The Condemned King

Chapter 007

Nathan Black, the Overlord of Umbrage Block, was the first to break the tension. He dropped his heavy frame into one of the folding chairs, the metal groaning under his weight. He flicked a glance at the senior officer beside the Deputy Warden, then looked to the man in charge, a sly, oily smile spreading across his pale, well-fed face.

"Deputy Warden," Nathan Black began smoothly, "this promises to be quite entertaining. It's rare for the Six Overlords of the East Wing to gather like this—peacefully, without trying to slit each other's throats. In honor of the occasion, I have a proposal. Why don't we place a wager?"

The Deputy Warden, a man whose uniform was as crisp as his authority was absolute, threw his head back and laughed. The sound was dry and devoid of warmth.

"Venom—always scheming, always hunting for an angle," the Deputy Warden chuckled, shaking his head. "I know that look. You're still thinking about those four bottles of top-shelf bourbon sent to me by a big-shot in the capital." He tapped his chin theatrically. "Very well. The mood is electric, and I'm feeling generous. I'll put up two bottles. Let's gamble."

The five Overlords' eyes lit up at once. In the grim grey world of the Confinement Death Ward, alcohol was liquid gold—and top-shelf bourbon was nectar of the gods, a reminder of status, power, and lost freedom.

Lucas Bright, the Prince of Radiance Block, laughed, smoothing his silver hair. "Well then. If the Deputy Warden is offering half his private stash, we can't be stingy. We may be death row inmates without heirlooms, but we still have cash." He shrugged with casual arrogance. "I'm never leaving this place anyway. Money's just paper. I'll put up a hundred thousand—and I'm betting on Rex Dalton, the Mad Tiger."

Nathan Black's eyes narrowed. He smirked, teeth too white for a convict. "Fine. If you're throwing away a hundred grand, I'll match it—one hundred thousand, on the new kid, Julian Cross."

The betting fever spread at once. Ethan Skyler of Aether Block nodded. Brandon of Terra Block grunted. Adrian Starr of Astra Block raised a single finger. One by one, every Overlord put down a hundred thousand. The pot swelled to half a million dollars and two bottles of priceless liquor.

Inside the circle, the air had grown heavy, thick with a suffocating pressure.

Neither Rex Dalton nor Julian Cross moved first. Julian had no intention of playing a trained monkey for these criminals, but he kept his word and accepted the challenge. Despite the crowd, he stayed calm—remarkably so for someone his age.

Rex stared at him, then slowly wiped the manic grin from his face. His wild energy compressed into something far more dangerous. He bent his knees, lowered his center of gravity, and spread his arms—right hand thrust forward like a spear, left drawn back to guard his chest.

It was a strange, archaic posture, but effective.

Instantly, Rex Dalton's aura shifted. The rabid, frenetic energy vanished, replaced by a martial artist of terrifying skill. The yard fell silent and oppressive. Two thousand inmates held their breath, eyes wide, afraid a single blink would miss the moment of death.

Julian Cross watched the transformation. The corner of his mouth ticked up in a wicked, knowing smile. He extended his right hand, palm up, fingers curling inward.

Come.

A challenge.

ROAR!

The sound that tore from Rex Dalton's throat was less human and more beast—a primal explosion of aggression.

He launched himself forward, his body a coiled spring suddenly released. He didn't just run; he shot into the air, twisting his massive frame in a violent three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation.

His right leg, thick as a tree trunk and hard as iron, whipped around in a devastating arc. It slashed diagonally downward, aiming to cleave Julian Cross's neck from his shoulders.

The speed was blinding. The angle was impossible.

Julian Cross did not flinch. He held his inviting posture until the very last fraction of a second, until the wind from the kick ruffled his hair.

Then, he moved.

His left foot slammed into the ground, driving so hard it cut through the topsoil and anchored him like a pylon. With his base set, his right hand shot up, fingers curled into a rigid claw.

WHACK!

The sound was sharp, like a whip crack.

Julian Cross didn't budge. He caught Rex Dalton's leg. Suspended mid-air, Rex shuddered as his spin's kinetic energy slammed back through his skeleton.

But a combat master, he had anticipated it. Before hitting the ground, he twisted his hips mid-air and launched a second, heavy sweep aimed at Julian's anchored left leg, hoping to snap it while trapped in the earth.

