I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 009

Julian Cross extended a hand, gripping the forearm of the fallen giant. His fingers dug into the muscle, not with cruelty, but with the firm, stabilizing grip of an anchor. With a sharp, guttural heave that engaged his entire core, he pulled Mad Tiger up from the blood-stained dirt.

Rex Dalton, the man who had ruled the East Wing with the ferocity of a wild animal, was currently little more than a broken marionette. His legs were jelly. His chest felt like a cage of shattered glass. Every breath was a jagged shard of agony tearing through his lungs.

Without a word, Julian bent his knees, leveraged his center of gravity, and hoisted the massive, two-hundred-pound frame of Rex Dalton onto his back.

For Rex, the world was a spinning, nauseating blur of pain. But as he settled onto Julian’s back—the back of the man who had just dismantled him—a strange sensation bubbled up through the agony. He was a man who had lived his life in the arctic cold of isolation. Yet, in this moment of absolute vulnerability, he wasn't being executed. He was being carried. A current of warmth, alien and confusing, flowed through his chest. It was the heat of camaraderie.

Julian’s eyes, cold and sharp as flint, swept across the yard. He didn't recognize a single face among the stunned inmates; they were just a sea of orange and grey. His gaze sharpened, however, when it landed on the military epaulets of the officer standing on the raised observation deck.

"Colonel," Julian called out. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a piercing clarity. He adjusted the weight of the giant on his back. "I assume even condemned men in this hellhole are entitled to a doctor?"

The Deputy Warden stood rigid, his knuckles white against the railing. He had witnessed every manner of brutality here, but Julian Cross was an anomaly. A calm storm. The memory of how he had snapped that Sycamore tree haunted the Colonel’s thoughts.

Forcing a professional, albeit strained, smile, the Deputy Warden replied, "Yes. This may be death row, but if you survive the fight, you’re entitled to medical attention. We aren't savages."

Julian offered a polite, almost gentlemanly smile. On his blood-spattered face, the expression was terrifyingly charismatic. "Thank you, Colonel. In that case, please send the medical staff to Cataclysm Block, cells 501 and 502."

"Consider it done." The words tasted bitter to the Warden, but his survival instincts screamed that provoking Julian Cross would be a catastrophic error.

"Thanks."

Julian began the long trudge toward the cell block. The reaction of the crowd was biblical. The sea of inmates—hardened killers, cartel enforcers, g**g lords—parted automatically. It was the "Red Sea" effect. No one dared to breathe too loud.

After walking about twenty yards, Julian suddenly stopped. The silence in the yard deepened.

He turned slowly, the heavy weight of Rex Dalton still anchored to him. His gaze swept the yard like a sniper’s scope, locking onto five specific men standing apart from the herd: the Six Overlords of the East Wing. His eyes drilled into Nathan Black, lingered on the granite frame of Brandon, and flicked past the others.

"I think it’s necessary to make myself clear," Julian announced. His tone was conversational, which made the underlying threat infinitely more sinister. "For the immediate future, Mad Tiger and I will be recovering on the fifth floor of Cataclysm Block. We won't come out. We won't provoke you. We have no interest in your turf wars."

He paused, letting the wind carry his next words to every corner of the yard.

"However... I need to remind you. If we face any attacks, harassment, or 'accidents' during this time—I don't care who did it, or who ordered it. If anyone disturbs us, the moment I step out of cell 502, I swear to God, I will s*******r every single one of you as an offering to the heavens."

The threat hung in the hot air, heavy and absolute.

Ethan Skyler, known as 'Yellow Springs,' stared deeply at Julian. His expression was unreadable. Without a word, he turned and walked away, a tacit acknowledgement of the new power dynamic. The other titans followed suit. Only Lucas Bright, the 'Prince,' cast a final, sneering look of venomous calculation before departing.

Efficiency in the Confinement Death Ward was usually a myth, but fear was a powerful lubricant. Within ten minutes, cells 501 and 502 in Cataclysm Block had been transformed into makeshift high-dependency units.

Under the Deputy Warden's direct orders, the best surgeons were dispatched with military-grade painkillers and trauma kits usually reserved for SWAT teams. A few young nurses had been sent along, but the moment they saw the numbers "501" and "502" above the steel doors, their composure shattered. They performed the bare minimum required by their oath and fled as if the devil himself was nipping at their heels.

This suited Julian and Rex perfectly. They preferred the silence.

For the next five days, the fifth floor became a tomb of healing. Both men possessed constitutions that bordered on the superhuman. Bones knitted together with impossible speed; bruises faded in hours rather than days. By the fifth day, Rex Dalton—who should have been in traction for three months—was already limping around the cell.

On the morning of the sixth day, the silence broke.

They were eating a breakfast personally delivered by the mess hall staff—real eggs, toast, and coffee.

