I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 094

The rooftop battle had transcended mere combat; it had become a collision of primal forces. One man moved like a mountain bear, heavy and crushing; the other moved like a black panther, sleek and lethal. One relied on the devastating impact of raw power, while the other utilized the surgical precision of high-speed agility.

As Owen and the giant Titus closed the distance, their roars echoing like thunder across the Jersey City skyline, the cold-eyed sniper—the man who had nearly taken Kane’s head—dropped his broken rifle and lunged forward with clenched fists.

But Owen, the veteran of a thousand life-and-death trades in the Confinement Death Ward, had no intention of a head-on collision. Just two paces before impact, his right boot dug into the concrete, channeling the Fluid Combat System. In an impossible display of kinetic redirection, his linear charge snapped into a sharp zigzag. He bypassed the giant entirely, his target shifting mid-stride to the sniper who was just beginning to commit to his own strike.

The sudden shift in momentum left the attackers in tactical disarray. Titus, having committed every ounce of his massive strength to a downward swing, watched as his sledgehammer whistled through empty air. The iron head slammed into the reinforced concrete with a bone-jarring thud that sent a tremor through the entire building.

The sniper, caught off guard by Owen’s sudden proximity, felt his internal timing shatter. Before he could recalibrate, Owen launched himself into the air. His body coiled and spun in a 360-degree aerial rotation, his right leg whipping out like a steel cable. It was a high-level Kickboxing Discipline strike, aimed with lethal intent at the sniper’s carotid artery.

"Gah!" the sniper grunted. He tucked his chin and threw his forearms up in a desperate cross-block, trying to shield his skull from the impact.

CRACK!

The sound of the shin connecting with bone was sickeningly loud. The sniper’s right arm erupted in a spray of blood as the force of the kick tore through skin and muscle. He staggered, his vision swimming, but he was a member of the Warwolf Division for a reason. He planted his heels, fighting the urge to collapse, and swung a desperate, b****y hook at Owen.

At the same moment, Titus wrenched his hammer from the concrete, his face a mask of purple rage, and swung again.

Facing the pincer maneuver, Owen showed no fear. He became a ghost in the machine, a shadow weaving through the gaps of their coordination. His movements weren't just fast; they were calculated. He used palm-strikes to parry the giant’s wrists and stinging toe-kicks to puncture the sniper’s guard. He was a Venom in every sense—striking, receding, and striking again, leaving his opponents bleeding and breathless.

Though his movements looked graceful, almost delicate, each touch carried the weight of a sledgehammer. He utilized "internal" striking, focusing the force into the palms and fingertips to rupture organs and shatter small bones.

After thirty intense exchanges, Owen had been touched only seven times. Thanks to his "soft-body" redirection, those hits were mere grazes—superficial flesh wounds that did nothing to slow his tempo. In contrast, the second and third-in-command of the Warwolf Division were in a state of physical ruin. Their skin was shredded, and their breathing was a series of ragged, b****y gasps.

Owen delivered a roundhouse kick that sent the sniper tumbling across the roof. He followed it with a tactical roll—an ungraceful but effective "mud-crawl"—to avoid another comet-like strike from Titus’s hammer.

But as Owen prepared to spring back to his feet, the variables of the battlefield shifted.

The pale youth, whom Owen had dismissed as a casualty after tearing away his face, suddenly shrieked. It was a sound from the deepest pits of the Inferno Room. Drenched in his own blood, looking like a flayed demon, the boy lunged from the shadows. He wrapped his arms around Owen’s waist in a death grip, his fingers digging into the wounds on Owen’s abdomen with a manic, suicidal strength.

"KILL HIM!" the boy screamed through the hole where his cheek used to be. "Titus! Smash him into a goddamn pulp! DO IT NOW!"

Owen felt a jolt of genuine alarm. He tried to elbow the boy’s spine to break the hold, but the youth was beyond pain, his nervous system flooded with enough adrenaline to ignore the fact that he was dying. He held on with a grip of iron, his fingers literally hooking into Owen’s tactical vest and flesh.

The sniper, scrambling to his feet, saw the opening. "Titus! The opening! TAKE IT!"

