I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 017

One month later.

Nestled between the four wings of the Confinement Death Ward—East, West, North, and South—lay a massive football stadium capable of holding over ten thousand spectators.

Despite its design, this arena was not built for recreational sports. It was a killing field. Since the prison’s inception, this stadium had borne silent witness to countless Public Wars between the cell blocks. No one knew exactly how much blood had soaked into the soil, but the inmates whispered that before every rainstorm, the stadium would exhale a faint, metallic scent of iron and rot, shrouding the empty field in a veil of ghostly terror.

The inmates called it The Purgatory.

Today, after years of soaking up violence, The Purgatory was hosting an event unlike any other in the prison's history.

Nearly ten thousand death row inmates had been marched out of their cells to fill the stands. They were here to witness the Hundred-Man War between Cataclysm Block and the coalition led by Radiance Block. But more than the battle itself, they were here to see two men: The Blood Eagle and the Mad Tiger.

In just two short months, the legends of Julian Cross and Rex Dalton had grown into myth. Rumors spread through the cell blocks like a virus—some claimed Rex ate the hearts of his enemies for breakfast; others whispered that Julian was a government assassin who had gone rogue. While the other three wings had their own formidable fighters, none had captured the collective imagination like the duo from Cataclysm Block.

Security was unprecedented. Every available correctional officer—over a thousand heavily armed guards—lined the perimeter of the stadium. Machine g*n nests were set up at strategic points, and sniper teams watched from the watchtowers. The air crackled with tension.

At 8:00 AM sharp, the bells tolled.

The massive steel gates on the East and West sides of the stadium groaned open. Two armies marched out. One dressed in red prison uniforms, the other in blue.

A roar erupted from the stands—a wave of noise that shook the concrete foundations.

The two armies stopped ten meters apart in the center of the field. On the Cataclysm Block side, Julian Cross (or rather, the man wearing his face) and Rex Dalton stood at the front, their faces masks of supreme confidence.

Julian scanned the VIP section of the stands. Brandon and Ethan Skyler were sitting there, watching intently. Good. They hadn't joined the coalition. That meant Nathan Black’s diplomacy had failed, and Cataclysm Block only had to deal with the combined forces of Radiance Block, Umbrage Block, and Astra Block.

The guards retreated, locking the gates behind them. The stadium fell silent.

This wasn't a sporting event. There were no referees. No timeouts. No rules. The objective was simple: kill until the other side stopped moving. In a few moments, over a hundred souls would return to the dust.

Two minutes passed in suffocating silence. The two armies stared each other down, adrenaline flooding their systems.

Then, simultaneously, Rex Dalton and Silas Carter raised their right hands.

"WAR!"

They brought their hands down like executioners' axes.

"KILL!"

With a roar that sounded like the earth splitting open, the two waves of men crashed into each other.

There was no hesitation. These were men who had killed before. They knew that in a melee like this, hesitation was death. The only way to survive was to snap the enemy's neck before he snapped yours.

CRASH.

Rex Dalton, leading the charge for Cataclysm Block, hit the enemy line like a runaway freight train. He was a vision of hell—eyes glowing red, muscles bulging. As he collided with the front rank, he didn't stop. He juked to the right, bypassing the first defender, and slammed his massive palm into the neck of the second man.

SNAP.

It was sickeningly loud. The man’s head was twisted 180 degrees, his neck broken instantly. Rex didn't let the body fall. He grabbed the corpse by the collar and the belt and swung it like a human battering ram, smashing it into the group behind him.

"RAAARGH!"

The right flank of the coalition army disintegrated into chaos as men were bowled over by their dead comrade.

Rex didn't pause. He tossed the corpse aside and clenched his right fist. With a primal roar, he punched toward his left, aiming at a cluster of enemy fighters. The punch was so powerful, so filled with kinetic energy, that the air seemed to whistle around it. Even the spectators in the stands flinched, imagining their own heads exploding like watermelons under that impact.

But just as Rex extended his arm, a counter-roar erupted from the coalition ranks.

Two figures burst from the crowd, matching Rex’s ferocity. It was Silas Carter and Nash Ryker, the top enforcers of Radiance and Umbrage blocks. They attacked simultaneously—one high, one low—aiming to crush the Mad Tiger in a pincer movement.

BOOM!

The impact was heavy. Silas Carter was blown backward, skidding across the grass, winded by the force of Rex’s aura. But Nash Ryker managed to land a solid blow on Rex’s shoulder while Rex was occupied.