"Mad Tiger," Julian said, breaking the quiet while chewing on toast. "What’s your real name?"

Rex paused, his spoon hovering. He looked at his scarred hands. "Me? My real name..." He chuckled, a rasping sound. "Rex Dalton. Hell, haven't used that name in so long I almost forgot it belonged to me."

"Rex Dalton," Julian repeated. "Strong name. Tell me something else, Rex. Where did you learn The Inner Circle techniques? Watching you fight... that wasn't just street brawling. You were using Seventy-Two Arts derived from The Order. You’ve modified them, stripped away the ceremony for pure killing intent."

Rex let out a low laugh, leaning back against the cold concrete. The killing aura around him softened into something melancholic. "Heh. Doesn't hurt to tell you. You're the boss now, right?" He stared at the ceiling fan. "I was an orphan. Found in a basket on the steps of The Order's monastery in the mountains. The Abbot—the Old Man—took me in. He said I had 'roots of bone.' He raised me, poured the secrets of The Order into me. By twenty, I had mastered the Seventy-Two Arts. I was a prodigy, destined to be the next Abbot."

Rex’s voice grew quieter. "I didn't have ambition back then. Life was simple. Pure. But the universe doesn't like peace. When I was twenty-one, in the autumn... everything ended."

He gripped his spoon until the handle bent into a 'U'.

"That night, at 3:00 AM, a professional mercenary crew breached the monastery. They were after The Vault—specifically, the White Jade Buddha. My uncle caught them. They put a bullet in his head without hesitation."

Rex’s eyes stared at a thousand-yard distance.

"The gunshot woke the monastery. We rushed out, The Old Man leading us. But these guys had automatic weapons. They cut down a dozen of my Brothers. The Old Man tried to talk to them, tried to offer mercy. They shot him point-blank."

"Something inside me snapped," Rex whispered. "Maybe I was always a monster, and the monastery was just a cage. But in that moment, the cage broke. I didn't use technique. I used rage. I moved faster than I ever had. Before they could reload, I was among them. I didn't just kill them, Julian. I disassembled them. I ripped throats out with my bare hands. By the time the red haze lifted, there were twenty corpses on the ground. Not one was in one piece."

He shook his head, a bitter smile touching his lips. "The scary part? When I tore the first one apart... I felt ecstatic. I was addicted to the sensation of warm blood. But when I looked at the surviving monks, they looked at me with horror. I wasn't their brother anymore. I was a demon. So I ran into the forest and never looked back."

Rex exhaled long and slow.

"That was my entry into society. I needed money, so I robbed a transport truck. I walked away with a hundred and fifty grand and killed seven cops who tried to stop me. I ran for a month, but I got bored. I missed the thrill. So, I started a game. I robbed another armored truck just to get their attention and led them into the forests of Ashbourne State. For two years, I lived in the wild. I hunted SWAT teams and federal marshals. I killed twenty-seven cops and thirteen special forces operators. I humiliated them."

"Finally, they sent a paramilitary regiment—five hundred men, drones, thermal imaging. They cornered me in a cave. They finally brought me down with heavy ordnance. I woke up in a military hospital, then shipped here. Life sentence."

Julian listened in silence. It was a tragedy, but also a testament to the brutal reality of their world. Society created monsters, then acted surprised when they bit back.

"What's the point of dwelling on it?" Julian sighed, leaning forward. "I've got two years. Maybe less. But sitting here, rotting? That's not living. That's just waiting to die."

He locked eyes with Rex. "Rex, I know you crave the violence. So here is my proposal: Let's not just survive. Let's conquer. Let's test the mettle of these so-called Six Overlords. Let's see if the bosses of the other wings are made of iron or glass."

Rex’s eyes lit up. The dullness vanished, replaced by a sharp, predatory gleam.

"Heh... Hahaha!" Rex grinned savagely. "Good! This hellhole is full of hidden dragons and crouching tigers. In the East Wing alone, there are five men worth fighting."

He began to count on his fingers. "Ethan Skyler—he hides his strength, might be my equal. Brandon is a tank. If those two teamed up against me, I’d probably lose. Adrian Starr is sinister but strong. Lucas Bright’s lieutenants aren't jokes. Even Nathan Black has moves."

He cracked his knuckles. "I was wondering how to pick them off. But with you? If we stand together... we could fight all six at once. We could carve a path through this prison three times over!"

Julian smiled, a cold expression promising chaos. "The prison has its strongmen. But first things first. We heal. And when we are back to one hundred percent... we pay a visit to the landlord."

He looked toward the heavy steel door, his gaze seeming to penetrate the metal toward the upper echelons of the prison hierarchy.

"We go to Cataclysm Block. We go to see the boss. Landon Reeve."