W̵̥̗͇̺̻̗̙̠̽́̂̌̀͒̇͂͆͑͛̀̋͐̏̋͂̉̂̃̅͋̂͒́̄̕͘͜͝͝a̷̢̳̦̭͍̦͔̘̜̼͚̰̼̬̩̗̞̞̬̦͇͚͎̤̦͇̞͔̲̬̲̜̺̞̠̣̩̹͍͒̈̀̉͗̈́̀͌͜ŗ̵̡̛̛͈̳̗̖̫̙͇͓̙͙̤̺̞̘̮͈̥̜̞͚̞̼͉̯̬̬̻̣̮̦͊͂͋͛̇͒̓͋̎͑̀͛́̅͑̐͝ͅͅ ̸̡̡̤̖̖͔̞̣͉͓̝̀͋͋̆͌͂̏͒î̴̢̮͇̮͕̪̙̩̮̗͙̭̹̲̻̹̤̜͍̖̲̝̝͇̭̟̱̱̫̳̱͖͍͕̤̋͋͐̃̆̓̌͗̑͒̾̾̋͂̃̒̀̾͌̄̕͘͝͝͝͝s̷̡̧̧̡̨̨̭̭͙̩͔͍̮̞̟̯̱̯̗̲͚̮̳̖͇͉̘̜͔̭͔̳̺̱̱̳̝͑̈́͜ͅ Peace Part 3

Moments before Houston saves Edward. 

As Houston boarded the Black Hawk helicopter and began to fly away, Maho watched silently. Jefferson, seeing Houston leave, understood it was her cue to walk back to the others. As she passed by many of the Rangers and Houston's Rangers, she overheard their conversation.

"Man, I miss our old high school," one of the loyalists said.

"You mean Vermont or Davy Crockett?" his buddy replied.

"The old Davy Crockett, before we turned it into a floating high school platform," he clarified.

"Oh yeah, I miss that too. If it wasn't for Groton High School and its allies, we'd still have that place in one piece. But sadly, we don't," his buddy lamented.

"Well, at least our new high school's location is better than the last one," he added.

"Yeah, living on it is cool, but I feel bad for those who have to take a boat to get in. They even had to change the school schedule because of that," his buddy replied.

"Yeah. I just hope that someday, we can go back to Mother Base," he said with a sigh.

After overhearing the Rangers talk about wanting to go home, Maho continued walking. She entered the command tent, where the others were waiting. The League commanders were still absent, off attending to something.

"Houston left?" Davis asked.

"Yes, he's gone. Jefferson stayed behind to man the radio for him," Maho replied.

"Alright, so they're delaying the rescue of Ed. I guess we're going in ourselves," River said, frustration evident in his tone.

"Are we really sure we can attack them? I mean, the city must be heavily defended," Darjeeling said, her concern evident.

"And let's not forget all the infantry carrying anti-tank weapons that could disable our tanks," Kay added.

"Guys..." Miho spoke up, her voice cutting through the tension in the room. "We've been fighting for this island for almost a year. I know we're all tired of this war. Many of us want to go home, wishing we were never here in the first place. But we can't just walk away while one of our friends is still being held by our allies' old enemy. We can't leave him behind—not yet. I say we go, rescue our friend, and end this awful war once and for all."

"God, that was so cheesy," a voice commented.

Everyone turned to see Graham standing in his Grand Lake High Marine Commander uniform.

"What do you want, Hollywood?" River asked, clearly annoyed by Graham's appearance.

"Look, I know you all want to save your friend," Graham said, stepping forward. "But I say leave it to us—or to Houston. He left for a reason, and I'd bet money it's to save your friend. So for your own sakes, don't do anything reckless. If you go in guns blazing, you'll only screw over Houston and your friend. Trust me—I'm speaking from experience."

"So you'd rather we sit around and do nothing?!" Katyusha snapped, clearly frustrated with the delay.

"Graham, we can't just sit here and do nothing! That's all we've been doing while your Marshal Commander plays his tactical espionage games. Meanwhile, we're stuck here with the last traitor," Jonathan said, his anger simmering.

"I'm sorry, but you need to stand down," Graham said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

River's patience snapped, his frustration boiling over. "You think you can just waltz in here and tell us what to do?!" River shouted, stepping closer to Graham.

"I'm not telling you what to do; I'm telling you what not to do. There's a difference," Graham shot back, his smirk only adding fuel to the fire.

That was the last straw. River lunged forward and swung his fist, connecting with Graham's face and shattering his sunglasses. Graham stumbled back, rubbing his cheek. Without missing a beat, he tossed the broken sunglasses aside and reached into his jacket, pulling out another pair. With deliberate defiance, he slid them on using his middle finger, effectively flipping River off.

"Nice shot," Graham said, smirking. "But you just scuffed up my favorite pair. Now we've got a problem."

"Yeah? Let's settle it then!" River snarled.

The two charged at each other, fists flying. Graham's fighting style was surprisingly fluid, dodging River's heavy punches with ease. "What's the matter, big guy? Too slow!" Graham taunted, ducking under another swing.

River growled in frustration, throwing a wide hook, but Graham sidestepped effortlessly. Then, with precision, Graham delivered his signature move—a lightning-fast nut punch.

River froze mid-motion, his face contorting in pain. Before he could recover, Graham followed up with an uppercut, sending River stumbling backward.

"Oops, looks like someone needs a time-out," Graham mocked, adjusting his sunglasses with a smirk.

"You son of a—!" River growled, shaking off the pain and charging again.

The fight escalated, with Graham dodging and countering expertly. "Is that all you've got, River? Come on, I thought you wanted to save your friend. Or are you saving all that anger for Houston's enemies?" Graham jeered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Their clash drew the attention of everyone in the tent. Maho stepped forward, clearly unimpressed. "Enough! Both of you!" she commanded, her tone icy and authoritative.

Graham paused, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. I was just teaching him a lesson in humility."

River glared at him but held back, breathing heavily as he straightened up.

"Both of you need to focus," Maho continued. "This isn't about your pride or personal grudges. It's about rescuing Edward and ending this war. Act like the leaders you claim to be."

"Fine but I'll say this don't start attacking not when Houston and Edward is in there." Graham said as he walked away. 

"We can't listen to that guy right?" ask River as he shakes off the pain that he received from Graham.

"No... He wasn't here on this island long enough we got to move in when we have a chance I say we start attacking now." Miho said

Meanwhile, Red was in his tent, carefully inspecting his airsoft weapons, ensuring each one was in top condition. Satisfied with his inspection, he set the weapons aside and reached for the katana lying next to him, preparing to sharpen it.

Just as he was about to start, the tent flap opened, and Sergeant Thompson and Shadow stepped inside.

"Hey, Red. Did you know we ran out of airsoft ammo?" Shadow said, her French accent adding a touch of elegance to her otherwise serious tone.

"Yeah, I heard Sean complaining about it to Dean earlier," Red replied with a sigh. "Jefferson mentioned there was an issue with the supply shipment. Apparently, they canceled all shipments to the island, so now they're resorting to airdrops for supplies and ammo."

"That's bullshit," Shadow said, crossing her arms. "We're running empty here. Hell, even the tanks are out of ammo. Most of the tank crews have had to join the infantry."

Red nodded, his expression weary. "It's a mess, that's for sure," he said as he began sharpening his blade.

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden commotion outside the camp. Shouts echoed through the air, drawing Red and his companions to the entrance of the tent.

Outside, a group of League soldiers had gathered, peering curiously at the source of the noise. Near the radio station, one of the radio operators was shouting excitedly.

"Hey! The League called! The match is over! We're going home!" the radio operator yelled, his voice ringing out across the camp.

For a moment, there was stunned silence. Many of the boys from the League's schools exchanged looks of disbelief, unsure whether to trust the announcement.

"Is this some kind of joke?" one of them muttered.

But the radio operator wasn't done. He quickly adjusted the radio equipment and broadcasted the message for all to hear. The familiar voice of the League President came through, live on the airwaves.

"To all American and Japanese participants in the second League and Association match, I am pleased to announce that the match is officially over. You are to begin preparations to return home. Thank you for your perseverance, dedication, and sportsmanship."

The camp erupted into a mix of cheers and incredulous murmurs. Some whooped in joy, while others stood frozen, processing the news.

Red stepped back into his tent, his katana forgotten for the moment. Shadow raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a small, satisfied smile.

"Well, I didn't see that coming," she said.

"Neither did I," Red replied. "But if this is real, then maybe—just maybe—we can finally get some rest."

Thompson, who had remained quiet until now, grinned. "Guess it's time to start packing up, huh?"

"Yeah," Red said, a faint smile breaking through his stoic demeanor.

The camp was alive with celebration. Groups of Scottish Americans from Washington Boys' and Girls' Academy gathered together, their joyful voices ringing out in cheers and songs. Nearby, Native Americans from Kansas Chief High performed a traditional Comanche tribal dance, their movements reflecting their cultural pride as they celebrated the end of the match.

Muller, still wearing his North High School officer's uniform, stood on the sidelines with a small smile. He watched as Gunther and Captain Ludwig joined their fellow German-Americans in song, their voices harmonizing with a familiar German tune.

Not far away, Elijah, dressed in his Kansas Chief High commander's uniform, stood with Wesley, who was donned in the sharp British officer uniform of Washington Boys' and Girls' Academy.

"Can't believe it's finally over," Elijah said, his voice tinged with both relief and disbelief.

"Ja," Muller replied, his German accent soft but evident. "Four months of this. I guess our parents must've finally grown tired of waiting for us—especially those involved with the Association and the Federation."

"Yeah, I agree, mate," Wesley chimed in, his English accent adding a refined edge to his words. He glanced at the celebrations around them, a small smile playing on his lips. "Though I imagine some of them will have a thing or two to say about how long this dragged on."

Elijah chuckled, his gaze shifting to the Native American dancers. "True, but for now, let's just enjoy the fact that it's over. No more long nights worrying about strategies, no more endless tank repairs, and no more war games—at least for a while."

"Well said," Muller agreed, lifting his hand in a subtle gesture of acknowledgment toward his celebrating comrades.

As the three commanders stood observing the celebrations, they couldn't help but overhear snippets of conversations from the boys in the background.

"Man, Joey's on fire with that dance!" one of the boys cheered, laughing as Joey executed an enthusiastic Kazotsky kick dance in the middle of the crowd.

Another boy chuckled. "Yeah, he's been waiting to bust that out since the match started!"

Joey grinned, continuing his spirited dance while others clapped in rhythm, cheering him on.

Muller, Elijah, and Wesley exchanged amused glances. The lively scene brought a rare moment of levity amidst the tension.

It was then that Graham entered, his presence immediately drawing attention. He walked over to the group, his expression a mix of relief and weariness, though he couldn't help but smirk as he spotted Joey's antics.

"My boys sure know how to celebrate," Graham remarked.

"Joey, of course," Muller said with a wry smile. "Always the entertainer."

The two old friends clasped hands in greeting.

"Graham," Muller said, studying his friend. "What brings you over here? I thought you'd be busy keeping the Grand Lake Marines in line."

Graham shrugged, the casual air dropping slightly as he sighed. "Needed to talk to you, actually. It's about the Association and Federation teams. Word is, they're planning to attack the city we've got under siege."

Muller frowned, confusion crossing his face. "Attack the city? Why would they do that? Isn't Houston in there?"

"Exactly," Graham said grimly, his tone darkening. "That's why I told them not to move in. Whatever Houston's up to, he's got a plan. Charging in blindly is only going to screw things up for everyone. But..."

"But?" Muller pressed.

Graham shook his head. "You know how stubborn some of them can be. They're convinced that taking the city is the only way to end this once and for all."

Muller's brow furrowed deeper. "That's madness. If Houston's working from the inside—"

Before Graham could respond, their conversation was interrupted by the unmistakable rumble of engines.

The group turned toward the source of the noise, their expressions shifting to disbelief as they saw a column of tanks beginning to roll toward the city.

"Nein!" Muller cursed loudly in German. "Idiots! What are they doing?"

Graham ran a hand down his face, frustration evident. "I told them not to attack! Damn it, they're going to blow everything!"

