Operation Gothic Serpent Part 2 

After the attack, many parents from the high schools involved in the conflict were outraged at the League's occupation, blaming them for what happened to the Association boys and the Japanese girls. However, the boys in each of the League schools were equally furious about the situation, leading to an uproar as parents pointed fingers at the League for the chaos that unfolded.

The tension continued to escalate until a group of student senators organized a delegation meeting with the parents of the Association and Sensha-Do schools. The meeting was hosted at Davy Crockett High School, and the best student senators from Davy Crockett, Grand Lake High, North High, Washington Boys' and Girls' Academy, and Kansas Chief High were sent to represent their schools.

"How dare you allow your boys to antagonize our kids! We've been separated from them for nearly a year!" an enraged father shouted, his voice echoing in the room.

"Yeah! We've waited all this time for our children to come home, and now you've started a fight with them!" added an equally furious mother, her face flushed with anger.

The room buzzed with tension, parents on one side and the young senators on the other. One of the senators, a composed student from Kansas Chief High, stepped forward to address the accusations.

"With all due respect," he began firmly, "the Association schools like Uncle Sam, Edison High, Montana Tankery Academy, and Virginia Academy of Arts—along with the Japanese schools like Kuromorimine Girls' Academy, Pravda Girls' High, Saunders University High, St. Gloriana, and Ooarai Girls' Academy—were the aggressors in this situation. They attacked our boys who were just following orders from the League. This conflict was never something we sought out."

Another senator from Washington Academy chimed in. "We've been tasked with ensuring peace and stability during this difficult period. The League didn't instigate this fight. Those schools chose to defy our efforts and engaged in hostile actions first. Are we just supposed to stand by and allow our schools to be bullied?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the student senators, but the parents weren't satisfied. One of the more vocal fathers slammed his hand on the table, his face twisted with frustration.

"That's a load of excuses! You kids have no right to act like some kind of military force. You're supposed to be students, not soldiers! We want our children back, not caught up in your League's power struggles!"

The senators exchanged glances, knowing they were at a delicate crossroads. The room grew tense as one of the senior student senators from Davy Crockett stood, his posture confident yet calm.

"We understand your concerns, and we sympathize with you. None of us wanted this situation to escalate the way it did," he said, his tone more measured. "But you have to realize that the League's actions were not done out of a desire for power or conflict. We were trying to maintain order, to protect what we were tasked with. When schools like Kuromorimine and Uncle Sam decided to challenge the authority of the League, we had no choice but to respond."

A mother stood up, her eyes filled with tears. "Respond? You call this a response? My son is hurt—mentally and physically. He never wanted to fight, and now he's stuck in this... this war! How do you expect us to just sit here and accept that?"

"Well, you have to, because we have multiple of our boys trapped in the city! You should've taught your kids better!" a senator from Grand Lake High shouted back, his frustration boiling over as he faced one of the angry parents.

"Teach them better? I'll teach you something better!" an enraged father retorted, rising from his seat, clearly ready to charge at the senator. The room tensed, bracing for the confrontation—until the sharp sound of clicking heels echoed from above.

Everyone turned their heads toward the second-floor catwalk. Standing there, poised and ready, were Houston's Red Beret Loyal Rangers, watching the room with an air of calm authority. Their airsoft weapons, though non-lethal, were pointed directly at the fathers who had stood up, poised to escalate the conflict. The sudden presence of the Loyal Rangers froze the room in silence. All eyes shifted to the unmistakable figure of Houston.

Wearing his long trench coat, his left eye keen and alert while his right remained covered by a worn eye patch, Houston strode forward, his boots echoing off the cold floor with every step. His expression was cold, hardened by years of experience, yet controlled. Both hands rested casually in his coat pockets, exuding an aura of restrained power.

"Sit down," he said calmly, his voice low but commanding. The father, who had been ready to charge, froze mid-step, glancing up at the Loyal Rangers above him.

"And you call yourselves parents..." Houston continued, his gaze sweeping across the room of mothers and fathers, his tone dripping with disappointment. "Such a shame..."

The parents, their earlier anger now replaced with a mix of shock and embarrassment, slowly returned to their seats. The Loyal Rangers, at a nod from Houston, lowered their weapons, though they remained vigilant, staring down at the room from their elevated position.

Houston's cold, steely gaze remained fixed on the crowd for a few more moments before he gave a subtle nod to the student senators. "Continue."

