The Condemned King

Chapter 005

Julian Cross scanned the cavernous cafeteria, his dark eyes passing over murderers and kingpins with crushing indifference, swirling the last dregs of milk in his cup.

He let out a soft, dismissive snort, a sound that carried more weight than a shout in the hushed radius around him.

"Not interested."

The words hit like stones. He drained the milk, throat still raw from crushing a man’s windpipe, then stood, pushed back his chair, and strode toward the exit without looking at the stunned inmates.

To the hardened criminals, Julian Cross’s demeanor was more than rude—it was a declaration of war. 

"Who does he think he is?" someone muttered. "Walking tall like he owns the East Wing?"

Just then, a hushed whisper snake through the crowd, directed at a massive, brooding figure sitting a few tables away.

"Vincent, hey, Vincent," a lackey hissed, leaning in close. "That’s the new kid. The one everyone’s whispering about. That’s him. Last night, he killed Cole Lynx with a single palm strike. Then he kicked Derek Stone’s face in—literally kicked the life out of him. It was brutal. They threw him into the fifth floor immediately. I heard the guards talking during the shift change; they’re calling him a homicidal maniac."

Oh?

The whisper spread like a contagion. Eyes widened. Utensils paused mid-air.

A single palm strike killed Cole Lynx? One kick ended Derek Stone?

These weren’t low-level thugs but seasoned fighters. And this kid… the inmates squinted, struggling to match rumors with reality. He looked like a student, a scholar—no older than eighteen, lean, handsome, and clean-faced, with none of the scars marking everyone else in the room.

Behind him, Rex Dalton, the man they called Mad Tiger, sat watching the retreat. His eyes, usually wild and unfocused, suddenly sharpened, glowing with a predatory luminescence. He stared at Julian Cross’s back as if he had just discovered a new, favorite toy.

"Heh," Rex Dalton chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated in his chest.

With a sudden, jerky motion, Rex reached over to Michael Harris's tray. His hand, large as a bear paw, snatched a fried egg. He shoved the entire egg into his mouth, grease running down his chin, and then, with supreme disrespect, wiped his oily fingers on Michael Harris’s prison uniform.

"Thanks for the snack, canvas-boy," Rex grunted, chewing loudly as he stood up to follow Julian.

Rex Dalton swaggered down the aisle, passing a hulking inmate whose sheer size usually earned him space. Agitated by the newcomers’ arrogance, the man sneered.

"Who the hell is this clown?" the fat inmate spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "Walking around like he's big time?"

Thud.

The sound was dull, heavy, and sickeningly final.

It happened so fast the eye could barely follow. One moment the fat inmate spoke; the next, he was airborne—220 pounds launched backward, flying over thirty feet.

Crash! Crash! Crash!

The body tore through three steel tables, trays clattering, before slamming into the wall. The room gasped in shocked silence. The fat inmate groaned, bubbling, adrenaline keeping him upright. He staggered to his knees, face purple with rage, trembling finger pointing at Rex Dalton, mouth opening to curse, scream, assert dominance.

But only blood came out.

Blaaagh.

A torrent of dark red blood and viscera burst from his mouth, splattering the floor like a grotesque Rorschach. Chunks of liver and lung mixed in. He swayed, eyes rolling back until only the whites showed.

Thud.

He collapsed forward, dead before his face hit the floor.

Whoosh.

The cafeteria erupted—not in cheer, but panic and awe. Hundreds of chairs scraped back as men jumped to their feet, eyes wide with terror. They hadn’t seen him chamber the kick. To launch a man that size and rupture his organs instantly? That wasn’t fighting; it was demolition. 

Rex Dalton didn’t break stride. Amid the chaos, he sneered at the standing inmates, snatched a fried egg from a frozen tray, and popped it into his mouth.

Chewing casually, radiating a terrifying aura of "don't touch me," he strolled out of the cafeteria, following the path Julian had taken.

In a raised observation booth overlooking the mess hall, two military officers stood watching the monitors. One of them, a man with a jawline like carved granite, let a slow smile spread across his face.

"Well, well," he murmured to his colleague. "It looks like the new shipment brought us two very interesting beasts. The arena is going to be lively." He tapped the glass. "Go pull their files. I want everything. Birth to present. Psychological profiles, combat history, everything."

