I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 008

"ROAR—!"

The sound did not merely break the silence of the East Wing; it annihilated it. It was a guttural eruption, a sonic boom generated from the diaphragm of a human weapon, tearing through the stifling heat of the prison yard.

Victor Hale moved. His fingers splayed wide, tendons pulling taut like industrial steel cables. As his hands descended, the air pressure around them dropped visibly, creating a distortion wave. Ten distinct afterimages screamed through the air, defying the human optical limit. With the crushing weight of a collapsing mountain, his twin palms crashed down, aiming squarely for the trapezius muscles of the man known as Mad Tiger.

Thwack!

The impact was sickeningly dense, like a sledgehammer striking wet clay.

Rex Dalton, the behemoth who had ruled this yard with absolute terror, didn't just buckle. He imploded. The flesh on his shoulders burst open, unable to contain the shock of the blow. A spray of crimson mist painted the air. His massive, trunk-like legs were hammered downward by the sheer kinetic force. The dry, compacted earth beneath him groaned and surrendered. With a jarring crunch, the ground cracked open, and Rex Dalton was driven shin-deep into the soil, planted like a fence post.

But Victor Hale was not a man to admire his work. He was a machine of perpetual violence.

Harnessing the massive recoil force, Victor Hale launched himself skyward. He defied gravity, spinning in the air—a blur of kinetic potential executing a perfect three-hundred-sixty-degree rotation. His right leg whipped around, transforming into a bludgeon that slammed into Rex Dalton’s exposed back with the force of a hydraulic press.

"Argh—!"

A scream of pure agony ripped from Rex Dalton’s throat. The kick uprooted him from his earthen prison, tearing his legs free. His two-hundred-pound frame was launched sideways, hurtling through the air like a discarded ragdoll. He crashed violently toward a massive, gnarled Sycamore tree that stood as a lonely sentinel in the yard.

To the onlookers—the killers of the Shadow Eagle Clan, the nervous correctional officers, and the terrified inmates—Victor Hale had ceased to be a man. He was a phantom. His silhouette flickered and blurred. Before anyone could register his trajectory, Victor Hale had already materialized halfway up the trunk of that same Sycamore.

He gripped the rough bark with his legs, coiling his muscles like a loaded spring. As Rex Dalton’s body came hurtling toward the tree, Victor Hale unleashed a power elbow strike. Fists clenched, he drove his elbow downward with the screeching sound of splitting air.

BANG!

The collision shook the ground. Rex Dalton was smashed into the earth at the base of the tree with the force of a meteor. Half his body was instantly buried in loose dirt, his skin dyed a horrific uniform red from ruptured capillaries.

Yet, silence was not an option.

With another earth-shaking roar that rattled the teeth of everyone in the Confinement Death Ward, Victor Hale vaulted into the air again. He was a dynamo of energy. His right leg, charged with every ounce of his pent-up fury, scribed a terrifying arc through the air. It was a move reminiscent of an advanced kick technique, executed with the weight of a falling guillotine.

Rex Dalton, despite the concussion rattling his brain, proved why he was a legend in Larkspur, Hawthorne State. His survival instincts were preternatural. Even through the haze of pain, he heard the whistling wind—the grim reaper’s scythe. He couldn't see it clearly, but he felt the pressure change.

Gritting teeth stained pink, Rex Dalton let out a muffled growl. He forced his battered body to react, crossing his arms above his head in a desperate "X" block to shield his skull. It was muscle memory forged in a thousand street fights.

In the blink of an eye, the force of a press crashed onto his forearms.

CRACK!

The sound was unmistakable—the dry snap of bone under impossible stress.

Rex Dalton’s arms were instantly overwhelmed. The bones splintered, and joints popped out of their sockets with a nauseating squelch. But Victor Hale’s leg—executing one of the deadliest moves in his arsenal—carried too much momentum. It smashed through the guard, driving unhindered into Rex Dalton’s right chest.

The impact lifted the giant off the ground once more, launching him backward to collide heavily with the trunk of the Sycamore.

Victor Hale landed with the grace of a predatory cat, dust barely puffing around his feet. He didn't pause. He tapped the ground lightly, toes acting as springs, and shot forward again. He was a blur of lethal intent, his right leg whipping out in a low, sweeping arc—a move carrying the ferocity of a tidal wave.