The tension in the room was palpable, but none dared interrupt or speak out of turn again. The young senators took the opportunity to compose themselves, nodding gratefully at Houston before resuming the discussion.

"Look at you all, trying to show aggression toward us—no wonder your children managed to drive our boys out," one of the top senators from Davy Crockett declared, his toga draped over his school uniform. His tone was sharp and threatening as he addressed the parents. "Here's what we'll do—bring your children back here to U.S. soil, hand them over to us, and we will punish them severely."

One of the parents, undeterred, spoke up in response. "And what makes you think you can make that kind of demand?"

The room fell quiet as all eyes turned to the speaker, an elderly man with a wooden cane, seated calmly in his spot. Houston, standing by the wall, leaned in with interest, curious to hear what the old man had to say.

Before anyone else could respond, one of the senators from Kansas Chief spoke up, his voice defensive. "Because they attacked our boys! We've been instructed by Commander Houston himself that we have the right to defend ourselves against any enemy that comes after us!"

The old man turned his gaze toward Houston, his expression calm yet piercing. "And is that so..." he murmured.

All eyes shifted to Houston, leaning against the wall with his hands in his coat pockets. He let out a heavy sigh, stepping forward as he reached for the microphone from one of the senators. The room, once full of tension, fell into complete silence, awaiting Houston's words.

"It's true," Houston began, his voice steady but carrying the weight of the moment. "But there's a lot more to it than just defending ourselves. I know many of you parents were relieved to see your kids again after the match ended. But what you don't understand—what you've never known—is what my Rangers and I went through to get back here. The pain, the sacrifices."

Houston paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in before continuing. "You all remember when you first saw this place, our school built out of an old water plant. When you visited, you probably thought it was impressive—or strange. But what you didn't know was that we lost our original home. It wasn't an attack by some foreign enemy or rival school, either. One of our own, an S-Rank League school, came after us, left us with nothing, and sent me into a nine-week coma."

The room remained still, the parents now hanging on every word.

Houston's gaze hardened as he spoke about the past. "Imagine what that did to my boys—the fear, the loss. And then, when your kids attacked them, they didn't see students or friends. They saw enemies. They had no choice but to fight back, just like they did when they lost their home. They didn't want to, but they had to. That's what happens in war, and whether we like it or not, that's what this has become."

He scanned the room, his one good eye filled with the pain of past experiences. "You think it's easy for them? For any of us? They're just kids—like yours. But they had to grow up fast, and none of you can begin to imagine the cost of that. So before you point fingers, before you demand to punish anyone, understand that we didn't ask for this fight. But we'll finish it if we have to."

The parents remained silent, the anger that had filled the room earlier now replaced with a sense of unease and reflection. The old man, still sitting calmly, nodded slightly as if acknowledging Houston's words.

Houston stepped back, handing the microphone to the senator once more, his posture relaxed but his presence still commanding. He knew the conversation wasn't over, but he had said what needed to be said.

The senator in the toga, clearly emboldened by Houston's words, stepped forward, gripping both sides of his toga in a dramatic fashion. His eyes scanned the room, addressing the parents with a mixture of authority and anticipation.

"Now, you all have two choices," the senator declared, his voice ringing out with intensity. "Peace... or war. It's as simple as that. Which one do you want? Which path should we take?" He paused for effect, allowing his words to hang heavy in the air.

The parents, visibly shaken by Houston's earlier remarks, exchanged worried glances. They didn't want their children punished, nor did they want this conflict to escalate any further. One mother, trembling with emotion, finally broke the silence. "Please, don't punish our children. They don't deserve this. We didn't ask for any of this."

Several other parents nodded in agreement, their voices echoing the sentiment. "We want peace! We want our children back!" they cried, pleading with the senators. The mood in the room had shifted dramatically, with the anger now replaced by fear and desperation.

The toga-clad senator smiled, almost sinisterly, and with a deliberate movement, he held his arms out wide. "Peace? Is that what you want?" He paused, then shook his head. "Too late."

With one swift motion, he dropped his toga to the floor, revealing underneath a sleek black uniform with the insignia of Davy Crockett High prominently displayed. "War," he declared, his voice booming as the fabric hit the ground with a soft thud. "War is what you've chosen, whether you like it or not."

Gasps rippled through the room as the parents realized the gravity of the situation. Some clutched their chests, others covered their mouths in shock. The senator's words felt like a final nail in the coffin, a declaration that there would be no easy way out.