The recreation yard stretched wide, a stark contrast to the cramped cell blocks, a green rectangle beneath high walls and guard towers.

 Julian Cross sat in a far corner, back against the brick, chewing a blade of grass to ground himself. Rows of French Sycamores lined the yard—thick-trunked, peeling bark, canopies broad, silent sentinels older than most men walking beneath them. 

The prison’s history was written in their rings and the blood in the soil. A hundred yards away, Rex Dalton perched atop a jagged rock like a gargoyle, grinning, eyes darting, waiting. He knew the rhythm of this place.

Ten minutes passed.

The steel doors of the cafeteria banged open, and the inmates began to file out into the sunlight. But today, the atmosphere was different. There was no chaotic scattering, no basketball games, no fractured cliques.

Silence reigned.

They moved with hive-mind precision—no shouts, no fights—forming a massive circle, three hundred yards across, around Julian Cross as he chewed his blade of grass. 

The air crackled with anticipation; every face glowed with cruel excitement. The hierarchy had been challenged, and blood would answer. Even Rex Dalton watched from his perch, amused. 

On the walls, correctional officers leaned on railings, rifles slung, pointing and laughing, treating it as a morning matinee. Julian Cross remained oblivious, head down, savoring the faint, organic taste of grass—freedom in short supply here.

When the circle was complete, the crowd parted.

A man stepped forward. He was flanked by a phalanx of seventy hardened criminals, his personal army.

It was Vincent Marino, known to his followers as Vincent.

He rivaled Rex Dalton in bulk, though softer—like a sumo or off-season powerlifter. His muscles strained his uniform. Unlike Rex’s chaotic energy, Vincent radiated cold menace, authority etched in his grim face, eyes scanning Julian Cross like a butcher sizing up a carcass.

He stopped ten paces from Julian.

"Let me introduce myself," Vincent boomed, his voice deep and gravelly. "I am Vincent Marino. I am the Lieutenant of Cataclysm Block. Since our Overlord, Landon Reeve, is currently indisposed, I am the acting authority of this block. You may address me as Vincent."

Julian Cross sighed internally. Peace is a luxury I can't afford, it seems.

Slowly, deliberately, Julian looked up. He didn't stand. He offered a faint, polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Hello. I'm Julian Cross. Can I help you with something?"

"You son of a bitch!" a voice cracked out from behind Vincent. "Watch your tone! Who do you think you are, talking to Vincent like that?"

The shouter was a man with a hideous scar running diagonally across his face, bisecting his right eye—Rocco Santini.

Vincent raised a hand, silencing Rocco. He looked at Julian with a mixture of pity and hardness.

"Julian Cross, is it? Listen, kid. I understand being young and arrogant. We were all young once. But every nation has its laws, and every house has its rules. I don't care who you were on the outside. I don't care what legends you carved out in the underworld. Once you step through those gates, into the East Wing, you follow our rules."

Vincent took a step closer, his shadow falling over Julian.

"Cataclysm Block operates on strict gang rules. Last night, you killed without permission. You slaughtered fellow inmates over a verbal dispute. That is a violation of our code. As the acting leader, I cannot allow the law to be mocked while my boss, Landon Reeve, is away. I have a duty to maintain order."

Julian spat the blade of grass onto the ground. "So? What do you want?"

"So," Vincent said, crossing his massive arms, "you will get on your knees. You will kowtow—head to the ground—to every brother in Cataclysm Block to apologize. Furthermore, because you killed two of our own, the blood price must be paid. You will cut off two of your fingers. You’re new, so I’m being lenient. But the law is the law. Brother... do it yourself."

A heavy silence descended on the yard. A knife was tossed onto the grass at Julian's feet.

Julian Cross looked at the knife, then at Vincent Marino, then at the seventy thugs behind him, and finally at the hundreds of spectators forming the wall of flesh around them. He shook his head, a wry, bitter smile touching his lips.

"I just wanted a quiet life," Julian said softly. "I wanted to spend my two years here in silence. Why do you people insist on pushing me? I really... really didn't want to do this."

He held up his hands, looking at his own fingers.

"Fingers," Julian said, his voice hardening, "you can have. Take them if you can. But kneeling? Apologizing?" He looked Vincent dead in the eye. "You aren't worthy. Julian Cross kneels only to Heaven, to Earth, to my parents, and to my mentor. I will never bend my knee to trash like you."