The target: Rex Dalton, currently pinned against the tree, gasping for air.

The sheer speed of the attack left afterimages burned into the spectators' retinas. It was combat belonging in a Roman coliseum, not a prison yard.

Rex Dalton’s eyes widened, pupils trembling. He knew he couldn't take that hit. With a desperate, undignified roll, he threw himself aside, barely evading Victor Hale’s sweeping kick.

KA-RACK!

Victor Hale’s shin connected not with flesh, but with timber.

The massive Sycamore, too thick for a man's embrace, groaned in protest. A deep, jagged fracture appeared instantly. The wood screamed—a high-pitched splintering sound—before structural integrity failed. The entire upper half of the tree, weighing tons, sheared off and crashed to the dusty ground.

Hiss…

A collective intake of breath sucked the oxygen out of the East Wing yard.

Every prisoner, every correctional officer, stood frozen. Their minds could not process the physics. On the observation deck, the Deputy Warden leaped from his chair, knuckles white as he gripped the railing.

"Impossible…" he whispered, voice trembling. "He… he kicked through a full-grown Sycamore? That wood is solid as stone."

The realization hit like a physical blow. A human leg had just acted like a steel axe.

Is he… is he even human?

In that frozen moment, the hierarchy shifted violently. The guards' contempt vanished, replaced by primal fear. They weren't looking at an inmate; they were looking at a monster. Victor Hale had just been categorized as the single most dangerous entity in the Confinement Death Ward.

Rex Dalton stared at the fallen tree, chest heaving like broken bellows. He looked at the splintered stump, then slowly turned his gaze to Victor Hale. Shock was there, but beneath it, a fire began to burn.

Wobbling unsteadily, Rex Dalton forced himself upright. He stumbled toward another tree near the wall. His right arm hung uselessly at a sickening angle, swaying like a dead thing.

The crowd watched in confused silence.

Rex Dalton positioned his side against the tree bark. Then, with a savage grunt, he slammed his shoulder into the wood.

Pop.

He slammed it again. Violent, rhythmic thuds. Suddenly, with a wet click, the joint snapped back into place. He rotated the shoulder, grimacing, testing the motion. Then, he repeated the process with his left arm.

Crack… Click.

He shook his arms out, sweat dripping from his nose. Rex Dalton licked blood from the corner of his mouth and grinned. It was a grotesque expression—teeth dyed crimson, eyes alight with combat madness.

He peeled off his tattered shirt, revealing a torso carved from granite. Muscles dense, scarred, and corded with veins. He lacked the explosive bodybuilder physique of Brandon, but Rex Dalton’s build screamed functional violence. It was a body forged in street brawls and death matches. The blood smearing his chest added to the aura of a demon ascending from hell.

"Victor Hale," Rex Dalton rasped, voice like gravel. "Heh. Not bad. Your speed, your power… I’ll admit, you’re a cut above me. But if you think you’re walking away with a win, you’re dreaming."

"ROAR!"

With a bellow rivaling a territorial jungle cat, Rex Dalton abandoned all defense. No techniques. Just raw aggression. He charged, throwing a straight punch aimed at Victor Hale’s skull—meant to liquidate bone.

Victor Hale scoffed. He didn't retreat. He simply swayed, slipping past the sledgehammer blow by a fraction of an inch. Simultaneously, his right leg fired, driving a piercing kick into Rex Dalton’s left thigh.

The impact was heavy. It would have shattered a normal man’s femur. It tore a chunk of flesh from Rex Dalton’s leg, leaving a jagged gouge.

But this time, Rex Dalton didn't flinch. He planted his feet like roots.

Victor Hale’s heart skipped. He took it?

The realization came too late. Rex Dalton had sacrificed his leg to close the distance. His left hand, curled into a vicious claw, hooked through the air with lethal geometry, seeking the soft tissue of Victor Hale’s chest.

Adrenaline flooded Victor Hale’s system. Caught off guard, he roared, bringing his hands down in a claw shape to intercept.

Slap… Squelch.

He deflected the direct path to his heart, but Rex Dalton’s claw was relentless. It raked across Victor Hale’s left ribcage. Fingers like steel chisels tore through skin, exposing the ivory white of two ribs.

"ARGHHHH—!"

The pain ignited Victor Hale. He threw his head back and unleashed a scream of ancient, primitive fury.