"You think you can threaten us with demands? With ultimatums?" The senator continued, his eyes blazing with conviction. "This isn't a negotiation anymore. The League won't back down, and neither will we. Your children attacked our boys, and now you'll face the consequences of that. You're lucky we're only talking about war in the arena and not something more."

The parents sat frozen, many of them stunned into silence. A few tried to speak up, but their words faltered under the weight of what had just happened. The senator turned toward Houston, who remained leaning against the wall, watching everything unfold with his usual calm demeanor. Houston gave the slightest of nods, signaling his approval.

The toga senator, his eyes gleaming with determination, finished with one final statement. "Prepare yourselves. Because we are." He turned and walked back to his place among the other senators, leaving the parents in a state of utter disbelief.

Houston remained silent, allowing the full impact of the senator's decision to settle over the room. He had made his stance clear, and now, so had his student leaders. The choice had been made: war, not peace.

After the heated debate had ended, Houston quietly slipped out of the room, walking down the empty hallway until he found a secluded room. He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The moment he was alone, his knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor.

His breath became shallow as the sound of marching boots echoed in his mind. The rhythm of the footsteps grew louder and louder, overwhelming his senses. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to block it out, his hands clutching the sides of his head.

"Stop... please, stop..." he whispered, his voice trembling with desperation.

The boots kept marching, relentless, until suddenly they stopped.

Houston opened his eyes, gasping for air, as he looked up. Standing before him was Anderson—his former commander, the man he had killed at the old Vermont Base during the brutal Dallas match three years ago.

"Well, well," Anderson said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "If it isn't my old Vice Commander."

Houston's blood ran cold. Anderson was dead, but there he stood, larger than life. Houston tried to move, tried to stand, but his body wouldn't obey him. It felt as though some unseen force was holding him down, trapping him in place.

"You're looking good, Houston," Anderson continued, his voice taunting. "Living up to everything I once was, aren't you? We both know what you are—a soldier. Nothing more, nothing less."

Houston stared up at him, unable to speak, the weight of his own guilt pressing down on him like a physical burden. He had killed Anderson, but here he was, haunting him once again.

"Soldiers like us... we don't belong in a world like this," Anderson sneered, stepping closer, his boots echoing across the floor. "We need tension. We need conflict. You and I both know it. This world today? It's too soft. The real emotions, the true instincts, they're buried deep beneath all this... peace."

Houston's breath hitched as Anderson knelt down, getting right in his face, that familiar, twisted smile plastered across his face.

"You'll shake things up, won't you?" Anderson whispered, his voice like poison dripping into Houston's ears. "You'll create a world dripping with tension. A world that needs men like us."

As Anderson stood up and began to walk away, his form started to dissolve into mist, disappearing from Houston's sight. But the nightmare wasn't over.

Another figure emerged from the fog—a woman with a cold, calculating smile. Houston recognized her immediately. It was Sienna, his clone sister—the one he had killed when they first crossed paths two years ago.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked, her voice smooth and filled with venom. "I always knew we'd meet. The man who stole what was rightfully mine. The man who took my birthright."

Houston's body trembled as he watched her approach.

"I saw your face when you did it," she continued, her eyes narrowing as she stopped in front of him. "It was filled with joy. The joy of battle, wasn't it?"

Houston's heart pounded in his chest. He remembered that day vividly—the clash, the violence, and the final moments when he'd ended her life. But now she was here, her sinister gaze locking onto him, her presence as terrifying as ever.

"Now," Sienna whispered as she walked past him, vanishing into the mist, "make me feel it again. Make me feel alive."

The room seemed to close in on Houston as the voices of his past echoed around him. He heard the laughter—first Anderson's mocking cackle, then Sienna's, and then two more voices joined the chorus.

It was Floyd and Paul—two of his oldest friends, comrades who had fought by his side... until he had to kill them.

"Do you remember, Houston?" Floyd's voice taunted, a ghostly echo in the dark room. "The feel of battle?"

"The clashing of bone and sinew," Paul added, his voice filled with dark amusement.

The laughter surrounded him, growing louder and louder, a cruel symphony of torment. Houston's chest tightened, his pulse racing. He felt as though the weight of his past was suffocating him, crushing him under its relentless pressure.

"Make me feel it again," Anderson's voice whispered in his ear.

"Make us all feel it again," Sienna's voice echoed.

Houston clutched the floor, his body trembling, his breath ragged as he struggled to keep control. The ghosts of his past weren't just haunting him—they were trying to pull him back into the darkness.

