War didn't start with a bang.
It started with a meow.
A terrified cat sprinted across the battlefield—a literal battlefield of lunch benches, dust clouds, and the smell of dried glue and teenage rage—as Ujjwal's team clashed with the Yoga-Judo warriors in the courtyard.
Five alliances. Five zones. One crown.
At the north end, near the defunct swimming pool that now doubled as a battlefield, Ujjwal's team—11th-C's proud misfits—launched an all-out assault using their infamous guerrilla-style traps. They had one rule: If it moves, trip it.
Booby-trapped benches, slipper-coated stairs, banana peel grenades—pure genius.
Ujjwal ducked a flying shoe and shouted, "Deploy the shampoo bombs!"
Beneath the pool's drainage grate, a wiry junior twisted a knob, releasing a fine mist of hair shampoo. The opposing squad slipped like toddlers on an ice rink. It was chaos incarnate.
Meanwhile, the Yoga-Judo alliance unleashed the kind of synchronized war dance that would make ancient Spartan warriors applaud. Their battlefield: the gymnasium.
Senior black belts from both clubs formed a living wall, plowing through enemies like a blender through soup. The room echoed with grunts, yells, and the sharp smack of bodies being flipped into storage boxes.
"Remember!" shouted a senior mid-backflip. "Pain is temporary. Victory is forever!"
"Also," another added, spinning through the air, "we're out of water bottles!"
The North East alliance took their fight to the dusty science block, defending their honor with cracked lab beakers and expired vinegar bombs. They used test tubes like darts and wielded broomsticks like medieval lances.
At one point, a North East kid screamed, "For CBSE!" and leapt from a second-floor window onto a mattress below, bringing down an opponent with him.
In the art block, the Drawing Club had turned the entire hallway into a trap-filled hellscape. Paper-mâché mines, blinding chalk explosions, and sketchbook shields turned what should've been a gentle artist retreat into a war zone straight from Mad Max: Crayola Edition.
And then there was Abhay.
His team moved through the central corridor—known only now as No Man's Land.
They were few in number but terrifying in presence. Abhay led the charge, his eyes cold, his steps calculated, and his mind absolutely done with this school year.
Behind him followed Rohit, the Judo-Drawing hybrid squad, and—shockingly—Kritagiya, carrying his laptop like it was a sacred artifact.
"Why are you even here?" Abhay snapped as they advanced.
"I'm streaming this war on Outstagram," Kritagiya replied, completely serious. "#WarOfThrones #SchoolEdition."
As the five fronts clashed, the Music Club room became a war newsroom. Screens everywhere. Students too bruised or scared to fight were glued to the feed, watching with bated breath.
Music Club president—now healed and emotionally unhinged—narrated the chaos like a sports commentator.
"Here we have Ujjwal's shampoo division pushing into the northwest flank. Oh! That's gotta hurt—slipped right into a lunch tray! Classic move. And now... Yoga-Judo slams a rival through a gym mat. That's a 9.5 on form, 10 on brutality."
Then came the moment no one was ready for.
The Archer Club president entered the battlefield.
He walked with a calm that only serial killers or board toppers usually possessed. Dressed in his clean white uniform, not a speck of dust on him, he looked like a final boss entering a broken world.
Abhay, now wiping blood from a busted lip, turned toward the corridor and saw him.
They locked eyes.
The Music Club president whispered, "It begins."
Without a word, both of them moved.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, students holding their breath, even the cameras focusing solely on them.
The battle between Abhay and the Archer Club president was no fight—it was war distilled into two bodies.
Arrows flew—not literal, but sharp jabs, rapid kicks, spinning punches that shattered wooden panels. The walls cracked. Dust rose. Somewhere, a window imploded just from the shockwaves of their hits.
Abhay dodged a sweeping leg, landed a blow to the side, but received a crushing elbow to the jaw. He staggered back, blood trickling down.
The Archer Club president followed, calm as a glacier. He didn't speak. Just attacked with the precision of a trained killer.
Abhay ducked, parried, and suddenly countered with a punch so clean it echoed across the hallway.
Cameras caught every second.
The Music Club president stood slowly, one hand covering his mouth. "This… this is beautiful."
Back and forth they went, blow for blow, bruise for bruise. Both refused to yield. The floor tiles cracked beneath them. The very air trembled.
Abhay, using every ounce of rage, pain, and tactical fury, finally delivered a spinning knee to the gut that sent the Archer president sliding back across the floor.
But just as Abhay prepared to end it, the Archer president sprang forward with a last desperate strike to the ribs.
Both of them landed hits.
Both of them fell.
Silence.
Unmoving.
Unconscious.
The screens showed the brutal aftermath: two warriors, side by side, bloodied, broken, and defeated.
A collective gasp rippled across the school.
Then, slowly, the Music Club president—now standing in the conference room—raised the mic.
"After reviewing all wars fought today, the alliances formed, the strategies used, and the strength shown... I, Music Club president and Supreme Overseer of Chaos, declare the winner of this year's Grand War…"
The school held its breath.
"…Abhay Singh Jadon."
A roar exploded through the halls.
From science block to gym, from cafeteria to basement, students erupted in cheers. Even the Archer Club, seeing their president nod faintly from the floor, clapped with respect.
The Music Club president continued, "This year, the ruler of the school is none other than the madman who dragged this war into legend—Abhay."
Abhay, still lying on the ground, blinked.
Rohit rushed to his side. "Bro… you did it."
"I can't feel my ribs," Abhay croaked.
"But you're ruler now!"
Abhay coughed. "Tell Kritagiya… change his Outstagram name. Please."
From somewhere, Kritagiya shouted, "Too late! #LordAbhay is already trending!"
In the far background, Ujjwal leaned against a wall, smiling proudly. The Drawing Club president threw a crumpled sketchbook into the air like confetti. Even the Yoga and Judo seniors bowed their heads in respect.
As the chaos calmed, as bruises were bandaged and walls patched, the school returned to a fragile peace.
A new ruler sat atop the throne of madness.
And somewhere deep down, every student knew:
Next year... it would all happen again.