, revealing teeth that seemed too large for his mouth, his eyes dancing with a manic, chaotic energy.

"Hey, kid," Rex Dalton said, poking at the food on his tray with genuine delight. "This breakfast isn't half bad, you know? Look at this—a whole boiled egg. Better than the slop I was eating on the outside. If I’d known the food was this high-class, I would’ve killed someone sooner and booked a reservation."

Julian Cross did not respond. He didn't even blink. He continued to eat, mechanically dissecting his food, treating Rex Dalton with the same level of interest he would accord a buzzing fly.

Rex Dalton shrugged, unfazed by the cold shoulder. "Tough crowd."

His restless eyes darted around the table, looking for entertainment. His gaze landed on the prisoner sitting across from them. The man had a long, horse-like face and a nervous demeanor. He was rolling up his sleeves to eat, revealing an arm completely covered in tattoos. The ink was specific: rows of small, crude red hearts.

"Oi, buddy," Rex Dalton called out, leaning across the table. "You. Long-face. You're from cell 515, right? That’s some interesting ink you got there. Do those hearts mean anything, or do you just really love Valentine's Day?"

The long-faced prisoner, whose name was Michael Harris, looked up. He assessed Rex, then glanced nervously at the stoic Julian. A strange, twisted pride crept into his expression. He let out a low, raspy chuckle.

"Everything has a meaning," Michael Harris said, his voice a scratchy whisper. "Every single red heart on this arm represents a person I... hunted. A person I conquered and ruined." He licked his lips unconsciously. "Doesn't matter if they were male or female. Twenty-seven hearts. Twenty-seven souls."

Julian Cross’s hand paused for a fraction of a second. His spoon hovered over his tray. His eyes flickered up, shooting a cold, razor-sharp glance at Michael Harris. The look was brief, but it held a depth of disgust so profound it felt like a physical blow. However, he remained silent, returning his attention to his meal.

Rex Dalton, on the other hand, looked delighted. His eyebrows shot up. "Male or female? Whoa. You don't discriminate, do you? You've got broad interests, pal."

Michael Harris preened under the attention, his ego swelling. "It’s not just about the act," he bragged, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hiss. "After I was done with them... after I broke them... I liked to snap their necks. Snap. Just like a twig. Then I’d use their blood. I’d mix it with the ink to tattoo these hearts. Their life is literally in my skin."

Rex Dalton nodded slowly, though a glint of boredom was already returning to his eyes. "Right. Blood ink. Very edgy. A bit dramatic for my taste, but hey, everyone needs a hobby." He waved his hand dismissively. "Enough about your art projects. How long have you been rotting in this hole?"

"Over a year now," Michael Harris replied.

"A year? Perfect," Rex said, leaning back and crossing his massive arms. "I just checked in yesterday. I’m fresh meat. Why don't you give me the tour? Tell me about this place. I like to know the lay of the land before I start redecorating."

Michael Harris glanced between the hulking Rex Dalton and the silent, terrifyingly calm Julian Cross. He realized these two were not ordinary inmates.

"I guess I can tell you," Michael Harris muttered, glancing around to ensure no guards were listening too closely. "Considering you two look like you just walked out of a nightmare, you’ll probably fit right in."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur.

"This place... the official name is the Confinement Death Ward. It's not a normal prison. It's a dumping ground. The facility is massive, divided into four main wings—East, West, North, and South. Each wing holds about two thousand inmates. We are currently in the East Wing."

He used his fork to draw invisible lines on the table.

"Within our wing, there are six massive cell blocks. They have names: Aether, Terra, Umbrage, Radiance, Astra, and Cataclysm. Each block has five floors. The fifth floor—where we are—is the 'Special Ward.' It’s where they put the problem children. Anyone who breaks the rules in the general population gets thrown into the fifth floor for a week of isolation to 'meditate.' After that, they get kicked back down to floors one through four, into the crowded communal cells."

"We are in Cataclysm Block," Michael Harris continued. "It’s considered the most... mediocre of the six. The softest. We only have about twenty or thirty truly irredeemable monsters here. The rest are just standard scum."

He paused for effect. "But here’s the important part. This is a society. Every block has a king. We call them the Six Overlords of the East Wing. They run the show."

Rex Dalton’s eyes lit up. "Overlords? Now we're talking. Who are they?"

"Our block, Cataclysm Block, is ruled by a guy named Landon Reeve," Michael explained. "They call him the 'White Chalk' because he outlines people like a crime scene. Ex-recon scout. A very arrogant man. But..." Michael smirked. "He’s currently enjoying a vacation in the infirmary. A while back, he picked a fight with the Overlord of Aether Block, Ethan Skyler, and got his a*s handed to him. He’ll be back in a few months."

"Wait," Rex interrupted. "Who are the others? Give me the roster."

Michael Harris took a breath and began to list them, his voice filled with a mix of fear and reverence.

"Okay, listen closely. This isn't just prison gossip; this is survival info. There are nine Special Prisons like this across the country. The people in here aren't just criminals; they are legends in the underworld. Fallen politicians, cartel heads, elite soldiers who went rogue. We have the best of the worst."