That roar rolled across the four sub-sections of the prison. Nearly ten thousand inmates felt a chill crawl down their spines. Heads turned toward the East Wing. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced every heart. It was the sound of a beast breaking its chains.

In the yard, time dilated. The atmosphere grew heavy. Spectators stood like statues, eyes locked on Victor Hale, who stood panting, blood streaming from his ribs, eyes burning with a light not entirely sane.

And for the first time, Rex Dalton felt it.

A cold drop of sweat slid down his spine. Regret. Fear. Why did I provoke him? This isn't a man anymore. It's a disaster.

The hesitation was fatal.

Victor Hale moved. His right leg blurred. He launched forward like an arrow. The sound was a high-pitched whistle, a sonic tear. This was faster. Three times faster. Three times more vicious.

Rex Dalton, panic flooding his eyes, gathered his remaining strength into his arms, trying to erect a barrier.

BOOM!

There was no contest.

Rex Dalton didn't even have time to scream. The impact fired him across the yard like a cannonball. His body traveled parallel to the ground, skipping and slamming across the hard-packed earth.

He carved a b****y trench, momentum unchecked. He flew for hundreds of feet, ploughing into the crowd.

Bodies flew. Bones snapped. Rex Dalton acted like a human bowling ball. Seven men died instantly upon impact, bodies broken by the kinetic transfer.

Finally, the momentum ceased. Rex Dalton lay in a heap, coughing up clots of dark blood.

But the nightmare wasn't over.

Where Rex Dalton stopped, Victor Hale appeared, moving so fast he left afterimages. He stood over the fallen giant. Hands rigid, fingers curled into talons, he drove them down toward Rex Dalton’s heart.

Rex Dalton’s eyes bulged. Brain frozen. He could smell the metallic scent of death. His eyes reflected only despair.

The crowd rose shakily. The reversal had been too fast. The invincible Mad Tiger dismantled in seconds. The speed… the power… it was beyond biology.

This is it. The execution.

However…

Victor Hale’s "Death Claw" stopped.

The tips of his blood-drenched fingers hovered less than half an inch from Rex Dalton’s chest. The air pressure seemed to bruise the skin.

Silence stretched out, suffocating.

Every eye focused on those trembling hands. Rex Dalton stared for agonizing seconds. Survival instinct kicked in; despite the agony, he shimmied to the right, sliding twenty centimeters away from death.

Victor Hale remained frozen. Then, he took a deep, shuddering breath. The red haze receded. Shoulders dropped.

He looked down at Rex Dalton, and slowly, a smile broke across his face.

"Thank you."

Rex Dalton blinked, confused. "Thank you?" He looked at Victor Hale like the man was insane.

Victor Hale straightened up. "Ever since that night… I’ve been dead inside. Silent. Suppressed. My heart was clogged with rage. That’s why I killed those two men when I arrived—I lost control. But now?" He rolled his shoulders. "I feel… clear. Thank you for giving me a real fight. Thank you for letting me vent this poison."

He looked Rex Dalton in the eye. "Truth be told, you are the strongest opponent I have ever faced. The first to force me to use everything. Haha… and according to our agreement…"

Rex Dalton stared, dumbfounded. But as the words sank in, a strange emotion welled up. Respect. Pure warrior's respect.

Suddenly, Rex Dalton threw his head back and laughed. A wet, hacking laugh, but genuine.

"Hahaha! And you… you are the first man to ever put Mad Tiger on his back. I, Rex Dalton, admit defeat. From the bottom of my heart."

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Rex Dalton forced his body to obey. He pushed himself up to a kneeling position, facing Victor Hale.

Then, with solemn gravity, he slammed his forehead into the dirt.

"Rex Dalton hereby pledges his life! From this day until my last breath, I vow to follow my Big Brother, Hawkeye!"

"Hawkeye?" Victor Hale paused. He looked up at the sky. "Heh. Not bad. I like it."

Hawkeye.

In that blood-soaked yard, a name was spoken that would one day make the global underworld tremble. A name that would unify the fractured US syndicates. A name synonymous with death for enemies and salvation for followers.

The God of the Underworld was born.

And Rex Dalton.

The man who would become the most feared beast in the criminal empire. The future Second-in-Command of the Shadow Eagle Clan. The First General of the Hawkeye regime.

On this day, in the dirt and blood of the East Wing, he swore his oath.