Elijah and Wesley joined them, their faces equally alarmed as they watched the tanks advance.

"Bloody hell," Wesley muttered, his English accent sharp. "They're really going for it, aren't they?"

Elijah exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "We've got to stop them somehow. If they engage, this whole thing's going to spiral out of control."

Graham clenched his fists, glaring at the tanks as they rumbled onward. "They're not just ignoring orders—they're ignoring common sense. Damn fools."

Muller turned to Graham, his voice cold with determination. "We have to get them to stop. Now."

The scene shifted abruptly as the commander's voices rang out, snapping the celebrating soldiers back to reality.

"Alright, boys! Party's over!" Muller's voice boomed, cutting through the noise. "Get to your tanks, grab your weapons! We're moving out!"

"Let's go, let's go!" Elijah added, clapping his hands sharply as Kansas Chief infantry scrambled to collect what was left of their airsoft ammunition. "We're on the clock!"

"Bloody lot of you, move it!" Wesley barked to his Washington crews, already climbing into a Sherman. "Take whatever fuel and shells we've got left! Board the carriers if you're on foot!"

The once-joyous atmosphere turned somber as reality sank in. Boys who had been singing and dancing moments before now hurriedly mounted tanks, loading any remaining airsoft rounds and supplies. Infantry, those without rides, clambered onto tank carriers and troop platforms.

Engines roared to life, a rumble of urgency spreading through the camp. The columns of vehicles began rolling out, their direction set for New Avalon.

Cut to Jefferson

The camera panned to Jefferson, striding purposefully toward his Patton tank. His expression was dark, his mouth moving as he muttered curses under his breath.

"Unbelievable..." he growled, tugging his gloves tighter. "They just had to jump the gun..."

He slipped his headset off, finishing a codec call with Houston, who was clearly less than pleased. Jefferson exhaled sharply and turned toward his gathered team—Dean, Red, and Shadow—who stood ready and waiting, fully geared up for the coming assault.

"Alright, listen up!" Jefferson barked, his tone sharp as steel. "We've got a mess to clean up here. Houston gave me orders to join the assault, but thanks to certain impatient idiots, we're now looking at a full-blown assault on New Avalon."

Dean, already suited up and checking his rifle, looked up. "What's the call, sir?"

Jefferson motioned toward Red and Shadow. "Red. Shadow. You're taking the Airborne and pushing ahead. I need you to break through and secure a path for the tanks. Expect resistance—Sobel's traitor Rangers and Airborne units are dug in deep. Do not get yourselves pinned down."

Red nodded, sliding his katana back into its scabbard. "Understood."

Shadow checked her sidearm, a faint smirk crossing her lips as she adjusted her gear. "We'll clear the way. No promises we'll leave them breathing."

Jefferson turned to Dean, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Dean, you're with me. We're gathering every Ranger we've got left for the final push. No excuses. No holding back."

Dean grinned, adjusting his helmet. "Copy that, boss. I'll rally the boys."

Jefferson gave a curt nod, his gaze hardening as he turned to climb onto his Patton tank. Around him, engines were already revving, dust kicking up as the final preparations were made.

"Let's move!" Jefferson shouted, his voice echoing through the camp.

The camera lingered on the teams as they fanned out—Red and Shadow leading the Airborne forward, moving with purpose and discipline, while Jefferson and Dean rallied the remaining Rangers, organizing them into cohesive units.

The sounds of tanks roaring to life, boots stomping on metal carriers, and final weapon checks echoed into the gathering dusk.

The assault on New Avalon had begun.

The first barrage of shells slammed into the city's outer defenses. Entire sections of walls and barricades were obliterated, throwing debris and defenders into the air. The shockwave rippled through the streets, sending Sobel's forces scrambling for cover.

Inside his command building, Sobel's calm demeanor cracked. The distant rumble of explosions shook the windows, and he stood abruptly, barking orders into his radio. "Get those tanks mobilized! Infantry, form up and hold the line! Push them back!"

Hans Tiger I led the charge, its heavy armor shrugging off desperate bazooka rounds. Uncle Sam's Tiger smashed through a makeshift barricade, its massive gun roaring and sending another defensive position into chaos.

"Run! Get out of here!" a traitorous Ranger shouted as he fled, panic written across his face.

"That Tiger is picking us off!" another yelled, fumbling to reload his bazooka. He fired, the round striking the Tiger but doing little more than scorching its thick armor.

Behind Hans, Peter's Panzer 38(t) darted between the narrow streets, flanking enemy positions and firing shells at entrenched infantry. The light tank's crew worked furiously, but the sudden impact of a Sherman's shell rocked their world.

Inside the Panzer, Peter groaned as his head hit the side. "What the hell was that?"

Nikoli was shaking his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. "I think it was an HE round... But that impact—"

A groan from the driver's seat interrupted them. Peter turned to see Chubbs clutching his left shoulder, clearly dislocated.

"Chubbs!" Peter shouted, sliding over to check on him. "Are you okay?"

"No..." Chubbs groaned, his face pale.

Before Peter could respond, the hatch above them burst open. A powder grenade was dropped in, the smoke filling the cabin in seconds.

"Get out, get out!" Nikoli shouted, coughing as he fumbled for the hatch release.

Sobel's defenders regrouped quickly, their infantry surging forward with anti-tank weapons, while more Shermans, Pershings, and Chaffees roared into the fray.

"Davis, watch your left! More infantry coming!" Rivers called out over the radio.

Davis swung his tank's turret, firing at the advancing infantry, but a well-placed bazooka round struck his M6 heavy tank, disabling it. Sobel's men swarmed over the tank, pounding on the hatches, trying to pry them open to drop grenades inside.

"We're overwhelmed!" Davis shouted.

Nearby, Johnathon's T-14 was hammered by a Pershing's shell. The impact blew open a side plate, and the crew inside screamed as shrapnel tore through the cabin. Blood smeared the controls as Johnathon called out, "We've got injuries! Tank's disabled!"

Despite their initial success, the attacking force was being pushed to the brink. Smoke and fire filled the air as more coalition tanks were disabled or captured. Infantry found themselves overwhelmed by Sobel's disciplined forces, who systematically eliminated pockets of resistance.

Maho's voice crackled over the radio, urging her forces to regroup. "Do not falter! We cannot let them break us here!"

However, even her Tiger I faced relentless fire. Shells impacted its armor repeatedly, shaking the crew inside. One of her girls yelled, "Commander, we can't take much more of this!"

Maho peeked out of her Tiger I's hatch, surveying the chaos. Her heart sank as she watched Darjeeling's tank get flanked by two Pershings. The combined fire disabled her vehicle, leaving it a smoking ruin in the streets. Moments later, a barrage of M6 Bazooka fire struck Kay's Sherman, immobilizing it as well.

Her chest tightened as she turned, only to see Katyusha's T-34 meet the same fate. Finally, her eyes locked on Miho's Panzer IV just as a Sherman fired its shot. The shell struck true, marking the tank as disabled.

"Miho!" Maho gasped, gripping the hatch rim tightly.

Now, her Tiger I was the focus of the defenders' wrath. Dozens of infantry began aiming their anti-tank weapons, and several Shermans adjusted their turrets toward her position. Maho clenched her teeth, preparing for the inevitable hit.

Just as the defenders were about to fire, a thunderous explosion rocked the battlefield. A Sherman knocked out disabled.

"URA!" came a thunderous shout.

Maho turned toward the source and saw a sight that reignited her hope. Grand Lake High had arrived. Graham's Marines, supported by Joey's Soviet Red Army, surged into the city. A mix of M60s and T-34s led the charge, firing relentlessly and scattering the defenders.

"Move, comrades, move!" one of the Soviet boys shouted, his voice echoing through the chaos.

Maho watched as the reinforcements created a ripple of confusion among the traitor Rangers. A group of Soviet infantry carrying RPGs and PPSh-41s stormed into the fray, covering their advancing tanks.

"The Soviets are here!" one of the traitor Rangers cried out in alarm.

"Take them out!" another yelled, firing his M6 Bazooka wildly, but the shot missed its mark.

On the opposite side of the city, more tanks and infantry emerged from the shadows. Other League schools launched coordinated attacks, striking the defenders from multiple directions. This sudden maneuver split Sobel's forces, forcing them to redirect their attention and resources.

"Push through their lines!" Graham's voice boomed over the radio as his Marines advanced, their M60s tearing through enemy defenses.

Meanwhile, Joey's Soviet Red Army pressed forward with precision, their T-34s creating a wedge in the defenders' formation.

"Keep up the pressure! Don't give them time to regroup!" shouted another Soviet soldier, urging his comrades onward.

The defenders fought fiercely, but the sheer volume of firepower and the coordination of the attackers began to turn the tide. Sobel's forces, previously confident, found themselves stretched thin and struggling to hold their positions.

Graham's tank rumbled to a stop near a group of disabled vehicles. The sounds of airsoft gunfire and shouted orders echoed around the chaotic battlefield. Climbing out of his tank, Graham adjusted his Marine officer's uniform, brushing off the dust. His eyes scanned the ragtag group of commanders and crew members gathering nearby, their uniforms smeared with grime, cuts visible on their faces, and some nursing bruises.

"What the hell did I just say, guys?!" Graham barked, his voice carrying the sharp edge of a seasoned leader.

Several of the commanders flinched, clearly about to respond, but Graham cut them off with a wave of his hand.

"No. I don't want to hear it!" he snapped. "It doesn't matter. Right now, we need to finish what you started. Take any wounded back to the rear lines and let the medics handle them. Everyone else—gear up. We're pushing forward toward the command building!"

The group hesitated, glancing at each other nervously. Katyusha, ducking under the hail of airsoft pellets zipping past, finally spoke up. "But Graham, none of us have this kind of experience!"

Graham narrowed his eyes and stepped closer, his voice firm but not unkind. "Well, consider this your first lesson. This is what real leadership looks like. Now split up. Help Wesley, Elijah, Muller, and Jefferson's boys to push toward the command building. Rivers, Kay—you're with me. Round up anyone whose tanks are immobilized and get them moving. Nonna, Austin, Mark—you're with Joey. Now move!"

As Graham barked his orders, his Marines began rallying around him, quickly organizing into squads. The commanders scattered to join their respective groups, adrenaline overriding their exhaustion.

Joey stood at the edge of his advancing formation, his Soviet-inspired uniform catching the light of the setting sun. Nonna, Austin, Mark, and a handful of other boys and girls from the Joint High School approached him. He nodded curtly at them, his expression steely.

"You're with me," Joey said, his voice calm but authoritative. He hefted his airsoft PPSh-41, the iconic drum magazine gleaming. "We're going to clear out every last bit of scum defending these buildings. No mercy."

The group nodded, their nerves settling as Joey's confidence steadied them.

"Move out!" Joey commanded, raising his hand and motioning for them to follow.

As they advanced on the left flank, the rumble of engines signaled reinforcements. North High School's Wehrmacht division rolled into view, their Panzer IVs and Panthers advancing in a tight formation. The sight of their powerful tanks bolstered the morale of the joint force.

Joey's group approached a cluster of buildings on the left side of the area, where the remaining defenders had entrenched themselves. Airsoft gunfire erupted from the windows and sandbag emplacements as the traitor Rangers desperately tried to hold their position.

"Keep your heads down and return fire!" Joey shouted, unleashing a burst of airsoft rounds from his PPSh-41. The pellets pinged off the walls, forcing the defenders to duck back into cover.

"We're in the final hours of the League's downfall!" Joey said, his voice rising above the chaos. "Push forward! No retreat!"

The combined force surged ahead. Wehrmacht troops laid down suppressive fire as the Panthers and Panzer IVs pummeled the defenders' fortifications. Joey's group darted between cover, clearing out rooms and alleyways one by one.

Nonna, wielding her airsoft Mosin-Nagant, picked off defenders with precision shots. "Clear!" she called as she moved to the next position.

Austin and Mark covered the flanks, their rifles sending bursts of airsoft rounds into enemy positions. "They're falling back!" Austin shouted, grinning as the defenders began retreating deeper into the building.