"First, the Aether Block Overlord: Ethan Skyler, also known as Yellow Springs. Rumor has it he was a Major in the military, one of the youngest officers in a top-secret Special Forces unit. He ran black ops all over the world. A war hero. But he got into a bar fight, accidentally offended the son of some high-ranking politician, and boom—framed and thrown in here. He’s survived dozens of assassination attempts inside these walls. He is universally recognized as the strongest fighter in the East Wing."

"Next, Terra Block Overlord: Brandon, nickname Mount Tai. A monster from the underground fighting circuits. He was the heavyweight champion of the Northern Black Boxing League for four years straight. He had a hundred-fight win streak. He ended up here after a brawl where he killed twenty rival g**g members with his bare hands and then accidentally killed nine police officers who tried to stop him. He is a tank."

"Then there's the Umbrage Block Overlord: Nathan Black, or Black Belly. The biggest d**g lord in the North. He was the primary conduit between the Golden Triangle and Central Europe. They called him Venom. He got sold out by his own lieutenant. The DEA Regional Office had to team up with a full army division just to siege his mountain hideout. It took them five days to capture him."

"Fourth is Radiance Block Overlord: Lucas Bright, the Prince. He was the Godfather of Ashbourne State. He united the entire criminal underworld of the province in seven years. But he flew too close to the sun. He threatened the Governor, ignored warnings from the central government, and they finally brought the hammer down. His empire was dismantled, and most of his loyal soldiers are in here with him. He runs the second-largest faction in the prison."

"Fifth, Astra Block Overlord: Adrian Starr, code name Cold Edge. A professional hitman. Top fifty in the global rankings. If you pay him, he kills. Men, women, children, politicians—didn't matter. He eventually pissed off too many rival syndicates, and they put a joint bounty on his head. He was hunted so relentlessly that he actually surrendered to the police just to get inside the prison for protection. He’s ruthless."

"And finally, as I said, our boss in Cataclysm Block: Landon Reeve. Ex-military scout, underground boxer. He had a seventy-eight fight win streak until he fought Brandon. He lost, but he was the only one to ever injure Brandon, so he’s respected as the second-best fighter in the underground world. Two years ago, he became the head bodyguard for the crime lord Mr. Blackwell in Redmont State. During a raid, he stayed behind to hold off the cops so Blackwell could escape. The judge gave him death, but Blackwell paid off the system to get it commuted to a suspended death sentence."

"Those are the Six Overlords," Michael Harris concluded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Each one rules their block with an iron fist. Except for Ethan Skyler, who keeps to himself, the other five are constantly at war, trying to expand their territory."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "You need to understand the schedule here. We are locked down most of the day. But every morning and every evening, we get one hour of 'Wind Time'—recreation in the yard. During that hour... anything goes."

Rex Dalton froze. His pupils dilated, focusing intently on Michael. He looked like a junkie who had just found a mountain of cocaine. The sheer intensity of his stare made Michael flinch, splashing milk from his cup onto the table.

"What do you mean... anything goes?" Rex whispered, his voice vibrating with suppressed violence.

"I mean... the guards don't get involved," Michael stammered. "Not during Wind Time. We are all death row inmates. We aren't ever getting out. We have no hope, no women, no future. If they didn't let us vent, the prison would burn down in a week. So, during that hour, the guards sit on the walls and watch. They treat it like a spectator sport. You can fight, you can m**m, you can kill. As long as it stays in the yard, they don't care if a hundred men die."

Rex Dalton began to laugh.

It started as a low rumble in his chest and erupted into a full-blown, cackling roar. It was the sound of a demon discovering paradise. He grinned, a horrific, bloodthirsty expression that stretched his face.

"Hahaha! Fantastic! Ethan Skyler, Brandon, Nathan Black, Lucas Bright, Adrian Starr, Landon Reeve... yes, yes, yes!"

He turned his head slowly to look at Julian Cross, who was still calmly chewing his food.

"Hey, kid," Rex said, his voice trembling with excitement. "Did you hear that? This isn't a prison. It's a coliseum! It's a slaughterhouse! It makes my blood boil just thinking about it."

He slammed his hand onto the table.

"Since we're never getting out of here anyway, what do you say? You and me. Let's team up. Let's crush these so-called Six Overlords. Let's kill them all and take the throne!"

Gulp.

Michael Harris turned pale. He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the sudden hush.

Rex Dalton hadn't shouted, but his voice had a carrying quality, a resonance that cut through the ambient noise of the cafeteria. As his words hung in the air, the chatter in the vast room began to die down.

Silence rippled outward from their table like a shockwave.

One by one, forks were lowered. Conversations ceased. Hundreds of eyes—eyes belonging to murderers, rapists, g**g lords, and psychopaths—turned in unison. They locked onto the table where the manic Mad Tiger was grinning like a lunatic, and the stoic Julian Cross sat in terrifying, icy silence.