Julian Cross sneered. "Too slow."

With a burst of strength, Julian ripped his left leg from the earth, sending a spray of dust and gravel into the air. He pushed off, executing two rapid, fluid backflips, putting distance between himself and the sweeping leg that missed him by mere millimeters.

The crowd erupted. The sheer athleticism, the power, the speed—it was intoxicating.

Rex Dalton landed and immediately let out another crazed howl. He didn't stand up. Instead, he planted his palms on the ground, inverting his body.

He became a whirlwind, using his hands as support while his legs rained a barrage of kicks. Pistons of power drove his heels toward Julian's chest and head, wind hissing like a storm around him.

Julian Cross retreated with cold focus, steps light and rhythmic. His hands moved in a blur, parrying and deflecting every deadly kick, always a split second ahead, turning Rex's assaults into harmless misses.

Thirty-six kicks. In a matter of seconds, Rex Dalton had launched thirty-six devastating attacks, and not one had connected cleanly.

With a tiger-like roar, Rex Dalton pushed off the ground with his hands. He launched himself high into the air, spinning his body in a tight, glorious seven-hundred-and-twenty-degree rotation. He brought his feet together, turning his body into a human drill, boring down toward Julian with the weight of gravity behind him.

Julian Cross stopped retreating. He planted his feet and threw both fists upward, meeting the descending drill-kick head-on.

BOOM.

The impact kicked up a cloud of dust.

Julian Cross staggered back five steps, his boots leaving drag marks in the dirt. But Rex Dalton was relentless. He landed and didn't pause for a microsecond. He surged forward, his footwork changing completely. It was no longer linear; it was erratic, sliding, slippery. He closed the distance instantly.

This time, the kicks weren't just fast—they were weird. They came from angles that shouldn't have been anatomically possible. They curved around guards, snapped up from blind spots, and flickered like snake tongues.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Despite his perfect defense, Julian Cross couldn't stop them all. He blocked the fatal shots to the head and heart, but the kicks bypassed his palms and slammed into his forearms. The skin split. Blood began to flow, painting Julian's arms in crimson streaks.

The inmates watched in stunned silence. They had never seen legwork like this. Rex Dalton was practically glued to Julian, his legs a blur of phantom motion. To the naked eye, it looked as if he had four legs, striking from everywhere at once.

Every man in the yard imagined themselves in Julian's place and came to the same conclusion: I would be dead. My head would be torn off by now.

In the VIP section, Brandon, the Terra Block Overlord known as Mount Tai, leaned forward, his heavy brow furrowed. "That stance... Is that advanced kick technique?"

Ethan Skyler (Yellow Springs) narrowed his eyes, analyzing the movement. "It looks like following every step. But it's... distorted. More aggressive."

Adrian Starr (Cold Edge) stared intently, his assassin's eyes tracking the motion. "It resembles it. But it isn't. It's something else."

Lucas Bright (The Prince) sat frozen, his mouth slightly open. "The power is terrifying. The speed is inhuman. Is this... is this man even human?"

Nathan Black turned to the Deputy Warden, his voice dropping to a serious whisper. "Deputy Warden, seriously, who is this guy? Where did you find him? He's making Brandon look like an amateur. This Mad Tiger is a monster."

Brandon grunted, shooting a glare at Nathan Black for the insult, but he didn't argue. He looked back at the fight, seeing the afterimages of the kicks and feeling the shockwaves even from a distance. He knew, deep down, he couldn't move like that.

The Deputy Warden smiled, a secretive, satisfied expression. "My dear Poison Bag, those four bottles of bourbon have been aging in my cabinet for three years. I haven't touched a drop. Do you think I would risk them on a coin toss? I have absolute confidence. Rex Dalton... he is special."

Lucas Bright couldn't take his eyes off the combatants. "Colonel, tell us. What is his background?"

The Deputy Warden extended his hand, palm up. "Old rules."

"You greedy..." Nathan Black and Lucas Bright both glared, but the curiosity was eating them alive. The violence in the ring was too mesmerizing.

"Fine!" Lucas Bright snapped. "I'll add twenty thousand to the pot."