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes as he fought to break free from the nightmare. But their voices wouldn't stop. Their laughter wouldn't fade.

And deep down, he feared they were right.

As the tormenting voices of his fallen comrades echoed louder, driving Houston closer to the edge of his breaking point, he suddenly heard a softer voice calling out to him—a voice he hadn't heard in years, one that instantly quieted the chaos in his mind.

"Don..."

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he looked up, his heart pounding in his chest. There, standing in front of him, was Lisa—his first love. The woman he had lost so long ago, taken from him by the horrors of war. She looked just as she had the last time he saw her—her soft, kind eyes, her warm smile, everything about her was exactly the same.

"Lisa..." Houston whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. His body, once rigid with the weight of his guilt, suddenly felt lighter. He rose to his feet, reaching out to her as if afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly.

Her eyes met his, filled with a tenderness he hadn't felt in so long. "Oh, Don... you shouldn't stop fighting."

He stood there, frozen, staring into her eyes as she slowly approached him. Her words washed over him, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the noise of battle, the marching boots, and the mocking laughter faded into the background.

"The future I saw, Don... it's the same as yours. You will destroy Anderson's old weapons. And then... you will create something in its place."

Houston's brow furrowed, confusion and pain swirling in his mind as he listened to her. He didn't understand. He had fought for so long, and for what? To create something new? Something better?

"Your siblings..." she whispered, her voice soothing yet tinged with sadness. "Les Enfants Terribles... One of your siblings will bring the world to the brink, Don. But you... you will stop it. You will stop the darkness."

Houston's throat tightened as she spoke. The weight of her words settled deep in his chest. His siblings—his own blood, connected to him through the twisted legacy of their creation—were destined to bring chaos. And it was up to him to stop it. To stop them.

"Lisa..." Houston's voice broke as he reached out to her, his fingers trembling. He wanted to hold her, to feel her warmth one last time. "Lisa, don't leave me... please..."

She smiled sadly, her fingers gently brushing against his cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. "You'll know what to do when the time comes, Don. You're stronger than you think."

Houston's hand reached for hers, but as soon as he touched her, her form began to fade, slipping through his fingers like mist.

"No... please, don't go!" he cried out, his voice filled with desperation as he tried to grasp her, to keep her with him.

But it was too late. Lisa's image dissipated into the air, her presence slipping away from him just as quickly as it had appeared. Her voice, soft and distant, echoed one last time in the room.

"Remember... Don. You will stop it."

And then she was gone.

The League headquarters was buzzing with energy, the meeting room filled with the sound of cheering and celebration. The chairs scraped the floor as members stood, shaking hands and exchanging congratulatory pats on the back. The news had hit them like a victory banner unfurled in the wind: the Association was crumbling, and their path to dominance was clearer than ever.

One of the League chairmen, a smug grin plastered on his face, stood up at the head of the table and raised his glass. "Pack it up, boys! We've got them!" he shouted with a triumphant edge in his voice. "The Association is crumbling, and we've beaten those clowns once again, just like we did back then."

"Damn right!" another League official echoed, clapping his hands together. "With the best schools we've got on our side, this Civil War match is going to be a walk in the park."

Laughter erupted throughout the room, the confidence of the League swelling to near arrogance. The chairman continued, feeding off the growing energy in the room. "And let's not forget, a Civil War match—it's perfect! We haven't had one of those in ages, and now, with the Association backing themselves into a corner, we'll steamroll them!"

He paused, grinning as he glanced around the room, seeing the satisfied faces of his colleagues. "I mean, they sold off their tanks! What are they going to do, buy them back from the schools that don't even want them anymore? They've got nothing left."

Another wave of laughter followed, the room filling with self-assured murmurs. The chairmen and their allies believed victory was all but guaranteed. The Association schools had been weakened, disorganized, and left without the firepower they once had. It seemed that everything was falling into place perfectly for the League.

One of the other officials leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink. "It's going to be a massacre out there. I almost feel bad for them," he said with a chuckle, though his tone indicated he felt no such thing.

The chairman raised his glass once again, nodding in agreement. "It's not just about beating them this time. It's about ending this once and for all. The Association won't recover from this blow. This Civil War match will be their final nail in the coffin."

The room at the American Tankery Association headquarters was steeped in a heavy, uncomfortable silence. Colonel Abernathy stood at the head of the table, the war declaration from the League clutched in his hand. It was a somber moment, and even though the room was filled with some of the most influential figures in American Tankery, there was little to be optimistic about. The reality of the League's declaration weighed heavily on their shoulders.