Titus didn't hesitate. He drew a massive breath, his chest expanding like a furnace. The muscles in his arms coiled like pythons, and his veins bulged until they threatened to burst. With a roar of pure, unbridled violence, he raised the sledgehammer high above his head and brought it down toward Owen’s skull with everything he had left.

The air pressure preceding the hammer was like a physical wall. Owen’s eyes narrowed. Instead of fighting the hold, he leaned into it. He sucked in his stomach, contracting his entire body like a coiled spring.

The youth, expecting Owen to pull away, felt the resistance vanish. For a fraction of a second, his balance faltered as he leaned backward to compensate for a pull that didn't happen.

In that micro-second, Owen dropped. He used his entire body weight to sink toward the floor, breaking the youth’s leverage. As he went down, he reached back, snagging the youth’s collar and jerking him forward with a violent, snapping motion.

The transition was so fast it was invisible to the n***d eye. One moment Owen was trapped; the next, the youth was stumbling forward into the path of the descending hammer.

THWACK.

The sound was heavy, wet, and final. It sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a ripe watermelon.

"NO!" the sniper screamed, a sound of profound agony.

Titus stood frozen, his arms vibrating from the impact. He stared down in horror. His hammer hadn't found the leader of the Talons. It had found the center of his young comrade’s skull. The red and white spray coated the giant's chest, a gruesome baptism from a brother he had just inadvertently executed.

Owen offered no mercy, no moment for grief. While the giant was paralyzed by shock, Owen exploded upward from his crouch. His right palm, hardened by years of striking stone and iron in the Confinement Death Ward, slammed into the giant’s wrists with the force of a piston.

This was Owen’s greatest weapon—his "Dead Hands." He had trained them until the nerve endings were effectively cauterized, allowing him to strike with a force that would shatter a normal man's bones without feeling a spark of pain.

CRACK.

The giant’s wrists shattered. The sledgehammer fell from his nerveless fingers, clattering onto the roof. Before he could even scream, Owen delivered a devastating kick to his solar plexus, sending the 200-pound man flying backward like he’d been hit by a truck.

"I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!" the sniper roared, lost to a frenzy of grief. He charged Owen, his boots pounding the concrete with a rhythmic, heavy thud.

"A gnat trying to move a mountain," Owen sneered. He reached down and plucked the broken shard of his Bowie Knife from the ground. As the sniper closed in, Owen performed a fluid spin, slipping the man's clumsy tackle and driving his elbow deep into the small of the sniper's back.

THUD.

The sniper hit the floor face-first, the air leaving his lungs in a wheezing gasp. Owen stood over him, his shadow cold and long. He looked at the giant, who was clutching his shattered wrists and staring at the headless remains of the boy.

"Waste of skin," Owen spat. "You challenge the Shadow Eagle Clan? You challenge the Talons? You aren't even worth the ammunition it would take to end you."

He walked over to the sniper and placed a heavy boot on the back of his neck, grinding his face into the grit of the rooftop.

"Tell me," Owen whispered, his voice dripping with venomous mockery. "How does it feel to kill your own blood? Does it hurt, big man? Does it burn?"

The giant looked up, his eyes glazed with tears and madness. "It was you... you made me do it..."

"He’s right, Titus!" the sniper wheezed from under Owen’s boot. "The kid’s death is on him! Kill him! Kill the bastard!"

Owen laughed—a dry, rasping sound. "That’s right. Blame me. It’s easier than admitting you’re incompetent. Brother Kane wanted to give you a future. He wanted to turn you into kings. But you chose to stay dogs. And dogs get put down."

He twisted his heel, eliciting a muffled scream from the sniper. He looked at the giant. "Well? Your friend is telling you to take your revenge. What are you waiting for, you pathetic ape?"

"AAAAARRRGH!" Titus scrambled to his feet, ignoring the agony in his shattered wrists. He lowered his head like a charging rhinoceros and launched himself at Owen.

Owen smiled. "Predictable."

He caught the sniper by the collar, yanked him upward, and hurled his body directly into the path of the charging giant. The two men collided in a tangle of limbs and broken bones, tumbling across the roof in a heap of misery.

Owen tightened his grip on the broken blade, his eyes narrowing as he prepared to deliver the final, lethal coup de grâce.

"Hold it right there."

A voice, cold as the winter sleet and sharp as a razor, cut through the air, forcing Owen to freeze mid-motion.