"Pah!" Rocco Santini spat on the ground, stepping forward again. "You arrogant little prick! Kneel to heaven and parents? Don't make me laugh. Here in the East Wing, in Cataclysm Block, Landon Reeve and Vincent are your parents! They are your gods!"

The atmosphere shifted instantly.

Julian Cross’s eyes, previously calm and detached, suddenly narrowed. The pupils contracted into pinpoints. A flash of red light seemed to arc across his iris.

The temperature in the immediate vicinity seemed to drop ten degrees.

Rocco Santini froze mid-sneer. He felt a sudden, primal chill crawl up his spine. It was the sensation of a mouse realizing the cobra has stopped swaying and is about to strike. In the heat of the summer sun, Rocco broke out in a cold sweat. He stumbled back two steps, his instincts screaming at him to run.

But he couldn't run. Not with the entire prison population watching. Not with the guards looking on. He had to save face.

Vincent Marino sensed his subordinate's hesitation. He gave a sharp, commanding cough.

The signal triggered Rocco’s conditioning. He swallowed his fear and lunged. It was a reflex action—he launched himself into the air, executing a sharp, practiced roundhouse kick aimed directly at Julian’s temple. The form was clean, the speed impressive, the intent lethal.

Julian Cross didn't blink. A cruel, savage grin twisted his lips.

Bang!

The sound of bone colliding with bone echoed like a gunshot.

Julian hadn't moved his body, only his arm. His wrist intercepted Rocco’s ankle with the solidity of an iron bar. Julian didn't flinch. Rocco, however, felt his shin bone vibrating as if it had hit a steel girder. He spun in mid-air, thrown off balance by the impact.

Julian moved. It was fluid, effortless Jeet Kune Do. He flowed with the momentum. His right hand snaked out, fingers turning into a vice grip around Rocco’s ankle.

With a guttural growl, Julian pivoted his waist and swung his arm. He whipped Rocco Santini’s body through the air like a wet towel.

WHAM!

Hiss...

The crowd sucked in a collective breath. Vincent Marino and his lieutenants stumbled back, their eyes bulging.

They stared at the wall. Or rather, at what was left of Rocco Santini.

The man had been smashed against the concrete perimeter wall with such devastating force that he had essentially liquefied. He slid down the rough brick, leaving a thick, dark smear of blood, cranial matter, and bone fragments. He didn't twitch. He was a broken pile of meat.

The sheer brutality of the kill was overwhelming. Several inmates in the front row bent over and retched, vomiting their breakfast onto the grass.

Julian Cross stood tall, dusting off his hands.

"You can insult me. You can demand my fingers. But never," Julian’s voice was low, vibrating with a terrifying rage, "never bring my parents into your filth. I will say this once: I want peace. I want to serve my time quietly. Do not test my patience. My heart is already dead, but my rage is very much alive. Don't make me kill again."

He turned and kicked a random inmate who was standing in his path.

"Move."

Crack.

The inmate screamed as his ribs shattered. He was launched sideways, bowling over seven other men like skittles, clearing a path for Julian.

"Julian Cross! You have gone too far!"

Vincent Marino roared, his face flushing a deep crimson. This was it. The point of no return.

If he let this kid walk away after liquefying one of his men and ignoring his authority, Vincent would be finished. He would lose Cataclysm Block. He would be a joke.

He had to act.

Vincent stomped the ground, the earth seemingly shaking under his weight. He was the second-in-command for a reason. His strength was legendary in the East Wing. Even among the Six Overlords, Vincent was respected. If there was a power ranking, he would easily be in the top fifteen of the entire prison. In this modern gladiatorial pit, strength was the only thing that mattered.

He couldn't let a teenager dismantle his legacy.

"Die!"

Vincent lunged. He didn't hold back. He unleashed 100% of his power. His right fist, massive as a sledgehammer, tore through the air with a terrifying whoosh, aiming directly for the back of Julian's skull. It was a killing blow, executed with the speed and precision of a master brawler.

Bam!

Just as the fist was inches from his head, Julian Cross spun around. He didn't dodge. He didn't block.

He punched.

With a low, animalistic growl, Julian drove his own fist forward, colliding squarely with Vincent’s knuckles.