John C. Rogers, head of the board of education, and Kennedy Morrison, a key figure in the Association's leadership, sat in disbelief. The tension between their counterparts in the League and their schools had escalated far beyond what they had imagined. It seemed as though the situation was now spiraling completely out of control.

Among the attendees was a video conference setup, connecting them to several key figures from Japan's Sensha-Do Federation. On screen were Ami Chono, a respected head member of the Federation, Chiyo Shimada, founder of the Shimada style, Shichiro Kodama, director of the Sensha-Do Federation, and Shiho Nishizumi, representing the Nishizumi style. All of them looked equally stunned by the situation unfolding in front of them.

"That's what the League demands," Abernathy said, his voice carrying the weight of what he had just read. "Total, unconditional surrender. If the Association doesn't accept this declaration, they'll shut down our schools."

The room fell into a state of uneasy murmurs. Kennedy Morrison buried his head in his hands, the weight of the decision seemingly too much to bear.

"I can't believe this is happening," John Rogers muttered, his voice filled with disbelief. "I thought the League wouldn't go this far... This is insane."

"If we're talking about insanity," Kennedy added with a heavy sigh, "it's those kids who signed away Tankery from their schools. Now, if we don't accept the League's terms, their schools will shut down entirely."

Ami Chono, trying to maintain a sense of calm, spoke up from the video screen. "Surely we can convince the League to solve this peacefully. Is there no other way?"

Abernathy shook his head solemnly. "Are you kidding? The League won't listen, especially not the top schools. They've become too powerful, too entrenched."

Chiyo Shimada's voice cut through, curious. "What's so special about these top schools? You speak highly of them, Colonel."

Abernathy leaned back, crossing his arms. "Well... it's not just about the schools themselves. People I know in the U.S. Army, particularly one Lieutenant Colonel Doyal Houston, have connections there. Doyal's nephews—one of them, a captain who goes by the codename 'Red Ace'—is feared by everyone. He's a master in the sky and on the ground, a prodigy who terrifies the kids that go up against him."

"And the other?" Chiyo pressed, sensing there was more to the story.

Kennedy, still rubbing his temples, interrupted. "You're forgetting someone, Colonel. The older nephew."

Abernathy stiffened, his expression darkening. "I didn't forget him. It's just... he scares me more."

Shichiro Kodama, watching the exchange, raised a brow. "Scares you? Why?"

Abernathy sighed deeply before finally speaking. "Big Boss... Don Houston."

The room tensed at the name. John Rogers, suddenly realizing the weight of the situation, chimed in. "Don Houston... the hero of the Dallas Incident."

Shiho Nishizumi, unfamiliar with the name, asked, "Who is he?"

John turned toward her, his face grim. "Don Houston is famous for his role in the Dallas match before the League even existed. He saved over five hundred boys during that chaotic, brutal tankery match, earning him a place in history. The League turned him into a symbol of strength—a hero."

Abernathy, still unsettled, added more context. "You're not just dealing with any tankery player. Don Houston is an expert in guerrilla warfare—fighting with guns, knives, or even his bare hands. He was trained to ignore pain, endure any weather condition, and live off the land. The man can eat things that would make most of us vomit."

The room fell silent once more as the reality of what they were up against set in. The League, bolstered by figures like Don Houston, was not going to be an easy opponent. The Association was dealing with someone who had not only survived the most brutal matches but thrived in them. For the first time, many in the room began to understand why the League was so confident—and why the Association had every reason to be afraid.

At the American Tankery Association headquarters, the grim atmosphere persisted as the leadership continued poring over the unencrypted files from the infamous Dallas Incident. The deeper they dug, the more chilling the revelations about Don Houston became. Colonel Abernathy, Rogers, and Kennedy Morrison sat in disbelief as the history of the boythey now faced unfolded.

Houston wasn't always the Commander of Davy Crockett High's Tankery team. Before the world knew him as the iconic leader of that school, Houston had been Vice Commander of one of the most prestigious and feared institutions in Tankery: Vermont Tankery Academy. Vermont was known for producing the finest tankery players in the country, and Houston was part of its elite squad, ominously named the Dogs of War. His codename within the squad sent shivers down the spines of those who encountered him—The Specter of Death. Alongside his commander, Anderson, Houston earned this title through countless victories, but as the files now revealed, those victories came at a horrifying cost.

The room fell silent as Abernathy read on, his voice steady but burdened with the weight of the truth.