Meanwhile, on another front, Muller's Tiger I tank rumbled forward, its massive frame dominating the battlefield. Behind it, a line of North High School Wehrmacht infantry advanced cautiously, taking cover behind rubble and debris as they moved.

"Fire!" Muller barked in German.

The Tiger's cannon roared, the shell streaking through the air and slamming into a Pershing tank. The enemy vehicle shuddered and was marked as disabled, smoke billowing from its turret.

"Hier! Ein Geschenk von der deutschen Armee!" shouted one of the North High School boys, his voice laced with defiant pride as he lobbed a powder grenade into an enemy position.

The grenade exploded with a cloud of powder, marking several defenders as eliminated.

"Mann am Boden!" another boy shouted, panic in his voice as he saw one of his teammates hit and marked by airsoft rounds.

"Sanitäter!" yelled another, waving toward the medic. A young player in a red-cross armband rushed in, dragging the marked teammate back to safety.

Muller's Tiger rolled over barricades as the infantry pushed alongside it, their airsoft weapons firing in controlled bursts. From the nearby buildings, Kourmormine Girls Academy students—Erika, Koume, and others—emerged from cover, joining the advance. Despite being out of their tanks, their determination was unwavering.

"Keep moving! Take the left flank!" Erika commanded, her voice sharp as she fired her airsoft MP40 at a cluster of enemy defenders.

"Koume, cover me!" a Kourmormine girl shouted as she dashed forward, narrowly avoiding a hail of pellets. Koume nodded, her weapon snapping off suppressive fire as the girl advanced.

Captain Ludwig stood atop a Panther tank nearby, shouting orders in rapid German to keep the formation tight. "Los! Bewegt euch! Haltet die Linie, oder wir werden überrannt!"

"We've got movement on the right!" one of the North High boys yelled, pointing toward an alley where a group of traitor Rangers attempted a counterattack.

"Grenadiers, suppress them!" Ludwig ordered.

A pair of boys armed with replica STG-44s unloaded a barrage of airsoft rounds into the alley, forcing the Rangers to retreat.

"Erika, stay low!" Muller called out from his hatch as his Tiger fired another round, this time disabling a Sherman attempting to flank.

"I'm not leaving until we clear this sector!" Erika shouted back, her eyes blazing with determination.

"Watch out!" Koume screamed as a powder grenade landed near their group. The girls scattered, but one was marked by the blast.

"Sanitäter!" Erika yelled, signaling for a medic. "Get her out of here!"

The medic hurried over, dragging the marked player to safety while the others regrouped.

The combined forces of North High School and Kourmormine Girls Academy began to overwhelm the defenders. Muller's Tiger continued its slow, unstoppable advance, supported by the Panthers and infantry.

"Das ist unser Moment!" shouted Ludwig, raising his airsoft Luger as he urged the troops forward. "No retreat! Push them back!"

Erika rallied her team, Koume and others providing cover fire as they approached a heavily fortified building. The air rang with the sharp cracks of airsoft pellets and the shouts of players coordinating their movements.

"Clear the building!" Muller ordered as his Tiger stopped to provide cover.

Erika led the charge, her team storming the entrance while the Wehrmacht infantry secured the perimeter. Within minutes, the building was marked as cleared, the defenders forced to retreat further into the city.

The rumble of Cromwell and Comet tanks echoed through the streets as the Washington Boys' and Girls' Academy forces pushed forward. The Union Jack and Stars and Stripes flew high on their vehicles, symbolizing their alliance of English, Canadian, Scottish, and Australian-American players. However, their advance was slow, and their forces were pinned down by entrenched defenders raining airsoft fire from fortified positions.

Wesley stood outside his Comet tank, his right arm in a cast but his left hand gripping a sleek airsoft pistol. Despite his injury, he maintained an air of command and calmness, his sharp gaze scanning the battlefield. Beside him, his Vice Commander Colton crouched low, barking orders into a handheld radio. Captain Archie, a fiery Scotsman, stood nearby, his airsoft rifle at the ready.

"Blimey, they've got us in a bloody chokehold!" Archie growled, ducking as a hail of airsoft pellets ricocheted off the rubble they used for cover. "We can't keep takin' hits like this, laddie!"

"We'll manage, Captain," Wesley said, his voice calm despite the chaos. "Colton, where are the reinforcements?"

"Darjeeling and her lads are on their way," Colton replied, glancing up from his radio. "But if we don't push soon, we're done for."

As if on cue, the familiar silhouette of Darjeeling's Churchill tank appeared in the distance, followed by several Matildas and Cromwells of her contingent. A crisp voice called out over the chaos.

"Tea time will have to wait, gentlemen," Darjeeling quipped, her head poking out of the hatch. "Let's show them the refinement of British tactics."

Her forces quickly joined the fray, laying down suppressive fire to relieve Wesley's pinned units. Darjeeling herself exited her tank, carrying a Lee-Enfield airsoft rifle and a cool demeanor.

"Right then, lads and lassies!" Wesley shouted, raising his pistol. "We've got the advantage now. Colton, coordinate with Darjeeling's forces and flank their right side. Captain Archie, take your men and secure the left! No retreat, no surrender!"

"You heard the commander!" Archie roared, rallying a group of Scottish and Canadian players. "Up an' at 'em, lads! Let's gie them a proper thrashin'!"

The combined force surged forward, with Darjeeling's Matildas providing cover fire and Wesley's Cromwells and Comets leading the charge. The defenders scrambled to adjust their positions, but the renewed assault was relentless.

"Keep moving!" Colton shouted, firing his airsoft SMG as he directed a group of Australian-American boys forward. "Clear those positions!"

"Oi! We've got movement on the second floor!" a Canadian boy called out, pointing to a building ahead.

"Leave it to me!" Archie bellowed, tossing a powder grenade through a shattered window. The explosion marked the defenders as eliminated, and cheers erupted from his group.

Darjeeling, meanwhile, moved with grace through the battlefield, taking precise shots with her Lee-Enfield. "Do mind your manners, gentlemen," she said, spotting an enemy sniper and taking him out with a single shot.

As the combined forces closed in on the enemy stronghold, Wesley climbed onto his Comet, addressing his troops.

"This is it!" he shouted. "One last push!" Welsey shouted

The air was thick with smoke and the deafening sound of gunfire. The Rangers and Comanche teams were pinned down under relentless airsoft machine gun and mortar fire. Dean ducked as another powder mortar shell exploded nearby, sending a cloud of dust and marked players scrambling back to the safe zone.

"Gus, get on the damn radio! We need reinforcements now!" Dean shouted, his voice hoarse as he fired a few shots from his airsoft rifle toward the entrenched positions ahead.

Gus grabbed the radio, his hands shaking as he relayed the situation. "Sir, we're pinned down by MG fire! We can't advance—we need someone to take out that MG nest and the mortar team before they wipe us all out!"

Jefferson's calm but strained voice came through the radio. "Understood. Sit tight. Red and his Airborne team are on their way. Hold your ground until then."

Just as another burst of MG fire forced Dean's team to duck lower, the sharp cracks of airsoft rifles and the distinct whistle of reinforcements were heard. Red and his Airborne team swooped in from the flank, supported by several boys from Uncle Sam High School and a group of girls from Ooarai Girls' Academy, who had joined the fight without their tanks.

"Move, move, move!" Red shouted, signaling his team to take up positions. "Dean, keep their heads down! We'll handle the mortar team!"

The combined forces surged forward, dodging and weaving through the hail of airsoft fire. Uncle Sam's boys brought their heavy airsoft machine guns to bear, providing suppressive fire while the Ooarai girls flanked the MG nest.

"Covering fire!" Yukari shouted, her airsoft carbine spitting plastic BBs toward the defenders. Hana moved with precision, her sharpshooter skills taking out marked defenders one by one.

With the MG nest and mortar team neutralized, Dean rallied his Rangers and Comanche forces. The group pushed forward, meeting up with Red's team at a staging area near the command center. In the distance, the thunderous booms of Wesley's Sexton artillery tanks continued to pound enemy positions, their powder shells creating massive plumes of smoke.

"Looks like we've got a real shot now," Dean said, nodding to Red.

"Yeah, but it's going to get ugly up ahead," Red replied, pointing toward the heavily fortified command center. "They've got anti-tank cannons and MG emplacements all over. It's like Berlin out there."

Meanwhile, at another front, Joey's Soviet team was preparing for their final assault. Joey stood on the back of a T-34, addressing his troops with dramatic flair, his PPSh-41 airsoft gun slung across his chest.

"Comrades, wait for the signal," he began, his voice low but commanding. "It is almost over. Today is the day of our glorious vengeance! For ourselves... and for our countries!"

Austin, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow. "Uh, Joey, what exactly do you mean by 'for our countries'? We're playing airsoft, man. It's not that deep."

Mark chuckled, adjusting his airsoft SMG. "Let him have his moment, Austin. You know Joey—he's gotta be the hero of his own movie."

Joey shot them both a glare. "You two are hopeless," he said, before raising a whistle to his lips and blowing it sharply.

The whistle's sound cut through the chaos, and with a collective roar, Joey's team surged forward. The charge toward the command center was met with fierce resistance. Anti-tank cannons fired powder shells, forcing players to dive for cover, while MGs rained airsoft pellets down from fortified positions.

https://youtu.be/dKhAHxaPvCY

(Best Theme for it)

"Push forward!" Joey shouted, his voice rising above the din. "No mercy for the traitors!"

The combined forces of the American Tankery League bore down on the command center like a storm, but the defenders weren't going down without a fight. Every inch of ground was contested fiercely as airsoft MG nests, anti-tank emplacements, and entrenched traitor Rangers and Airborne soldiers threw everything they had into repelling the attackers.

Dean's Rangers, now reinforced by Red's Airborne team and supported by Uncle Sam High School, and Ooarai Girls Academy were pinned by concentrated MG fire from the command center's left flank. Dean, covered in grime, barked orders as his team scrambled for cover.

"Hector! Get a damn grenade up there now!" Dean shouted, pointing toward a fortified MG nest.

Hector fumbled with a powder grenade before lobbing it into the enemy position. The explosion marked the defenders, and the Rangers surged forward, only to be met by another hail of airsoft pellets.

"Keep pushing! We're not stopping now!" Red yelled, his voice carrying over the cacophony. He turned to one of his lieutenants. "Logan, take your squad and flank them. We'll cover you!"

"Got it, sir!" Logan replied, rallying his squad and weaving through the chaotic battlefield.

Joey's team faced the brunt of the anti-tank cannon fire, which ripped through the air, sending powder explosions cascading across the field.

"Comrades, do not falter!" Joey shouted, waving his PPSh-41 as he led the charge.

One of the Uncle Sam players, Mark, ducked as a cannon fired, narrowly missing him. "Joey, are we charging toward the enemy or storming the Reichstag? This is insane!"

Austin, crouched behind cover, yelled back, "I don't think Joey knows the difference!"

Joey smirked as he slid into cover next to them. "Both! Now get moving before I mark you myself!"

With a loud cheer, Joey's team surged forward again. One of the MG nests fell silent as Austin landed a perfect airsoft grenade shot, marking the defenders inside.

On the center flank, Muller's Tiger I rumbled forward, its airsoft cannon firing bursts of smoke and pellets at the entrenched defenders. Behind it, Werhmacht players from North High pushed up under the cover of their tanks.

"Panzergrenadiers, move up!" Muller ordered in German, his voice amplified by a megaphone.

Captain Ludwig, wielding his MP40 airsoft replica, rallied the infantry. "Los, Männer! Wir können nicht scheitern!"

Erika from Kuromorimine, now fighting alongside Muller's team, barked orders to her squad. "Cover fire on the MGs! We need those cannons disabled now!"

Koume, wielding a bolt-action airsoft rifle, picked off defenders from a distance. "Got one!" she called out as a traitor Ranger went down, marked by her shot.

On the far-right flank, Wesley and his team of Washington Boys and Girls Academy players were locked in a brutal firefight. Cromwell and Comet tanks provided cover as the English, Canadian, and Scottish players pushed forward.

