The Condemned King

Chapter 006

Bam!

The collision was seismic. Two fists, one large and one small, met with the force of two freight trains colliding head-on. The impact produced a sound less like flesh hitting flesh and more like a sledgehammer striking an anvil—a sharp, metallic clack that reverberated across the yard.

Julian Cross stumbled back two steps. Thud. Thud. His feet stamped into the earth, leaving two distinct, inches-deep depressions in the packed soil. He exhaled slowly, shaking out his hand, his expression an impenetrable mask of calm.

Vincent Marino, however, was launched backward as if fired from a cannon.

He flew ten meters through the air before slamming into the brick perimeter wall with a bone-jarring crash. He slid down to his knees, his massive chest heaving, gasping for air. His right arm hung uselessly at his side, a ruined mess of mangled meat and shattered bone. The little finger was twisted at a grotesque angle, the white of the bone visible through the torn skin.

Too strong.

A ripple of genuine fear washed over the watching crowd. If Julian's earlier execution of Rocco Santini—a single kick turning a man into paste—had shocked them, this exchange terrified them. Vincent Marino was a tank. He was one of the strongest men in the East Wing. To see him dismantled in a single exchange made the two thousand inmates question reality. They began to mentally calculate just how much raw kinetic force was packed into Julian's lean frame.

Julian Cross stared coldly at the kneeling giant.

"My mentor once told me," Julian said, his voice carrying clearly in the dead silence, "that if an enemy harbors hatred in their heart, you must destroy them completely. Never leave a tiger to lick its wounds. Especially a tiger with claws as sharp as yours."

He took a slow, deliberate step forward.

"You are strong, Vincent. And your eyes are filled with hate. If this were the outside world, I might have shown mercy. But in this hellhole, where life is cheaper than dirt, mercy is just a slow form of suicide. You can only blame your bad luck."

Julian’s foot snapped out, kicking a soccer-ball-sized clump of hardened earth toward Vincent. It whistled through the air like a cannonball.

Vincent Marino, despite his shattered arm, was a fighter to the core. With a roar of defiance, he slapped the wall with his good hand, launching himself sideways to dodge the projectile. He rebounded, using the momentum to flip into the air, aiming a desperate, crushing stomp at Julian's head.

But he hit nothing but air.

Before his feet could connect, a shadow moved beneath him. A premonition of death flashed through Vincent's mind.

"Hah!"

With a guttural shout, Julian Cross unleashed a devastating uppercut into Vincent's exposed abdomen. The blow was surgically precise and catastrophically powerful.

Vincent felt something inside him tear. He was lifted off the ground again, thrown like a sack of wet laundry. This time, there was no recovery. He landed heavily, tumbling across the dirt. Every bone in his torso felt like it had been put through a grinder. His ribs were powder; his internal organs had shifted.

He tried to stand, but his legs refused to obey. He collapsed to his knees, vomiting great gouts of dark, clotted blood onto the grass. His eyes began to glaze over.

Julian Cross walked slowly toward him. He paused, looking out over the sea of faces—the two thousand murderers, the gathered guards, the hidden kings. His gaze was heavy, suffocating.

"Let this be the final warning," Julian announced, his voice ice-cold. "I want peace. I want silence. If anyone else tries to disturb me, I cannot promise I will hold back again. Interfere with my life at your own peril."

He stopped behind the kneeling Vincent Marino.

Julian raised his right hand. His fist unclenched, fingers straightening into a knife-hand strike. He brought it down on the back of Vincent's skull.

Crack. Splat.

It was a wet, sickening sound.

The force of the blow was so concentrated, so perfectly transferred, that the pressure inside Vincent's skull spiked instantly. In a display of horrific physics, Vincent's eyeballs were ejected from their sockets. They shot out, trailing optic nerves and white matter, and rolled across the ground to rest at the feet of a trembling inmate.

The inmate stared at the staring eyes. He screamed—a high, thin sound of pure terror—and scrambled backward, tripping over his own feet.

Chaos.

The yard erupted. The sheer, visceral horror of the kill sent a shockwave through the population. Even the five Overlords watching from the sidelines felt a cold shiver run down their spines. To decapitate a man was one thing; to strike with such precise, vibrating force that the brain liquefied and the eyes popped out? That required a level of mastery that bordered on the supernatural. It was the transition from extreme motion to extreme stillness in a single point of contact.

"Clap. Clap. Clap."

The slow, sarcastic applause broke the tension.

A short, morbidly obese man waddled out of the crowd, flanked by a dozen bodyguards. Despite being in a death row prison, he was immaculate. His skin was pale and smooth, his cheeks rosy, and his slicked-back black hair shone with oil. His rolls of fat shook as he walked, a testament to a life of gluttony in a place of starvation.