"Don and his younger brother, the one now known as Red Ace, were once at the heart of Vermont's brutal rise to dominance. The squad's actions went far beyond what any tankery team should be involved in—they committed heinous war crimes in the name of victory. Civilians were caught in their crossfire, and entire cities were leveled. These weren't just simulations—these were real acts of violence, and Houston had seen enough."

Kennedy Morrison closed his eyes as the details of the file painted a bleak picture of Don Houston's past. "And they betrayed their squad? How did it come to that?"

"Yes," Abernathy replied, "Don and Red Ace couldn't stomach the horrors any longer. They saw what their commander, Anderson, and the others were becoming—monsters driven by war for the sake of it. So, they decided to betray them."

There was a grim pause as Abernathy continued. "They fought their way through their own squad, but it came at a terrible cost. Red Ace was gravely injured in the escape. Don had no choice but to... put him out of his misery. That's what broke him."

The room tensed as the account of Houston's final act at Vermont Tankery Academy was laid bare. Abernathy's voice trembled slightly as he recounted the event.

"Houston turned his back on Vermont. In a rage, he destroyed everything—the academy, his squad, and even his own commander. Anderson was left trapped beneath burning debris as the base fell apart around him. Don walked away from it all, leaving behind his past and his commander to burn."

Kennedy spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "And after that?"

Abernathy glanced at the next page. "He retired. For a time, Don Houston disappeared from Tankery altogether. Many thought he was gone for good, but somehow, when the League was formed, he resurfaced. He joined Davy Crockett High School—an odd choice, considering his reputation and the fact that he seemed to have nothing left to fight for."

"But why? Why did he come back?" Chiyo Shimada asked through the video call, her curiosity piqued.

"That we don't know..." Abernathy said

Now back on the island:

Many boys from the League schools were trapped and under fire in the city of Hoja, while the League high schools conducted rescue missions to retrieve those left behind and bring them back to their outposts established in other cities on the island.

In the northwest city of New Avalon, close to the island's coast and currently occupied by Davy Crockett High, Sergeant Dean was leading a Humvee convoy after escaping the warzone that Hoja had become.

"Lieutenant Shadow took a team of Rangers to locate any of our boys or allies. She'll get back to us as soon as she finds a safe route," Dean radioed in to Captain Red.

The scene shifted to Red, standing in the makeshift war room with a large map of the island spread across the table. Hearing Dean's report, Red sighed and responded.

"Copy that. Stand by and wait for her response, Sergeant. Over and out." Red turned off the radio, placing it aside.

"Sir..." a voice spoke up behind him.

Red turned and smiled. His Airborne Sergeant, Thompson, had entered the tent with his team of airborne infantry.

"Is there something you need, Sergeant?" Red asked, sitting back in his chair.

"One of the city mayors is here to see you, sir. He wants to speak with you," Thompson reported.

"Send him in," Red instructed.

The mayor of New Avalon entered the tent, his eyes scanning the radio operators communicating with the rescue teams still out in the field. Finally, he made his way to Red, who was waiting for him.

"Mayor," Red greeted him.

"Captain," the mayor responded, taking a seat in front of Red.

They began to speak.

"What brings you here, Mayor? Is there something on your mind?" Red asked.

"Yes, actually. It's about the situation since the Tankery match between the Sensha-Do Federation and the American Tankery Association ended... a week ago. The boys should have been leaving the island today. But then, a few days ago, your forces arrived. Initially, we were convinced by the League's reasoning, and we welcomed you. But now, with this 'war' breaking out between the League and the Association in Hoja, I'm worried that the people in this city, and the others across the island, will get caught in the crossfire."

The mayor paused, taking a breath before continuing.

"I've heard about Edison High, Uncle Sam High, Montana Tankery Academy, and Virginia Academy of the Arts. I know those schools have strong reputations, especially the Japanese schools. Captain, I fear that without more of your forces, your team and your allies won't last long. I've read the after-action reports. I know those boys defeated Commander Akira and the Federation's women despite their cheating—using siege cannons and reinforcements. Those team managed to beat highly trained, college-level Tankery commanders from Japan. But now, you're outnumbered, with only a small force of Rangers and Airborne infantry. Even though those boys and girls sold their tanks, I doubt that will stop them from trying to drive you off this island. So, what I'm saying—and I know the League won't like this—is, maybe it's time you left. Before it's too late."

Red stood from his seat, the other boys from Davy Crockett overhearing the mayor's words. They knew he had a point, but Red, pacing back and forth, finally spoke.