"Colton, get that Bren gun set up!" Wesley shouted, firing his airsoft pistol with his left hand, his right arm still in a cast.

"On it, Commander!" Colton replied, setting up the LMG and laying down suppressive fire.

Captain Archie, his Scottish brogue cutting through the noise, yelled, "Lads, dinnae stop now! We've got these bastards on the run!"

Darjeeling, crouching beside Wesley, sipped tea from a thermos between shots. "How delightfully chaotic. Shall we show them how the English handle adversity?"

"Darjeeling, focus!" Wesley barked, reloading his pistol.

"As much I hate to agree with Welsey for saying that Darjeeling we have to foucs." Davis said as he fired the Stern Airsoft.

Inside the command center, the traitor Rangers and Airborne defenders fought tooth and nail. Sobel, now in command, yelled at his men.

"Hold the line! Don't let them through!" Sobel roared, his voice hoarse.

General Reyes, flanked by his team of professional players, calmly directed the defense. "Shift the MG fire to the left flank. Cut off their advance!"

One of the defenders, a young traitor Ranger, called out, "We're running low on ammo!"

"Then make every shot count!" Sobel barked, firing his own airsoft rifle from a sandbagged position.

The outer defenses of the command center crumbled, forcing Sobel's Honor Rangers, Airborne, and General Reyes's professional players to retreat inside. The attacking joint high school forces regrouped outside the main entrance, blood-pumping with adrenaline and determination.

Dean, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, stood with Red, Wesley, Muller, Joey, and Jefferson as they discussed the next move.

"We've pushed them back this far," Dean said. "Now we've got to finish it."

Wesley nodded, his cast-covered arm hanging at his side. "We go in together. Once we breach, every squad pushes to the top. We take the command center and end this madness."

Joey stepped forward, the Soviet flag patch on his arm catching the dim light. "I will lead the charge. My men and I have been waiting for this moment." He turned back to his company, raising his airsoft PPSh-41 into the air.

"Comrades! Your school needs your final commitment!" Joey shouted, his voice booming across the staging area. "Sobel's Honor Rangers and Airborne defending this building will fight to their last pellets! Crush the last remnants of resistance, and this day will be our victory over this city!"

He paused, his eyes scanning the determined faces of his Soviet team. "We must not falter!"

"URA!" the Soviet players roared in unison, raising their weapons as their battle cry echoed through the courtyard.

The combined forces surged forward, kicking open the heavy double doors of the command center. Smoke grenades filled the air, creating a dense fog as the joint high schools entered the building.

The defenders were ready. Sobel and Reyes had turned the interior into a labyrinth of ambushes and fortified positions. Airsoft MGs fired from balconies, while Honor Rangers lobbed powder grenades from stairwells.

"Stay together!" Dean yelled as pellets ricocheted off the walls. "Keep moving!"

Red's Airborne team moved swiftly, flanking a group of defenders holding a corridor.

"Clear this hallway!" Red barked, and his squad unleashed a barrage of fire, marking the entrenched defenders.

The battle inside was even more brutal than outside. Every room and hallway became a war zone.

In the west wing, Wesley's team, supported by Darjeeling and Captain Archie, faced heavy resistance.

"Grenade out!" Colton yelled, tossing a smoke grenade into a room packed with defenders.

Wesley, gripping his airsoft pistol, led the charge. "Move in! Clear them out!"

Darjeeling calmly advanced behind him, dispatching defenders with precision. "Quite the chaotic tea party, wouldn't you say?"

In the east wing, Muller's team cleared the lower levels with brutal efficiency.

"Panzergrenadiers, forward!" Muller ordered, his MP40 rattling off pellets as his infantry moved methodically.

Koume and Erika from Kuromorimine supported the push, their precision cutting down defenders.

"Erika, left balcony!" Koume shouted, firing at a defender attempting to flank them.

"Got him!" Erika replied, marking the player with a single, well-placed shot.

Joey's Soviets pushed straight toward the central stairwell, the defenders' last stronghold before the command center's main control room.

"Keep moving, comrades!" Joey yelled, his PPSh-41 rattling as he covered his advancing troops.

Austin and Mark fought alongside him, ducking behind cover as a defender lobbed a powder grenade their way.

"Joey, they're dug in tight!" Austin shouted.

"Then we dig them out!" Joey replied, signaling his team to launch a coordinated attack.

At the top of the stairwell, Sobel stood with General Reyes and the last of their defenders.

"Hold this position!" Sobel barked. "If they take this stairwell, it's over!"

Reyes calmly adjusted his vest. "They're coming. Let's see if they've got what it takes."

The defenders opened fire as the attackers surged up the stairs. Smoke and pellets filled the air as both sides clashed in the narrow space.

As Red continued to fight alongside his Airborne team, firing his M16A2 airsoft rifle, he caught sight of Sobel retreating from the battle.

"Damn it! Sobel is getting away!" Red shouted from his cover.

"Captain, we can't get to him with this firefight going on," Thompson said, firing from his position.

"We all can't... but one of us can," Red replied, his eyes scanning the chaotic battlefield. He saw Sobel slipping further away.

"Red, what are you doing?" Shadow called out, noticing the determination in his expression.

Without answering, Red tossed his rifle and sword aside. He sprinted into the open, weaving and dodging the hail of airsoft pellets coming from all directions.

"RED!" Shadow and Thompson yelled in unison, watching him dash toward Sobel.

Meanwhile, Jefferson and Dean, fighting alongside the Rangers, worked to hold their position. Graham, Muller, Elijah, and Wesley were engaged in the brutal battle as well, but they all caught sight of Red making his daring move.

"Damn it, Red! What the hell are you doing?!" Jefferson cursed under his breath, momentarily distracted.

"Jeff, watch out!" Dean shouted, pulling Jefferson down just as a powder grenade exploded dangerously close to their position.

Smoke and chaos filled the air as Red closed the distance, his teammates covering him as best they could. The battle raged on around them, but Red's focus was locked solely on Sobel.

Sobel moved purposefully, retreating deeper into the ruins of the building and drawing Red further away from the others. Red pushed on, navigating the treacherous terrain with agile parkour, leaping over rubble and vaulting across broken beams, his focus razor-sharp.

The chase led to a massive old debate room. Red entered cautiously, scanning the dimly lit space. The air was thick with dust, and broken podiums and overturned chairs littered the floor.

"Sobel! Come out and face me!" Red shouted, his voice echoing in the cavernous room.

A chuckle resonated from the shadows, chilling and mocking.
"You've always been persistent, Houston," Sobel's voice taunted, the sound bouncing from every direction.

Red's heart raced as he scanned the room, turning in circles to locate the source of the voice. He strained his ears, focusing on the slightest sound. Then, a mechanical whir broke the silence.

From the far end of the dark room, a masked figure emerged. The figure wore a dark green-and-black suit adorned with old Vermont Tankery Academy insignias. Their armor gleamed under the flickering light filtering through the cracks in the walls, and their face was obscured by a sleek, menacing helmet. They stood atop a glider, eerily reminiscent of an old war machine, its design precise and aerodynamic.

Before Red could react, the glider sped toward him with an ear-piercing screech. The masked person reached down, grabbing Red by the arm and yanking him off the ground. Red struggled fiercely, his feet kicking in midair as he was hauled up and out of the building.

"Let me go!" Red shouted, twisting and striking at the masked figure, trying to free himself from their iron grip.

"You don't belong here, Houston," the masked figure growled, their voice distorted and cold.

The glider burst out of the building, soaring into the open sky. Red thrashed, using his free hand to strike at the masked figure's arm. He managed to land a solid hit on their wrist, causing them to momentarily lose their grip.

With a burst of adrenaline, Red twisted violently, breaking free and tumbling onto the glider. He grappled with the masked figure as they fought for control, the glider weaving erratically through the air. Below them, the battle raged on, the sounds of airsoft rifles and powder grenades echoing in the distance.

The masked figure shoved Red back, but he held his ground, bracing himself against the glider's frame. "Who the hell are you?" Red demanded, his voice laced with frustration and defiance.

The figure responded with a swift punch, their silence more menacing than words. Red ducked, countering with an elbow strike that staggered the figure momentarily.

As the glider veered sharply toward a nearby rooftop, both combatants prepared for the inevitable crash, their fight far from over.

The glider sped toward a rooftop, and with a sharp jolt, the figure slammed Red down onto the cracked concrete. Dust erupted from the impact, and Red gritted his teeth in pain but quickly rolled to his feet, facing his opponent.

The masked figure stepped off the glider with deliberate steps, their presence imposing. Then, in a fluid motion, they removed the helmet, revealing Sobel's face beneath. His expression was a mixture of smugness and unhinged determination.

"Surprised?" Sobel sneered, tossing the helmet aside. "You're not the only one who gets gifts, Houston. The Jester—he's given me the tools I need to ruin you, to ruin everything you stand for."

Red wiped the dust from his mouth, staring at Sobel with a mix of disbelief and anger. "The Jester? Are you seriously working with that psycho? Sobel, he doesn't care about you. He's just using you like he does everyone else. Whatever he's promised, it's not worth this."

Sobel smirked, circling Red. "Oh, but it is. You see, Red, the Jester sees what others don't. He gave me this," Sobel gestured toward the glider, "because he knows what I'm capable of. I'm done being underestimated. I'm done being in your shadow!"

"Sobel, listen to yourself!" Red shouted, trying to reason with him. "This isn't the way. The Jester's chaos will destroy everything, including you. You're smarter than this!"

But Sobel didn't waver. "No, Houston, I'm free. Free to do what I want, how I want. And it starts with you."

Without warning, Sobel lunged at Red. The two clashed in a flurry of blows, trading punches and grapples across the rooftop. Sobel's movements were erratic yet powerful, fueled by anger and whatever dark influence the Jester had over him.

Sobel grabbed Red by the neck in a vice-like grip, lifting him off the ground. "Let's see how well you fly without wings," Sobel growled, dragging Red back onto the glider.

The glider roared to life, lifting off the rooftop with Sobel still holding Red by the throat. Red struggled, prying at Sobel's grip and landing a desperate punch to his face. Sobel snarled, his resolve unshaken, as the glider weaved through the city skyline.

"You're nothing, Houston!" Sobel shouted over the wind. "Nothing but a relic of a bygone time!"

With a sharp turn, Sobel flung Red toward a nearby building. Red crashed through one window, glass shattering and scattering around him. He tumbled through desks and chairs, the momentum carrying him through another window on the opposite side of the building.

Red landed hard on the rooftop of the next structure, groaning as he tried to push himself up. His body ached, but his determination burned brighter. He glared up at Sobel, who hovered above on the glider, laughing maniacally.

"This city isn't big enough for both of us, Houston," Sobel called down, circling like a predator. "Only one of us walks away from this."

Red wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and stood tall. "Then it's going to be me."

Sobel swooped down on the glider, diving low to grab Red once more. Red saw him coming and lunged out of the way, narrowly avoiding Sobel's grasp. The glider pulled up sharply, Sobel grinning maniacally as he looped back around for another attack.

"You can't run forever, Houston!" Sobel bellowed as he reached for Red again. This time, he succeeded, gripping Red by the arm and yanking him onto the glider. The two grappled fiercely as the glider weaved precariously through the city streets, smashing through signs and narrowly avoiding buildings.

Red managed to land a solid punch to Sobel's jaw, momentarily throwing him off balance. Sobel retaliated with a headbutt, sending Red reeling but still clinging to the glider's side. "This is my moment, Houston! My time to shine!" Sobel screamed.

With a sudden jolt, the glider clipped a fire escape, spiraling out of control. Both men yelled as the glider careened into the side of a building, crashing through the outer wall and skidding to a stop inside a decrepit office. Smoke and sparks filled the air as the glider's engines sputtered and died.

Red and Sobel were thrown apart by the impact, groaning as they struggled to their feet amidst the debris. Before either could fully recover, a metallic clink echoed in the room. Red's eyes widened as he saw a grenade roll to a stop just feet away from him—a real grenade.

"No!" Red shouted, scrambling to get away.

