The battlefield? The corridor outside the 6th and 7th class block. The reason? Nothing less than raw stupidity.
It all began when a 6th grader accused a 7th grader of stealing his Pokémon sticker. The 7th grader retaliated with a flying chalk. In the blink of an eye, school bags turned into war drums. One 6th grader screamed, "FOR THE FUTURE!" and charged with a lunchbox. A 7th grader parried with a duster like it was a sacred blade.
They fought like gremlins on a caffeine overdose.
Inside this chaos, Abhay's plan was moving like a shadow. The Drawing Club launched "Operation: Colorful Collapse." Dozens of Class 7 warriors were trapped in a hallway barricaded by folding tables and skewered with mechanical pencil mines. Kritagiya played war music from his laptop—half-dubstep, half-trauma.
In under a minute, Class 7 was pinned, duct-taped, and humiliated. The battlefield looked like a combination of modern art and a crime scene.
But silence never lasts here.
From across the hall, tension ignited again.
Two kings stood face to face.
The Music Club President, bloodied from his earlier war coordination, adjusted his blazer, eyes locked forward like a demon maestro.
The Boxing Club President cracked his knuckles, muscles rippling under a torn uniform, eyes burning with fury.
"You're not supposed to be here," the Music Club President muttered, voice low, dangerous.
"Neither are you," the Boxer growled.
There was no countdown. No signal. Just—
Impact.
Music's mic stand swung like a guillotine. Boxer blocked it with his forearm, then sent a body blow that echoed like thunder through the corridor.
The Music President spun back, planted one foot against the wall, and leapt forward, smashing a steel tambourine across Boxer's temple. The clang was deafening. The boxing captain staggered, then countered with a savage right hook that cracked the air.
It was a war of fists and instruments. Of rage and rhythm.
Music fought like a wild composer—unpredictable, elegant, vicious. His guitar was reduced to splinters within the first minute, used like a club before it snapped in half.
Boxer fought like a storm—precision, strength, devastation. Every punch was a meteor. Every move was a threat.
The walls dented. Lockers crushed. Blood smeared the tiles.
A cymbal was used as a shield, until it was dented by a knee strike. Music spat blood and laughed, then delivered a spinning kick straight to Boxer's ribs.
Boxer grunted, then tackled Music clean through a clubroom door.
Crash.
They landed on a teacher's desk, which exploded beneath them.
CCTV across the school streamed it all. Students from every floor gathered, pale-faced and trembling.
And then—
Music took a stand on wobbly feet, coughing, barely seeing straight. "Why… did you hit so hard…"
Boxer stumbled, eye swollen shut. "Why… did you attack me…?"
Music smirked, lips stained crimson. "Didn't want the final war… to be one-sided."
The hallway fell silent. The cameras zoomed in.
Then—
Both collapsed.
Together. Simultaneously. Unconscious.
Two titans down. The final bell tolling.
For ten whole seconds, the school was frozen.
Then—
DING. An announcement echoed:
"All remaining classes have either surrendered or joined the UCBF—United Classes of Basement and Friends—or the Archer-Boxing Alliance. The school war is in its final stages."
Back in the Music Club room, a drummer-turned-medic stitched wounds and whispered prayers. The Music President, half-conscious, dragged himself to the mic stand one last time.
"From childish chaos to presidents falling like empires… we've seen it all. This school… it's madness… but glorious madness. One war remains. One crown is yet to be claimed. Let's see—who becomes the true ruler… of this school year."
He passed out, mid-mic drop.
And across the school, every fighter, every ally, every traitor… held their breath.