"Yes, we're a small force, Mayor. But here we are. A few days ago, anyone could've asked why we hadn't left yet. The people we fought are gone. Our old lives are gone. The ones who warned us that staying here was a bad idea—they've moved on. Now, all we have left are the people standing beside us and the duty that binds us. Battle after battle, we've fought side by side."

He addressed the room, his voice rising with determination.

"When you look at this so-called small force of Davy Crockett High's S-Rank Tankery Team, Mayor, I see family, courage, and friendship. I see a thousand heroes who swore to fight their way through hell and back before they'd ever—ever—turn their backs and run. Where you see one small school, I see home. And that's always worth fighting for!"

With that, Red pressed a button hidden under the table, activating the battle alert. The room erupted with shouts of "Ooh-Rah!" as Airborne troops and radio operators scrambled, getting back to work or preparing to head out.

"If my older brother and our allied commanders arrive before the Association boys beat us, they'll be at the mercy of an enemy we haven't even fully faced yet. My boys will do everything they can to stop them from reaching this city. So no, Mayor... my boys and I won't be running anywhere today!"

Red gave Sergeant Thompson a nod, who promptly left the war room to prepare the troops. Red then leaned back on his chair, watching as the campsite bustled with activity.

The mayor, seeing Red's unwavering determination, smiled a little, knowing that Red wouldn't surrender without a fight.

"Sir, yes, sir," the mayor said, respectfully acknowledging Red's resolve.

Meanwhile in Hoja City...

Despite the ongoing firefight, many locals had taken shelter in their homes as battles raged through the streets. Inside the war room, Edward and the others gathered around a map, assessing the situation.

"There's still fighting downtown, mostly with North High Infantry's boys," Johnathon pointed out, marking the location of the skirmish.

"Okay, what about the others?" Edward asked.

"Well, Davy Crockett High has already pulled most of their guys out, so they're just sending in rescue squads to save their allies. Another squad has been dispatched and is still in the city. Grand Lake High is still holding their sector on the right side of the city. Washington Boys and Girls Academy and Kansas Chief High are also conducting rescue missions," Davis reported, pointing to the respective areas on the map.

"Alright, we'll need to cut off their attempts at rescuing any more of their men. I need a team of two to take out any League schools trying to pull their people out. We can't let them bring in reinforcements," Edward ordered.

"Once that's done, we should be good. After we fully kick the League schools out of the city, they won't have any foothold left," Rivers added.

As the planning continued, Maho, Darjeeling, Kay, Miho, and Katyusha entered the room, all visibly exhausted from commanding on the front lines.

"Whoa, I didn't expect to see you girls so tired," Davis remarked.

"Yeah, didn't expect you Americans to be so stubborn," Kay said, collapsing into a chair. "It took nearly four hours of commanding to overrun just one of North High's Wehrmacht positions."

"And the way these boys are trained... It's impressive," Darjeeling added, pouring herself some tea.

"Well, that's the League for you. Their boys are always doing warzone simulations, but now that they're up against us, they're struggling. It's unusual for them to have such a hard time," Davis noted.

"I mean, we're trained for tanks and handling equipment, but with airsoft fights, I'm betting our boys know how to fight in those," Rivers chimed in.

"What matters is that we're holding them back. As long as we keep pushing and kick them out of this city, we should be fine," Edward concluded.

Just then, Noriko Isobe burst through the door, alerting the commanders.

"Guys, something's happened!" Noriko exclaimed.

"What is it, Noriko?" Miho asked.

After a few minutes, the group received shocking news. Several League school commanders had officially declared a war match against the American Tankery Association and the Sensha-Do Federation for attacking their boys.

Commander Muller of North High, now back in America, was furious. A broadcast showed him assembling his forces, speaking in German, his anger palpable.

*"Die Sensha-Do Federation und die amerikanische Tankery Association haben einen Fehler gemacht, indem sie unsere Jungs angegriffen haben. Sie haben den ersten Schlag getan, und nun werden wir mit der ganzen Macht unserer Panzerdivisionen zurückschlagen. Ich werde jeden, der diesen Bürgerkrieg begonnen hat, zerschmettern, und unsere Feinde werden unter dem Gewicht unserer Panzer zermahlen werden!"* Muller declared in rage.