The explosion erupted with a deafening roar, the shockwave slamming into Red and flinging him across the room. Shrapnel tore through his clothes, slicing into his face and body. He crashed through a doorway and landed in another room, groaning in agony as blood trickled from his wounds.

Pain radiated through Red's body as he struggled to move. His vision blurred, and his ears rang from the blast. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled under the weight of his injuries.

Sobel emerged from the smoke, his face twisted into a triumphant grin. "Look at you, Houston. Bleeding, broken, pathetic. Just like I always knew you were."

Sobel picked up Red and started punching him repeatedly. He then delivered a brutal punch to Red's gut, causing him to spit blood onto the floor.

Slowly recovering from the blow, Red managed to pull out his M1911 pistol and fired at Sobel, who dodged the bullets with ease. Red charged at Sobel, but Sobel countered by kicking him away. Stumbling from the hit, Red was unable to react in time as Sobel delivered a dropkick, sending him crashing into a wall. Red collapsed weakly to the floor.

Lifting his head from the ground, Red shakily raised his pistol at Sobel. Sobel scoffed at his small act of defiance, kicked the pistol out of Red's hand, and planted his foot firmly on his arm to pin him down.

"You've made your last move, Houston," Sobel said, a sneer spreading across his face. "If you hadn't been so selfish, your friends' deaths would have been quick and painless. But now? You've pissed me off. I'm going to kill them nice and slow."

Red's anger boiled over at Sobel's words. Glaring fiercely at his, he clenched his teeth as Sobel picked up a knife and raised it, ready to deliver the final blow.

As Sobel brought the knife down, Red grabbed her wrist, struggling with every ounce of strength he had left. The two wrestled, Red desperately holding back the blade as it inched closer. Gritting his teeth, he summoned a burst of energy and kicked Sobel away, sending her stumbling back.

Red scrambled to his feet, immediately sweeping Sobel's legs out from under his. As Sobel fell, he knocked against some old debris propping up the crumbling wall. The unstable structure gave way, and the wall collapsed, burying Sobel beneath a pile of rubble.

Sobel screamed in frustration as he clawed his way out of the debris, covered in dust and coughing from the cloud it created. Before he could fully regain his footing, Red let out a furious yell and tackled Sobel, sending both of them tumbling out of the ruined building.

Pinning Sobel to the ground, Red unleashed his fury, punching him in the face three times in rapid succession, his anger driving him forward despite his own pain and exhaustion.

Red's punches rained down on Sobel, each strike heavier and more brutal than the last. The world around him seemed to fade into nothingness, replaced only by the sound of his fists connecting with Sobel's face. His anger and rage consumed him, blinding him to everything else.

Sobel lay on the ground, barely conscious, bloodied, and completely at Red's mercy. Red, his breaths ragged and furious, reached for the knife Sobel had dropped. His hand gripped the handle tightly, his knuckles white as he raised it high.

Sobel, broken and beaten, could only stare up at Red with a mix of fear and defiance, his fate seemingly sealed.

Red's eyes burned with unrelenting rage. His body trembled with adrenaline as he prepared to drive the blade down, ending everything.

Then, cutting through the haze of his fury, a loud, commanding voice echoed:

"No!"

Red froze, the shout reverberating in his ears. He turned his head slightly, his grip on the knife still firm. Standing before him, his figure unmistakable, was his older brother, Don Houston.

Don stepped forward, his face etched with a mix of concern, sadness, and authority. "Red, stop this! Look at yourself! This isn't you!"

Red's entire body shook, torn between his brother's words and the overwhelming rage that demanded release.

"Don...?" Red muttered through clenched teeth, his voice cracking.

Don moved closer, his hands raised in a gesture of calm. "Yes, it's me, Red. I'm here. This isn't the way. You're better than this."

But Red's anger wasn't so easily quelled. His grip on the knife tightened, and he struggled against his own emotions, his arm trembling as he still tried to bring the blade down.

"You don't know what he's done!" Red growled, his voice raw with emotion. "All the people he would hurt! Especially with his loyalty to the Jester!"

Red's breathing was heavy, his hands trembling as he continued to struggle against Don's calming grip. His eyes, filled with anguish and fury, darted toward Sobel's prone figure.

"I can't let that happen—not like what Anderson did three years ago! What he did to me!" Red's voice cracked as painful memories flooded back. He could still feel the cold, searing agony of the pipe embedded in his stomach, a cruel reminder of the day his body and soul were pushed to their limits.

"I wouldn't wish that on anyone—not on anyone who'd go through what I did... not because of Anderson's legacy, or anyone who dares to carry it forward! Especially not him!" Red snarled, pointing a shaking finger past Don, his gaze burning with renewed intensity.

Don turned his head slightly to see Edward standing behind him, holding the zip-tied forms of Jester and Kai. Jester, ever the provocateur, sneered at the scene unfolding before him. His lips twisted into one final cruel, bloody smile as he watched Red's rage threaten to boil over.

"You've got to give him some credit for this moment," Jester began, his tone mockingly cheerful. "I mean, what he's about to do to k—"

Before Jester could finish, Edward delivered a swift, silencing blow to the back of his head. Jester slumped forward, quiet for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

Red's anger surged again, his voice trembling with pain and frustration. "Ignoring what Anderson ordered you to do three years ago... blindly following orders! The graves you filled, the people you and he killed all those years ago!"

His voice wavered, the weight of his memories and emotions pressing down on him like a crushing tide. "Even... even letting Father take you away from me, Big Brother."

Tears streamed down Red's face as he struggled to keep himself from breaking completely. "Do you have any idea what it was like? Watching you leave, watching everyone leave, knowing that no one was coming back? I looked up to you, Don. I needed you."

Don's expression softened, his own pain evident in his eyes. He placed a firm yet gentle hand on Red's shoulder.

"Red," Don said quietly, his voice calm yet filled with sorrow. "I know I failed you. I know I let you down. But this? This isn't the way to make it right."

Red's hand trembled as his grip on Sobel faltered. He glanced over at Jester, still tied and subdued, his twisted smile now replaced with a slack, unconscious expression. The sight sent another wave of conflicting emotions through Red.

"You're stronger than this," Don continued. "Stronger than me. Stronger than Anderson, Sobel, or anyone else who tried to take everything from you. But this path? It will only break you more."

Red shoved Don aside with surprising strength, his focus locked solely on Sobel. With a primal yell, he lunged forward, his hand reaching for the discarded knife.

"Red, no!" Don shouted, stepping in to block his path.

Realizing his brother's intent, Don's eyes hardened. He kicked Red back with just enough force to create distance, then grabbed Sobel by the collar, dragging him toward Edward. With a swift motion, Don slid Sobel across the floor toward Edward, who immediately grabbed him and began pulling him and the tied-up Jester toward safety.

"Get them out of here!" Don commanded, his voice firm and unwavering.

Edward nodded and quickly led the captives away, leaving Don to face his enraged younger brother.

Red, his face contorted with anger, charged at Don. "Get out of my way, Don! This is my fight!"

"No, Red," Don said quietly, bracing himself. "Not like this."

Red tackled Don, the two brothers crashing through the rusted double doors of the abandoned school gym. The ancient hinges gave way with a loud groan, sending the brothers tumbling onto the dusty basketball court.

The impact sent them rolling across the court, debris and dust kicking up around them. Red scrambled to his feet, his fists clenched tightly, his breathing ragged and heavy. His eyes burned with rage, a fury that seemed to consume him entirely.

Don rose more slowly, brushing dust off his shoulders as he stared at his younger brother. His expression was calm but tinged with sadness.

"Look at yourself, Red," Don said, his voice steady. "You're not fighting Sobel anymore. You're fighting your own demons."

Red snarled, his hands shaking. "Don't give me that crap! You don't know what it's like! The pain, the betrayal... the anger! You don't understand!"

"I do," Don replied firmly, taking a step forward. "You think I haven't felt what you're feeling? The rage? The loss? I've lived it, Red. But this? Letting it consume you like this? It'll destroy you."

The two brothers stood across from each other on the court, the dim light filtering through broken windows casting long shadows between them.

"You always thought you were better than me, didn't you?" Red spat, his voice venomous. "Always the perfect son, the perfect soldier. But you don't get it. You never did!"

"I'm not better than you, Red," Don said, shaking his head. "I'm just trying to stop you from making the same mistakes I did. This rage you're holding onto—it's not strength. It's a chain."

Red didn't respond. Instead, he charged at Don, his fists swinging wildly. Don sidestepped the attack, deflecting Red's punches with practiced ease.

"You're better than this," Don said, dodging another swing. "Prove it."

But Red was too far gone, his rage blinding him to everything else. He lunged again, and this time Don caught his arm, using the momentum to flip Red onto his back.

The impact sent a sharp echo through the empty gym, but Red quickly recovered, rolling to his feet. He glared at Don, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

"You don't get to lecture me!" Red yelled, his voice breaking. "You left me! You let everything fall apart!"

Don's face softened, his own guilt surfacing. "You're right. I failed you, Red. I failed a lot of people. But I'm here now, trying to make it right. Don't make me stop you the hard way."

The two brothers circled each other, the tension between them palpable. One consumed by anger, the other desperately trying to save him from himself.

"Come on, then!" Red roared, raising his fists. "Show me what you've got, Big Brother!"

Don sighed, his heart heavy. "If that's what it takes to bring you back, Red... then so be it."

As the scene shifted, the joint forces of the High Schools began rounding up the remaining traitors, with General Reyes and his loyalists finally surrendering. The sight of the traitors being subdued brought a wave of relief and celebration among the Boys' League schools. Cheers echoed across the battlefield as tanks idled and soldiers embraced victory.

Among the celebrating students, Graham, Muller, Elijah, Wesley, Davis, Rivers, and Johnathon, alongside Miho, Darjeeling, Katyusha, and Kay, exited the command center. Their faces showed signs of exhaustion but also relief. For the first time in what felt like ages, the weight of battle began to lift from their shoulders.

Maho, who had stayed back during the final assault on the command center, stood by, her posture tense but her face lighting up as the group approached. She hurried toward them, her voice trembling slightly with concern.

"Is everyone all right? Did you find Edward?" she asked urgently, her gaze scanning their faces.

The group exchanged uneasy glances, and Graham shook his head solemnly. "We didn't see him, Maho. He wasn't in the command center."

Maho's expression shifted from relief to fear. Her chest tightened, and she looked back toward the chaos of the battlefield, her mind racing with dreadful possibilities. Just as she opened her mouth to speak again, a familiar voice broke through the noise.

"I need help here."

Everyone turned to see Edward entering the area, visibly battered and bloodied. His fatigues were torn, and his arm bore fresh cuts, but his determined expression remained unshaken. What caught their attention, however, were the three figures he was dragging behind him. Tied and subdued, Jester, Kai, and Sobel followed in tow, their faces varying between smugness, anger, and indifference.

Edward pushed the captives forward, dropping them unceremoniously in front of the group. Before anyone could react, Maho rushed forward, wrapping her arms around Edward in a relieved hug. Her grip was tight, her voice trembling.

"You're okay... Thank goodness you're okay!" she said, pulling back slightly to inspect his injuries. Her worry deepened as she took in the extent of his wounds. "You're hurt. What happened? Is everything all right?"

Edward shook his head grimly, his eyes shadowed. "No. Everything is not all right."

Confusion swept through the group as they exchanged concerned looks. The air grew heavy with tension, but before Edward could elaborate, a low, mocking chuckle came from Jester. All eyes turned to him as he leaned back against the wall where Edward had pushed him, his signature eerie smile creeping onto his face.

"Because I'm letting the Houstons destroy themselves," Jester said, his voice dripping with malice. His words hung in the air like a dark cloud, sowing seeds of unease among the group.

Maho's grip on Edward's arm tightened as she stared at Jester. "What do you mean?" she demanded, her voice firm but laced with worry.

Jester's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with sadistic glee. "Oh, you'll see soon enough. The seeds are already sown. Brother against brother... a legacy turned to ashes. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Edward clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. "Don't listen to him," he said firmly, addressing the group. "He's trying to get into your heads, to divide us."

But the damage was done. The group couldn't ignore the venom in Jester's words, nor the possibility that his twisted schemes might already be taking root.