"Hahaha! Excellent!" The Deputy Warden grinned. "Listen closely. Yesterday afternoon, a convoy arrived at the Confinement Death Ward. It consisted of four heavily armored transport trucks. Each truck—each entire vehicle—was transporting only one prisoner. They were split up: East, West, North, and South. The one delivered to our East Wing... was Rex Dalton."

Adrian Starr gasped. "Armored transport trucks? For one man? Even when Ethan Skyler was brought in, he didn't get that kind of treatment. And there were four of them?"

The officer smiled chillingly. "That is all you need to know. We are friends, in a manner of speaking, so I will give you a piece of advice: either kill Rex Dalton, or prepare to live in hell. If he survives, he takes over."

The five Overlords exchanged dark glances. Their pupils contracted. They looked back at Rex Dalton not as a gambler's horse, but as an existential threat.

Brandon's voice rumbled like grinding stones. "What about Julian Cross? In my opinion, he isn't weaker than the Tiger."

"Julian Cross?" The Deputy Warden shrugged, dismissing the boy. "I have no idea. He's a variable. An accident. He wasn't part of the plan."

In the arena, the tempo shifted again.

After unleashing a storm of eighty-one consecutive kicks, Rex Dalton roared, the sound tearing at his throat. He leaped into the air once more. But this time, he didn't kick.

He spread his legs wide, using the momentum to spin his torso violently. He descended from the sky like a meteor. He bent his right arm, clasping his right fist with his left hand to reinforce the structure. He was dropping his entire body weight, multiplied by gravity and rotation, into the point of his right elbow.

He aimed directly for the crown of Julian Cross's head.

It was one of the deadliest moves in his arsenal—the power elbow. A move designed to crush skulls like eggshells.

Julian Cross looked up. He didn't dodge. He crossed his wrists above his head, interlocking his ten fingers into a net of bone and tendon. He braced himself to catch the falling sky.

CRUNCH.

The impact was sickening.

Although Julian Cross had braced for it, the sheer, crushing weight of the blow was overwhelming. The ground beneath him liquefied. His legs were driven into the earth, sinking past his ankles, past his shins, burying him all the way to his knees in the soil.

Gulp.

The sound was audible. Two thousand inmates and the entire roster of guards swallowed simultaneously.

Even though most of them knew nothing of martial arts, the kinetic reality of what they just witnessed was undeniable. The explosive power contained in Rex Dalton's strike was terrifying. It was the kind of force that shattered concrete.

They felt a collective shiver of fear. Rex Dalton wasn't just a fighter; he was a force of nature. A "Mad Tiger" was an understatement; he was a rabid beast, a biological weapon.

In contrast, Julian Cross, who had seemed so terrifying earlier, now appeared to be on the back foot. He was passive. Defensive. While his blocking was technical perfection—a visual feast of deflection and absorption—it lacked the visceral intimidation of Rex Dalton's suicide-style offense. He seemed weaker.

The crowd began to murmur, wondering why the boy who popped eyes out of skulls was letting himself be hammered into the dirt.

Then, they saw it.

Snap.

Julian Cross, buried to his knees in the earth, his hands apparently pinned by the massive elbow strike, suddenly moved.

His passive defense vanished.

His hands, which had been absorbing the blow, suddenly snapped tight. His fingers turned into iron talons. One hand clamped onto Rex Dalton's upper arm, the other onto his forearm, locking the elbow joint in a vice grip.

His fingers dug into the muscle, piercing the skin like the talons of a golden eagle snatching a hare.

Rex Dalton's frantic, flowing offensive came to a screeching, jarring halt. He tried to pull back, but he was immovable. He was trapped.

Julian Cross slowly raised his head.

The corner of his mouth curled up. It wasn't a smile of fear, nor of effort. It was a smile of pure, predatory arrogance. His eyes locked onto the Mad Tiger, burning with a cold, mocking fire.

"Hotshot fighter," Julian Cross whispered, his voice cutting through the silence. "Your Kung Fu is good. Impressive, really."

His grip tightened, drawing a hiss of pain from Rex.

"But unfortunately for you," Julian continued, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a growl, "your opponent is me. Julian Cross."

"You're done playing offense," Julian said. "Now... it's my turn to perform."