His speech translated: *"The Sensha-Do Federation and the American Tankery Association have made a grave mistake by attacking our boys. They threw the first punch, and now we will strike back with the full might of our Panzer Divisions. I will crush all who started this civil war, and our enemies will be ground into dust under the weight of our tanks!"*

The broadcast shifted to Commander Graham of Grand Lake High, standing in his custom U.S. Marine outfit. His voice boomed as he made his own declaration.

"My Marines and the combined forces I've sent to the island will annihilate any Association schools that dare stand against us! We won't stop until we've won this war!"

The broadcast shifted to League propaganda, showcasing each selected school's military might and bold proclamations. The announcers boasted that these schools would root out the "traitors" from the island. Grainy clips of tanks rolling across fields, soldiers marching, and commanders addressing their troops filled the screen, emphasizing the League's resolve to crush the opposition.

The video ended, and the scene cut to Colonel Abernathy on a call with the high school commanders.

"Since the declaration, we had no choice but to accept it... I'm sorry, kids, but it was either that or shut down your schools," Abernathy said grimly.

"They can't do that! That's absolute bullshit! We weren't the ones who started this mess! It was them! Those bastards started this!" Edward shouted, his frustration boiling over.

"I know you're all upset," Abernathy said, his voice calm but firm. "But we don't have a choice. We've got to reform the association to face the League again. Right now, it's up to you boys whether you want to join in or not. We all know why you sold your tanks and equipment, but Morrison is trying to find any school that'll stand up to the League. So... are you in, or out?"

Edward, Davis, Johnathon, and Rivers exchanged glances, knowing full well the damage the League boys had done on the island and now, the threat of their schools being shut down loomed over them.

"We're in, Colonel," Edward finally said, his voice resolute.

"Good. We've already repurchased the tanks you boys sold to the museums, and they're on their way back to the island. For now, I suggest you get ready because the League schools are bringing everything they've got. We'll discuss the rules and details before the match officially starts... I'm sure the girls are getting briefed as well," Abernathy added.

"Wait... what about the boys who are still fighting in the city?" Rivers asked.

"The League has ordered a ceasefire. They're telling their boys to return to their outposts. That means any boys still trapped in the city will be allowed to make their way out," Abernathy explained. "That's all for now. I'll talk to you more when we arrive tomorrow."

Meanwhile, with the Girls...

After being briefed on the situation, girls from Kuromorimine Girls' Academy, Ooarai Girls' Academy, Pravda Girls' High School, Saunders University High, and St. Gloriana Girls College gathered, exchanging thoughts on the upcoming conflict.

They spoke quietly, some expressing surprise at the idea of fighting a different group of American boys—ones they hadn't met before, unlike the friendships they'd formed with other American schools. A few whispered about how relieved they were to be getting their tanks back after selling them off.

But for Miho, the entire situation left her uneasy. As she listened to the others talk, she couldn't help but wonder what the League boys were truly like beneath their harsh exterior. Were they really as bad as they seemed?

At the Port of Houston, Texas...

The scene shifted to the port of Houston, where a massive force of North High, Grand Lake High, Washington Boys' and Girls' Academy, Kansas Chief High, and Davy Crockett High Tankery teams prepared for departure. Hundreds of boys—consisting of Rangers, Marines, Wehrmacht units, and others—stood at attention, their airsoft rifles resting on their right shoulders.

(Something like this)

The rhythmic sounds of boots hitting the pavement echoed as they began to march, their synchronized steps reverberating through the air. The deep hum of tank engines added a powerful undertone, creating a sense of impending war.

As they marched up the ramps of the cruisers provided by the League, the boys began singing an old World War II song. Their voices rose in unison, steady and unwavering, filled with determination:

"Heimat, oh Heimat, wir marschieren,
Unsere Fahne weht im Wind,
Für Ruhm und Ehre wir kämpfen,
Mit eiserner Hand, zum Sieg wir ziehen!"

Overlooking the port stood the school commanders: Graham, Muller, Elijah, Wesley, and finally Houston, all dressed in their school uniforms, standing at attention with their hands behind their backs. Their eyes were focused on the boys as they boarded the ships, the weight of leadership clear in their posture.

Off to the side, several League officials watched the scene unfold. Among them was Delia, still in her chairwoman uniform, and Doyal, dressed in a U.S. Army officer's uniform, both silently observing the massive force heading to Tomodachi Island.

Delia let out a heavy sigh, crossing her arms as she turned to Doyal. "This could've been prevented, you know... None of this had to happen."

Doyal, his expression grim, shook his head slowly. "There was no other choice the League could give them. It was all in the past... and now, the new Civil War has begun."