Maho stepped forward, her glare piercing. "Whatever game you think you're playing, it ends here."

Jester's laughter echoed chillingly through the air. "Oh, it's not a game, my dear. It's destiny."

The air between Don and Red was thick with tension, the dim light of the abandoned school gym casting long shadows as they faced each other. Don's breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling as he squared up against his younger brother. Red's eyes were wild, his fists clenched, and his entire body radiated unrelenting anger.

Don, despite the exhaustion etched on his face, kept his tone firm but pleading. "Red, listen to me!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the hollow gym. "You used to come to me every single day when you had a problem! Especially back when we were in Vermont at school!"

Red hesitated for a moment, his stance faltering slightly, but his expression remained defiant.

Don continued, stepping closer, his voice softer now but no less urgent. "Do you remember, Red? When you were scared, angry, or lost, you always came to me. You trusted me."

Red's lips quivered, his rage flickering with something else—pain, perhaps—but he quickly buried it beneath a fresh surge of fury. "That was a long time ago, Don! Things are different now!" he barked, his voice cracking. "You don't understand anything about me anymore!"

Don's face twisted in frustration and desperation. "I was there for you, Red! Even after... after the incident." His voice grew quiet, almost breaking. "When we lost Mom..."

Red froze, his pupils dilating slightly. The mention of their mother was a knife to the heart.

"She killed herself for you, Red!" Don pressed, the rawness in his voice undeniable. "Because she blamed herself for what happened to you that day! And when I found her, I—" His voice cracked for a moment, and he took a steadying breath. "I told you. I was there for you, every step of the way."

Red's face twisted into a mix of anguish and fury, his breathing becoming erratic. "No! Don't you dare put that on me!" he roared. His voice grew louder, angrier with each word. "You let it happen, Don! You let her die!"

Don's eyes widened, the accusation hitting him like a physical blow. "What? Red, you know that's not true—"

"It's true to me!" Red bellowed, his voice hoarse and filled with venom. "You were supposed to protect us! You were supposed to protect me! But you failed, Don! You failed her!"

Don stepped back, shaking his head, his own emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "Red... You don't think I carry that every single day? That I don't wake up every morning wishing I could've done something—anything—to save her?" His voice cracked, but he pushed through. "I've spent my whole life trying to keep you safe, trying to make sure you didn't have to feel that pain ever again!"

But Red wasn't hearing it. His pain and anger had consumed him, and he pointed an accusatory finger at Don. "You've been pretending to be the big hero all this time, but all you've done is let people down! You let her die, you let me suffer, and now you're standing in my way!"

Don's shoulders sagged for a moment, the weight of Red's words pressing down on him. But he straightened, his resolve hardening as he looked his brother in the eye.

"If you want to blame me, Red," he said quietly, his voice steady now, "then blame me. Hate me if that's what you need to do. But I will not let you destroy yourself because of that hatred."

The fight raged on, a swirling storm of fists, pain, and unspoken emotions. Don and Red clashed again, their movements frantic and driven by years of unresolved anger and guilt. Don tried to hold back, to reason with his brother, but Red was relentless, his strikes fueled by pain and rage.

"You don't get it, Don!" Red roared, his voice breaking as he lunged at his brother. "You left! You abandoned me to him! To our father! Do you know what he did to me?"

Don grunted as Red's punch connected with his side, stumbling backward but keeping his footing. He raised his hands defensively, his voice trembling with regret. "Red, I didn't know! I—"

"Don't you dare say you didn't know!" Red interrupted, throwing another punch that Don barely dodged. "You knew exactly what kind of monster he was, and you left me there! You left me to be his little experiment, his project! Every scar, every nightmare—it's because of you!"

Don's face crumpled, the weight of Red's words hitting him harder than any punch ever could. "I... I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely audible over the sound of their labored breathing. "I was young, scared—I thought... I thought leaving was the only way to escape him. I didn't know how to save you, Red. I failed you. I failed us."

But Red wasn't ready to hear it. His eyes burned with tears and fury as he advanced on Don again. "You don't get to be sorry! You don't get to apologize for the years of hell I went through while you were out there playing soldier and leaving me behind!"

They grappled, their struggle taking them crashing through the double doors of the gym and out onto the football field. The rain began to fall, soft at first, then heavier, soaking them both as they continued to fight. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm mirroring the tempest of emotions between the brothers.

Don managed to shove Red back, the rain plastering his hair to his face as he stood there, his chest heaving. "I've spent my whole life blaming myself for leaving you, Red!" he shouted, his voice raw with anguish. "I threw away the family name, I threw away us—all because I was too damn scared to face him. You don't think I hate myself for that every single day?"

Red wiped the rain and blood from his face, his voice trembling as he screamed back. "Then you should've been better! You should've come back for me! You were supposed to be my brother, but you left me to suffer alone!"

Don took a step forward, his hands trembling. "You're right, Red. I should've been better. I should've come back. I should've been the brother you needed me to be. But I can't change the past. All I can do is try to fix this now."

Red let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Fix this? You think you can fix this?" He gestured to himself, the scars on his face and arms illuminated by a flash of lightning. "You think saying 'I'm sorry' makes up for everything I've been through? For everything I've lost?"

The rain poured harder, the two brothers standing a few feet apart now, the football field beneath them turning to mud. Don's voice broke as he spoke again. "I threw everything away, Red. You're right. I should've protected you. I should've been there. But I'm here now. I'm standing right here, trying to reach you. Please, Red... Don't let him win. Don't let our father, or anyone else, take you away from me again."

But Red wasn't ready to let go. He charged at Don, tackling him to the ground. The two rolled through the mud, their punches losing the precision of fighters and becoming the desperate swings of broken brothers.

Finally, Don managed to pin Red down, his weight holding his younger brother in place. "Red!" he shouted, rain streaming down his face as he looked into his brother's eyes. "You're all I have left. I won't lose you—not to him, not to this anger, not to anything. Please... don't make me lose you too."

For a moment, Red's struggling slowed. His eyes, filled with tears and pain, met Don's, and the storm around them seemed to pause. But then Red's jaw clenched, and he turned his face away, his silence saying more than words ever could.

The rain intensified, pounding against the brothers as they faced off in the middle of the football field. Red broke the silence, his voice shaking with rage and anguish.

"You abandoned us, Don! You abandoned me when you decided to fight for everyone else's battles!" Red shouted, his fists clenched. "You've never been good enough for us! Not for me, not for Mom, not for Dad! He was never impressed by anything I did for him!"

Don flinched at the venom in Red's voice, the words cutting deeper than any physical blow. He stood his ground, his voice firm but desperate. "It's messing with your head, Red! Don't you see? Dad's methods, whatever he put you through—it's twisting you, controlling you. Don't let his shadow take over your rage!"

Red snarled, charging forward and throwing a wild punch. Don blocked it, their movements clumsy now, more about emotion than precision. The rain made every step slick and uncertain, but neither of them wavered.

"All I've ever done is try to protect you!" Don continued, dodging another swing. "Everything I've done—every decision, every battle—it was for you, Red!"

Red's fist connected with Don's jaw, sending him stumbling back. "Then why didn't you trust me?!" Red roared, his voice cracking with the weight of his words. "Why didn't you trust me to stand by you? Why didn't you trust me to be your brother?!"

Don recovered quickly, stepping forward and grappling with Red. The two struggled, their boots slipping in the mud as they fought for control. "Because I was scared!" Don shouted, his grip tightening on Red's arms. "I didn't trust myself, Red! I thought if I let you in, I'd fail you again, just like I did when I left. But I do trust you—I always have! I just didn't know how to show it!"

Red let out a frustrated scream, breaking free and shoving Don back. "You don't get it! You'll never get it! You weren't there when he looked at me like I was nothing! Like I could never measure up! And now, even you think I'm just broken, don't you?"

Don's shoulders sagged, his voice heavy with emotion. "No, Red. I don't think you're broken. I think you're hurting. And I know I'm part of the reason why. But you're still my brother, and I'll never stop fighting for you, even if you hate me for it."

Red lunged at Don again, their bodies colliding with a sickening thud. They fell to the ground, rolling through the mud as the rain washed over them. Each punch, each kick, was laden with years of unresolved pain and regret.

"I gave everything, Don!" Red yelled, his voice hoarse. "Everything to prove myself to him, to you, to everyone! And all I got was more pain! More scars!"

Don caught Red's wrist mid-swing, his other hand gripping his brother's shoulder. "You don't have to prove anything, Red! Not to me, not to him, not to anyone! You're enough, just as you are. You always have been!"

Red froze for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The rain continued to pour, the storm around them an echo of the storm within. Don didn't let go, his eyes locked on his brother's, pleading for him to see the truth.

But Red's face hardened again, and he shoved Don back. "You say that now, but it's too late, Don. It's always been too late."

Don's heart broke at those words, but he didn't give up. "It's not too late, Red. It's never too late. Please... let me help you."

For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the only sound the rain hitting the ground. Then, Red took a step back, his shoulders trembling, his fists still clenched.

The storm raged on as Red locked Don in a tight chokehold, his face contorted with rage and sorrow. Don's hands weakly gripped his younger brother's arm, his voice barely audible over the downpour.

"Red... please... stop..." Don gasped, his strength fading. "You're better than this... I know you are..."

But Red's grip only tightened. Tears mixed with rain on his face, his voice trembling. "No, I'm not, Don! I'm nothing! You made sure of that when you left me with him!"

Suddenly, shouts broke through the chaos. Jefferson, Dean, and Shadow arrived, their expressions a mix of shock and horror as they took in the scene. Red, consumed by his rage, didn't notice their presence until Jefferson stepped forward.

"Red! Let him go!" Jefferson's voice was commanding, but there was an edge of desperation. "This isn't you! Don't let the anger win!"

Red hesitated for the briefest of moments, his grip loosening slightly, but then he snarled and threw Don to the ground at their feet. Don landed hard, his body limp and unconscious. Shadow and Dean rushed to his side, frantically checking his vitals.

"Watch over him!" Jefferson ordered. He turned to Red, his face dark with determination. "We're not letting you destroy yourself, Red."

Before Jefferson could move, Graham and Muller arrived, their eyes locking onto Red. They exchanged a brief glance, silently agreeing on what needed to be done.

"Graham, Muller, don't—" Shadow started to warn, but it was too late. The two men charged at Red.

Red turned to face them, his body tense and his fists ready. Graham reached him first, throwing a punch that Red barely blocked. Muller followed with a swift kick, forcing Red to step back.

"Red!" Graham shouted, his voice raw with emotion. "I promised Don I'd fight for you! For both of you! I'm not letting you throw your life away like this!"

Red laughed bitterly, deflecting another punch. "A promise? Don't make me laugh, Graham! You don't care about me. None of you do! It's all lies!"

"It's not a lie!" Graham yelled, dodging a wild swing from Red and countering with a jab to his ribs. "Don loves you, Red! We all do! He's been fighting his whole life to protect you, even when you didn't see it!"

"Protect me?!" Red roared, his voice cracking. He landed a heavy punch to Graham's stomach, sending him staggering back. "He abandoned me! He let me suffer! All his promises mean nothing!"

Muller stepped in, aiming a strike at Red's legs to unbalance him. "We've all made mistakes, Red! Don regrets every second he wasn't there for you! But this—this isn't the way to heal!"

Red dodged Muller's attack and retaliated with a brutal elbow, sending him stumbling. "You don't know what I've been through! None of you do! Don was supposed to save me, but he left me to rot!"

Graham recovered, stepping forward again, his face determined. "Then let us save you now, Red! Let us be there for you—don't shut us out!"

But Red's face twisted with anguish. "It's too late for that!" He charged at Graham, their fists colliding as the rain continued to pour.

Red's kick sent Graham flying back, clutching his side in pain as he gasped for air. Rain drenched them all, the storm adding a chaotic rhythm to the brutal scene. Before Red could turn his focus on Muller, a fierce Comanche war cry echoed through the field.

"Elijah!" Graham gasped, looking up to see Elijah charging toward Red, his movements calculated yet fierce.