Rex grunted, using the momentum of the hit to spin in the air. He lashed out with a vicious roundhouse kick, forcing Nash Ryker to block and retreat.

Rex landed lightly on his feet, shaking his shoulders. He threw his head back and laughed.

"Two little puppies trying to bite the tiger?" Rex bellowed. "Come on! I love a feast!"

He stomped the ground, launching himself at them again. His legs moved like pistons, unleashing a storm of kicks that forced Silas and Nash Ryker to fight for their lives. The three titans engaged in a brutal dance, clearing a ten-meter circle around them as lesser men fled the shockwaves of their blows.

While the chaos erupted around them, two men remained perfectly still in the center of the storm.

"Julian Cross" (in reality, the disguised Marcus Grady) stood with his hands behind his back, narrowing his eyes at the man ten meters away.

Opposite him stood Adrian Starr, the leader of Astra Block and the prison's most feared assassin. Adrian’s face was a mask of cold indifference, his eyes tracking every micro-movement of his opponent.

For two minutes, they just watched each other.

"Adrian," "Julian" finally spoke, his voice calm and mocking. "Are we going to stand here all day? Or did you forget how to fight?"

Adrian Starr’s eyes narrowed. "My mission is to contain you, Blood Eagle. I know I cannot defeat you in a direct confrontation. So, if I can stall you, I win."

"Hah! Good mindset," "Julian" laughed. "But I don't have the patience for a staring contest."

With that, "Julian" blurred.

He moved with a speed that defied logic, sliding to the right in a ghostly arc. To the spectators in the stands, it looked like he had teleported, leaving a trail of afterimages in his wake.

In the Aether Block section, Ethan Skyler frowned. Something felt… off. The movement was fast—incredibly fast—but it lacked the grounded, heavy power he remembered from his fight with the real Julian.

Adrian Starr didn't have time to analyze. He reacted on instinct. He mirrored the movement, intercepting "Julian" before he could flank the main melee.

Adrian planted his left leg and whipped his right leg around in a lethal scythe kick, aiming directly for "Julian"’s temple. The timing was perfect. The angle was exquisite. Even "Julian" seemed impressed.

BAM!

"Julian" raised his arms in a cross-block, absorbing the impact.

But then, something shocking happened.

The man who was supposed to be the invincible Blood Eagle was lifted off his feet by the force of the kick. He flew backward, tumbling through the air and crashing near the edge of the main skirmish.

The crowd gasped. Adrian Starr had just knocked down The Eagle?

Adrian didn't pause to question his luck. He saw an opening and took it. He sprinted forward, launching himself into the air for a finishing stomp, aiming to crush "Julian"’s chest before he could recover.

As Adrian descended like a hawk, "Julian" lay on the grass, looking up. Suddenly, the corner of his mouth twitched into a sly, mocking smirk. He mouthed a single, silent word.

Trap.

Adrian’s heart skipped a beat. His assassin’s intuition screamed at him. Danger.

Before his boot could make contact, a blur of motion erupted from the chaotic melee nearby. A figure in a standard prison uniform—someone who had blended perfectly into the background—lunged out.

It was the real Julian Cross.

But Adrian didn't know that. All he saw was a random inmate interfering.

Adrian forced his body to twist in mid-air, abandoning the stomp to block the incoming punch. He threw up his right arm in a circular parry.

THUD.

Fist met palm.

Adrian glared at the interloper, preparing to snap the fool’s wrist. But before he could apply pressure, the "random inmate’s" hand opened.

It wasn't a punch. It was a trap.

The fingers clamped onto Adrian’s wrist like a vice made of titanium.

CRACK.

The sound of bones shattering was audible even over the roar of the crowd. Adrian’s right wrist was crushed instantly.

Before Adrian could even scream, the attacker yanked him forward, off-balance. Simultaneously, the attacker’s leg lashed out, shattering Adrian’s kneecaps with a low, devastating kick.

And then, the coup de grâce.

The attacker’s left hand shot out, fingers hooked into rigid claws. They dug into Adrian’s right shoulder, bypassing muscle and finding the joint.

SQUELCH.

Fingers met bone. The shoulder blade crumpled.

With a fluid, terrifying motion, the attacker pressed down on the shattered shoulder while driving his knee upward into Adrian’s exposed elbow joint.

SNAP!

"AAAAHHH!"

A scream of pure, unadulterated agony ripped through the air. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc as Adrian Starr’s right forearm was torn clean off at the elbow, held aloft in the grip of the man everyone thought was a nobody.

The Hundred-Man War had just begun, and one of the kings of the East Wing had already fallen.