"Brother Julian Cross," the fat man wheezed, smiling like a salesman. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Nathan Black, the Overlord of Umbrage Block. They call me Black Belly."

He gestured vaguely at the corpse.

"That strike... simply magnificent. I may not be a fighter, but I appreciate art when I see it. A talent like yours deserves better than a cold cell. How about this? You move into my suite. I have the best food, the softest beds. I guarantee you absolute peace and quiet. No one will bother you. What do you say?"

"Oi, Poison Bag," a raspy voice cut in. " trying to poach talent right in front of everyone? You have no shame."

An old man stepped forward. His hair was silver, but his eyes were sharp as flint. He walked with a straight back, radiating a quiet, dangerous authority. It was Lucas Bright, the Prince and Overlord of Radiance Block.

Nathan Black’s smile vanished. "Old man Lucas, I didn't provoke you today. Back off."

Lucas Bright spread his hands innocently. "Provoke? Who's provoking? I'm just here to invite Brother Julian for a cup of tea. Is that a crime?"

"You..."

"Shut your mouths, both of you!"

A roar silenced them. Rex Dalton stepped between them, his muscles twitching with adrenaline. "You make me sick. If you want a bodyguard, go hire one. Get lost."

Nathan Black and Lucas Bright frowned, their bodyguards bristling at the insult. But before they could issue a command, Rex Dalton moved.

He turned, grabbed a jagged rock the size of an engine block—easily three hundred pounds—and spun. With a roar, he hurled it. The massive stone whistled through the air, crashing into the ground right between the two rival groups.

BOOM.

Dust billowed. The earth shook. The bodyguards scattered like roaches, dragging a terrified Nathan Black to safety.

Rex Dalton didn't wait. He used the distraction to launch himself like a rhino. He charged straight at Julian Cross. Ten paces away, he leaped, soaring through the air with a flying kick aimed at Julian's chest.

Julian frowned. He spun, his leg whipping out in a counter-kick.

BANG.

The collision sent shockwaves through the dirt. Julian grimaced, sliding backward ten feet until his back hit the wall. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth.

Rex Dalton was also thrown back, crashing into the dirt. But he bounced up instantly, his face split in a manic grin, eyes burning with a feverish light.

The crowd watched in stunned silence. Monsters. Both of them.

Rex Dalton wiped dirt from his face and pointed a finger at Julian.

"Listen to me! I, Mad Tiger, have never respected anyone in my life. But that strike... that was beautiful. This prison... it's a playground! Conquering these so-called Overlords is going to be the thrill of a lifetime."

He swept his arm across the yard, dismissing the two thousand inmates as if they were ants.

"I've been watching. In this whole damn zoo, there are maybe three people who can give me a workout. But you... you are the only one I can't read. You are the only one who threatens my life. If I want to rule the East Wing, you are the biggest obstacle. So, Julian Cross, I propose a deal."

The arrogance was breathtaking. To dismiss the entire population of the Confinement Death Ward as beneath him was a level of hubris that left the inmates speechless.

Julian wiped the blood from his lip. "What deal?"

"We fight," Rex declared, his voice vibrating with excitement. "A real fight. No holding back. If I win, you never interfere with my business in this prison. Plus, you owe me three favors. If I lose... I swear on my life, as long as I breathe, I will follow you. I will be your dog. I will ensure you have the quiet life you want."

"And if I refuse?" Julian asked.

"Refuse?" Rex laughed, a sound like grinding gears. "If you refuse, I will haunt you. Unless you kill me today, I will never let you have a moment of peace. I will be your shadow, your nightmare."

Julian paused. He looked at the manic giant, shook his head, and sighed.

"You know," Julian said softly, "you are a complete lunatic. A scoundrel. But... for the sake of two years of silence... Julian Cross accepts your challenge!"

The air in the yard electrified.

The crowd buzzed. They had seen Julian’s lethal precision. They had seen Rex’s raw power. They were about to witness a clash of titans. Nathan Black, recovering from his fright, signaled his men to back off, creating a fifty-yard perimeter. The other gangs followed suit, clearing a massive arena.

"Haha! A show like this? I can't miss it!"

A booming voice came from the rear. The crowd parted as a group of officers walked in. Leading them was a man with the insignia of a Colonel on his shoulder—the Deputy Warden of the prison. Behind him, guards carried folding chairs.

Lucas Bright chuckled. "The Deputy Warden wants to enjoy the show with the common folk?"

The Colonel smiled, his eyes cold and amused. "Bring chairs for these six gentlemen as well. Let's watch together." He looked around. "Ethan Skyler, Brandon, Adrian Starr... come down. Join us."

Three men emerged from the crowd. One was tall and cold as ice. One was a giant, towering over seven feet tall. The third was small, nondescript, with dead eyes. The remaining Overlords had arrived.