Red spun to face him, deflecting the first punch Elijah threw, then countering with a swift strike that Elijah narrowly avoided. Their fists collided again and again, each testing the other's limits. Elijah was unrelenting, his cries of determination ringing through the storm.

"You think this rage will fix everything, Red?" Elijah shouted over the storm, landing a glancing blow on Red's shoulder. "It won't! It'll destroy you—and everything Don's fought to save!"

Red's response was a wordless growl as he delivered a devastating uppercut, sending Elijah staggering back. Before he could capitalize on his attack, Muller lunged at him from behind, locking him in a grapple.

"Red, stop this madness!" Muller grunted, straining to hold the younger Houston. "We're here for you—no one wants to see you like this!"

Red's strength, fueled by his rage, broke Muller's hold. He spun and delivered a vicious kick to Muller's midsection, sending him crashing to the muddy ground. Red barely had time to catch his breath before Davis joined Elijah, both of them circling him like predators trying to corner their prey.

"You're not alone in this fight, Red!" Davis shouted, throwing a punch that connected with Red's jaw. "We've all been through hell—but we don't give up on each other!"

Red roared, retaliating with a brutal punch to Davis's ribs that sent him crumpling to the ground. Elijah came at him again, but Red sidestepped and delivered a harsh elbow to Elijah's back, dropping him next to Davis.

Panting heavily, Red looked down at the two fallen fighters, his rage unabated. The rain continued to pour, mixing with the blood and mud around them. Rivers and Johnathon, who had been watching from the sidelines, exchanged a grim look.

"It's our turn," Rivers muttered, stepping forward with Johnathon close behind.

Red turned to face them, his eyes wild and unrecognizable. Rivers threw the first punch, which Red blocked with ease. Johnathon followed with a kick aimed at Red's legs, but Red dodged, countering with a brutal backhand that sent Johnathon stumbling.

"You don't get it!" Red screamed, his voice hoarse with emotion. "None of you get it! I've been through things you can't even imagine!"

"We don't need to imagine," Rivers said, trying to hold his ground as Red advanced on him. "We're here to help you through it—whether you like it or not!"

Red's response was another powerful punch, sending Rivers sprawling. Johnathon managed to land a hit on Red's side, but it only seemed to fuel his anger. Red grabbed Johnathon by the collar and threw him to the ground with a forceful shove.

As Rivers and Johnathon lay groaning in the mud, Red stood over them, his chest heaving with exertion. His fists were clenched, his knuckles bloodied, and his face a mask of anguish and fury.

As Don slowly pushed himself off the ground, his head pounding and vision blurred, the sounds of the relentless storm mixed with the distant cries of his comrades filled his ears. Through the haze, he saw Graham, battered but unyielding, rising to face Red once again.

"Stay down, Graham," Don croaked, his voice barely audible over the rain. But Graham didn't listen.

Graham launched himself at Red, his fists striking with all the strength he had left. Red blocked most of the blows with cold precision, his movements almost mechanical. The clash was brutal, but Graham's endurance was failing. Red saw his opening and landed a devastating uppercut that shattered the sunglasses perched on Graham's face, the force sending him crumpling to the ground, unconscious.

The sight snapped Don into full clarity. His brother had crossed every line, consumed by rage and anguish. With a roar, Don charged at Red, tackling him to the ground as the two brothers crashed into the mud once more.

"Red!" Don shouted, pinning his brother down momentarily. "This ends now!"

Red snarled, his strength overpowering Don's hold as he shoved his older brother off. They both scrambled to their feet, fists flying as the fight escalated. Every punch carried years of unresolved pain, guilt, and betrayal.

Don managed to land a heavy right hook, connecting with Red's jaw, but Red countered with a brutal knee to Don's abdomen, forcing him to stagger back. The fight reached its boiling point as Red lunged, aiming for Don's head. Don caught the blow and twisted Red's arm, forcing him to the ground briefly.

As they grappled, Don saw his moment. With all his strength, he delivered a powerful punch to Red's side. CRACK! The sound of ribs breaking echoed, followed by a gasp of pain from Red.

But it wasn't over.

Red retaliated with a wild kick, aimed at Don's legs. Don sidestepped, grabbed Red's leg mid-swing, and slammed his brother into the muddy field. As Red struggled to rise, Don struck again—this time with a precise, bone-crushing stomp to Red's right leg. CRACK!

The world seemed to slow, the rain falling like shards of glass. The pain in Red's eyes was fleeting, quickly replaced by rage as he roared and launched himself at Don despite his injuries.

Their punches grew more savage, more personal. 

The rain continued to pour relentlessly, soaking the field as Don stood, bruised and battered, staring at his younger brother. Red, despite his broken ribs and leg, still glared at him with defiance, his fists trembling in rage. Don knew this couldn't go on—his brother was too far gone, consumed by pain and anger.

"I'm sorry," Don whispered, his voice cracking. He took a step forward, his heart aching. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry I let him take you. I'm sorry for every day you thought you had to fight this alone."

Red lunged at him again, but this time Don was ready. With all his remaining strength, he threw a single, devastating punch—a final, crushing blow to Red's jaw. The impact echoed through the rain-soaked field, and Red's body went limp as he collapsed into the mud, unconscious.

For a moment, everything was still.

Don stood there, his chest heaving, the adrenaline draining from his body. The weight of what he had done hit him all at once. His legs gave way, and he fell to his knees beside his brother, the rain mixing with the tears streaming down his face.

"I'm sorry, Red," he choked out, his voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry..."

The others slowly began to stir. Muller helped Graham to his feet, clutching his ribs as he groaned in pain. Elijah, Davis, Rivers, and Johnathon, all battered and bloodied, gathered around, their faces reflecting a mix of relief and sorrow.

Muller knelt beside Graham, checking his injuries. "You alright?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"Yeah," Graham muttered, wincing as he moved. "I've been through worse... but damn, Red hits like a freight train."

Don didn't move. He sat there, staring at his brother's unconscious form, his hands trembling. The sight of Red lying there, broken and vulnerable, was almost too much to bear. This wasn't how he wanted to save his brother.

Muller placed a hand on Don's shoulder, his voice soft. "He's alive, Don. You did what you had to."

Don shook his head, his voice raw. "I was supposed to protect him... not this. Not like this."

The sound of helicopters filled the air above the coast of New Avalon as waves of parents, technicians, urban contractors, medical professionals, and members of the Board of Education from both America and Japan arrived in the city. Among them were Japanese Self-Defense Forces and American military personnel. Relief and hope swept through the scene as families from the League, Association, and Sensha-Do Federation reunited after months of fighting.

It had been almost four months of relentless battles. The first half of the match saw the League and Association, along with their Sensha-Do allies, in fierce combat. However, the second half of the conflict was dominated by the return of Vermont Tankery Academy, led by the enigmatic "Jester." Now, it had finally come to an end.

Parents and loved ones embraced each other amidst tears and joy. Miho and Maho Nishizumi stood with their parents, Shiho and Tsuneo, who were visibly relieved to see their daughters safe. Shiho fussed over Maho, her concern heightened by Maho's four-month pregnancy.

Edward joined the group, receiving a tight hug from his mother. Shiho and Tsuneo smiled warmly, glad to see Edward unharmed. Nearby, Jefferson was reunited with his younger sister, who cried tears of joy as she hugged him. Graham reassured his famous family with a charming smile, while Muller spoke softly with his family in German.

Wesley and Elijah were enveloped in hugs from their families, their parents grateful to see their sons safe and sound. Across the scene, League players, Association members, and Federation competitors alike found solace in the arms of their loved ones.

Amidst the joyous reunions, Austin and Mark wandered through the bustling crowd. Spotting their parents, Mark nudged Austin, pointing them out. Both boys broke into smiles and hurried toward them.

"Ma, Pa!" Austin called out as he rushed into their arms. His parents held him tightly, relief washing over their faces.

"Austin! Oh, my sweet boy... Are you alright? No broken bones?" his mother asked, her voice trembling.

"Nope, Nonna and Mark made sure I didn't get hurt," Austin replied with a grin.

"Anything else we should know about?" his father asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I did get a bruise fighting one of the League players," Austin admitted, showing the small mark.

As they spoke, Nonna walked over, smiling at Austin with satisfaction, while Mark shared a joyful moment with his own family.

Elsewhere, Rivers found himself in a headlock courtesy of his older brother.

"I can't believe you went toe-to-toe with Hollywood yourself, little bro! So, who won?" his brother teased.

"Can you let go already?" Rivers groaned, prying himself free. He straightened his shirt as Naomi chuckled at the display.

"It was a draw," Rivers explained. "That, and Davy Crockett's best tank gunner."

"Is that so?" Garrett asked skeptically.

From the background, Scott's voice rang out. "You bet your ass, Rivers! I'll take you down in a tankery sniper battle!"

"You wish, Texan!" Rivers called back, laughing alongside Naomi. Turning to his brother, he asked, "So, where are Mom and Dad?"

"They're lawyering up to go after the League. Especially after hearing about the Jester's return. Speaking of which, where is that clown?" Garrett asked.

"Oh, you really don't want to know..." Rivers muttered, his tone dark.

Meanwhile, at the Davy Crockett, Grand Lake, and North High School campsite...

In the center of the camp, the Jester knelt with his hands zip-tied behind his back. Surrounding him were over five hundred students from the three schools—Davy Crockett, Grand Lake, and North High. Graham stood before the crowd, addressing them with a commanding presence.

"Three years ago," Graham began, his voice carrying over the crowd, "this boy followed Anderson's orders without question. His actions led to the deaths of many of our brothers and sisters. Today, we stand here because of what he did then—and what he's done now. The Dallas Incident cost us dearly, and now we face him again."

The Jester chuckled darkly, lifting his head. "So, what do you want from me?" he sneered.

"You came back for something, Jester," Muller said, his German accent sharp. "Revenge? Is that it? What did you hope to achieve?"

"Yes!" the Jester barked, his eyes wild. "Because of what you all did! I came to finish Anderson's dream—our dream! He promised a better world, one where the weak are snuffed out, and the strong survive!"

The Jester's lips curled into a twisted grin, his eyes gleaming with a fervor that sent a chill through the onlookers. Bound and surrounded, he remained defiant, his voice rising as he launched into his explanation.

"Anderson's dream... his vision... was perfection! A world where peace is built not on the fragile whims of treaties or the naïve hope of understanding, but through war itself! A controlled, calculated war—endless and perpetual." He leaned forward slightly, his voice turning almost reverent.

"Do you understand? War drives progress! It fuels economies, pushes innovation, and unites nations under a single purpose. Look around you. What is Tankery, if not the ultimate embodiment of this idea? A sport, yes, but one built on the very principles of war. Strategy, discipline, sacrifice—Tankery prepares the young to become the backbone of a war economy!"

Graham's expression hardened, but the Jester pressed on.

"Anderson saw it clearly. Peace without war is an illusion, a stagnation that breeds weakness. But peace through war? That's real. That's sustainable. By fostering conflict in controlled environments, by keeping economies tied to the gears of military production, we create a system where everyone thrives. The arms manufacturers, the engineers, the logistics teams—everyone benefits."

The crowd murmured uneasily. Some students exchanged glances, disturbed by the fervent conviction in the Jester's words.

"You may hate me," the Jester continued, his voice growing more impassioned, "but look at what Tankery has done for your schools, your towns, your families! Funding, attention, pride—it all comes from this sport. And why? Because Tankery isn't just a game. It's a microcosm of the very system Anderson believed in. A training ground for the next generation to carry forward the principles of the war economy!"

Muller narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. "And what of the lives lost? The destruction? You call this progress?"

The Jester laughed bitterly. "Collateral damage. Necessary sacrifices. You can't build greatness without paying the price. Anderson knew this, and so do you, deep down. War isn't just inevitable—it's essential. Without it, economies collapse. The strong grow complacent, and the weak rise unchecked. War keeps the balance. Tankery keeps the balance!"

Graham clenched his fists, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "Anderson's 'dream' killed countless people. It wasn't peace—it was chaos dressed as order. Don't you dare compare that madness to what we've built here."

The Jester smirked, his defiance unwavering. "You think you've escaped it? You haven't. You're all just cogs in the same machine. Whether you like it or not, you're part of the war economy too. And no matter how hard you fight it, you'll see—Anderson was right. War is the answer. It's always been the answer."

As the Jester's words hung in the air, the crowd fell silent, tension thick and oppressive. Graham, Muller, and the others exchanged grim looks, their resolve hardening.

Graham finally spoke, his voice low but firm. "If Anderson's vision was peace through war, then it's a vision we'll bury, just like we buried him. Your dream dies here, Jester."

The air was electric with tension, the boys of Davy Crockett, Grand Lake High, and North High roaring their anger in a unified cacophony of rage.

"We should kill this fucking clown!"

The uproar intensified, the boys stepping closer to the bound Jester. Their voices blended into a singular, primal demand for blood, echoing through the makeshift camp like thunder.

Amidst the chaos, a sharp crack split the air. A gunshot.

The crowd froze, heads snapping toward its source. Dean stood tall, his revolver still smoking as he holstered it with deliberate precision. His stern gaze swept over the mob, silencing their rage with the weight of authority.

"We existed outside of the law..." Muller's voice carried over the now-muted crowd, his tone calm but dangerous. He turned toward Houston, who leaned casually against his Lone Star Tank, a cigar in his mouth, exhaling a trail of smoke. Muller's expression was sharp, his gaze searching Houston's for an answer.

"What should we do, Boss?" Muller asked, his voice steady but charged. "Just give the order... we'll handle the rest."

All eyes turned to Houston as he pushed off the tank, the glow of his cigar illuminating his weathered face. The Jester, still kneeling and bound, glared up at him with defiant fury, but Houston returned the glare with cold intensity.

The camp seemed to hold its breath as Houston finally spoke, his words cutting through the tension like a blade.

"We give him to the proper authorities," Houston said, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "That will be all."

"What?!" Graham's voice cracked with disbelief as he stepped forward. "You're kidding, Houston!"

Muller was less restrained, his voice a thunderclap of outrage. "He's responsible for what he did three years ago! Think of the boys we lost! The lives he destroyed! He didn't lose a damned thing! THIS IS THE ENEMY, AND HE'S HERE ON HIS KNEES!"

The crowd stirred, murmurs of agreement rippling through the ranks. Muller's fury was palpable as he faced Houston, his fists clenched. "You want to hand him over to the authorities? After everything he's done?"

Houston's glare was cold, unyielding. He stepped closer to Muller, the two men standing toe-to-toe. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate, each word weighted with conviction.

"Because we are not them, Muller," Houston said, his eyes narrowing. "Because we're better than this."

Muller's jaw clenched, but Houston continued, his voice rising slightly as he addressed the crowd.

"What separates us from people like him is our restraint. Our discipline. If we kill him now, here, in cold blood, we become the same monsters we swore to fight. And that... that would dishonor the memory of every boy we lost. Every boy who fought for something greater than revenge."

The crowd fell silent, the weight of Houston's words settling over them. Even Muller's fury seemed to waver as he looked into Houston's eyes, seeing the pain and determination there.

Houston turned his gaze back to the Jester, who stared at him with a mix of defiance and something else—perhaps doubt. Houston exhaled another puff of smoke, his voice soft but resolute.

"We give him to the authorities," he repeated. "And we move forward. Not for him. For them."

The crowd remained silent, their anger slowly giving way to a somber understanding. Muller looked down, his fists loosening. Dean nodded in quiet approval, his revolver still holstered but ready should it be needed.

The decision was made.

The city square bustled with activity as Military Police surrounded General Reyes, his face red with fury as the cuffs snapped around his wrists.

"This is absurd!" Reyes spat, his voice thick with indignation. "You have no idea what you're doing! I'm a general of the—"

His tirade was cut short as a new figure emerged from the crowd: General Doyal Houston, clad in his immaculate dress uniform, his presence commanding and stern. Beside him stood Colonel Blake Abernathy, a steadfast ally whose sharp eyes missed nothing.

"You're done, Reyes," Doyal said coldly, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the gathered crowd. He held up a dossier, thick with damning evidence. "We have everything we need to tie you to the chemical gas smuggling operation, the fake munitions shipments, and your dealings with known criminals—Kai Adachi and the Laughing Jester. Terrorist charges. Illegal weapons shipments. The works."

Reyes' face twisted in rage and disbelief. "This is a setup! I demand—"

"You demand nothing," Doyal interrupted sharply, waving toward the Military Police. "Get him out of my sight."

The MPs obeyed, dragging Reyes away as he shouted curses, his protests growing fainter with each step. Doyal turned to Colonel Abernathy, extending a hand.

"Thank you, Colonel," Doyal said sincerely. "You and Captain Faun have been invaluable in uncovering this. Those mysterious purchases, the calls about Reyes putting hits on me—it all makes sense now."

Abernathy nodded, gripping Doyal's hand firmly. "Just doing our duty, General. Reyes underestimated us, and now he's paying the price."

Their handshake was interrupted by a commotion at the edge of the square. "Clear the way!" shouted the familiar voices of the Davy Crockett Houston Rangers.

The crowd parted, parents pulling their children aside as a grim procession approached. In the center, flanked by heavily armed Rangers, walked the Laughing Jester and Kai Adachi, their hands bound with zip ties. The prisoners were surrounded by an impenetrable wall of soldiers, their rifles at the ready.

At the rear of the formation, Don Houston, still in his commander's uniform, walked with deliberate steps. His cigar glowed faintly, the smoke curling around his face as his eyes met Doyal's.

The crowd fell silent as nephew and uncle stood before one another. Without a word, the two exchanged salutes, a gesture of mutual respect that spoke volumes.

Houston turned and nodded toward the prisoners. "They're yours now, General."

As the Military Police moved to take custody, the Jester's lips curled into a sinister grin. His gaze darted around the square, taking in the onlookers, the soldiers, and the chaos he had wrought. And then he began to laugh.

It started as a low chuckle, but soon grew into a manic, uncontrollable cackle. The sound echoed off the buildings, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a knife.

"Traded like cattle," the Jester gasped between fits of laughter. "Oh, this is rich! You think you've won? You think this is the end?"

His laughter rose to a fever pitch, the sound both grating and unnerving. Soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons, their expressions hardening.

The tension in the square was shattered in an instant. As the Military Police reached for the Laughing Jester, he moved with inhuman speed, slipping free of his zip ties. Before anyone could react, he lunged at a nearby soldier, wresting a handgun from his holster with practiced precision.

A single gunshot rang out, and one of the soldiers crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Gasps and shouts of alarm erupted from the crowd, but they froze in their tracks as the Jester grabbed Maho Nishizumi, pulling her close and pressing the barrel of the gun against her temple.

"Maho!" Edward cried seeing what the Jester is doing

"Stay where you are!" the Jester barked, his voice a mix of deranged glee and sharp command. "One step closer, and I'll paint the pavement with her brains!"

The square fell into an eerie silence, the only sound the ragged breathing of the crowd and the Jester's unhinged laughter. Maho's face remained calm, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of fear.

"This," the Jester began, his voice rising with manic energy, "this is what I've been waiting for! The perfect stage, the perfect moment! All of you, standing here, thinking you've won. Thinking justice has been served. But no—this is just the beginning!"

Don, standing a few paces away, tensed. His hand hovered near his sidearm, but he didn't move.

The Jester's laughter turned darker as he glanced at Don, then at the gathered soldiers. "You don't understand, do you? You're all puppets in a grand play. Anderson understood. He saw the truth: the chaos, the war—it's all necessary. Without war, there can be no peace. Without sacrifice, there can be no order!"

The crowd watched in stunned silence as the Jester continued, his voice growing more fervent with each word.

"Your countries send you off to die for what? Patriotism? Freedom? Lies! They send you to die so they can pin shiny medals on their chests and congratulate themselves while your bodies rot in the dirt! Soldiers—tools, thrown away when they're no longer useful!"

The words cut deep, resonating with many in the crowd who had experienced the harsh realities of war. The Jester tightened his grip on Maho, his eyes wild as he scanned the faces around him.

"Anderson's dream was to restore true order. To unite the world through war! To strip away the lies and rebuild from the ashes! A world where soldiers aren't disposable. Where sacrifices mean something!"

Don's eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Let her go, Jester. You've made your point."

The Jester's gaze snapped to Don, and his lips curled into a sneer. "Oh, no, Houston. This isn't about making a point. This is about showing the world what it takes to achieve peace. And if it takes breaking every last one of you to do it, so be it!"

The Jester grinned wickedly, his voice carrying over the tense silence. "And now, with all the pieces in place, it's time to knock them down. You think you've won, Houston? You think capturing me would bring closure? No, no, no... This is just the opening act!"

He pressed a finger to a concealed earpiece and gave the command. "Activate it."

At that moment, a deafening alarm blared throughout the city. Panic spread like wildfire as parents pulled their children close, and soldiers scrambled to assess the situation. The commotion grew louder when the sound of massive doors grinding open echoed from the direction of the coastal hangar.

Don and the others turned their attention toward the source of the chaos. The hangar doors slowly parted, revealing an imposing figure emerging from the shadows. A colossal machine, towering and menacing, rolled forward on hydraulic legs. Its sleek, angular design was unmistakable—Peace Walker.

The machine's imposing silhouette dominated the skyline, its limbs moving with mechanical precision. The faint glow of its sensors scanned the area, giving it an almost sentient presence. The sound of its servos whirring and pistons firing was enough to send chills down even the most hardened soldiers' spines.

The Jester began to back away, still holding Maho tightly as he maneuvered toward the nearby Mi-24 helicopter that hovered above the square. Its rotor blades created a fierce downdraft, whipping up dust and debris as it descended to meet him.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" the Jester called out, his voice filled with twisted pride. "This is the future Anderson dreamed of. A weapon to ensure peace through power! A force so unstoppable it renders resistance meaningless!"

Don clenched his fists, his eyes never leaving the massive machine. It was a nightmare brought to life, a testament to the destructive vision the Jester and his ilk had been working toward.

The Jester climbed aboard the Mi-24, dragging Maho with him. She struggled briefly, but his grip was ironclad. As the helicopter began to ascend, the Jester leaned out of the open door, waving mockingly at Don.

"You could chase me, Houston," he taunted, his voice carried by the roaring blades. "But what would be the point? Your real enemy is standing right there!" He gestured dramatically toward Peace Walker, which now stood fully operational, its ominous bulk casting a long shadow over the city.

Don stood motionless, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. The screams and cries of panicked civilians filled the air, but his focus remained locked on the massive machine before him. His cigar smoldered as he took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that dissipated into the chaos.

The Mi-24 began to retreat into the horizon, the Jester's manic laughter fading into the distance. Maho's terrified expression was the last thing Don saw before the helicopter disappeared from view.

Glaring at the towering machine, Houston grabbed a nearby soldier's M4 rifle and opened fire, unloading a barrage of bullets at the behemoth. The rounds ricocheted harmlessly off its armor, leaving no visible impact.

Before Houston could react further, a voice crackled to life in his codec.

"AHH! Don't shoot it!" the voice shouted in alarm.

"What? Who is this?! How did you get this channel?!" Houston barked, his grip on the rifle tightening.

"Don't worry about who I am, Big Boss," the mysterious voice replied, calm but urgent. "I'm here to help you stop that psycho Jester and his oversized AI tank."

A cold, mechanical voice interrupted them.

"Self-defense system online," the AI intoned, its monotone chillingly precise. "Self-defense system online."

The voice on the codec resumed, this time more frantic.

"The AI tank is equipped with a self-defense module! If it detects an attack, it aborts its previous target and enters small-target suppression mode. Translation: you've just made yourself its main target!"

As the words sank in, Peace Walker's massive frame shifted. Its weapon systems powered up with an ominous hum, each turret and missile pod locking onto Houston.

The colossal machine seemed to glare down at him, its mechanical sensors glowing menacingly. Despite the overwhelming danger, Houston stood his ground, rifle in hand, staring into the face of the unstoppable behemoth.

https://youtu.be/-TTvUuilQxg

To Be Continue on Next Mission....