Chapter 5: Descent Into Madness
The war had been relentless, the fighting never-ending. It was no longer about strategy or honor—it was about survival. The once proud soldiers from around the world were now broken shadows of who they once were. The Warmongers Tournament had become a nightmare, a place where death was a mercy and madness lurked around every corner.
In the Southern Plains, Sergeant Reyna de la Cruz and her Philippines Tiger Alliance squad were surrounded by enemy forces. For days, they had been hunted by the Russian Iron Guard, their numbers dwindling as soldiers fell one by one. Reyna could feel the exhaustion in her bones, but she kept pushing forward, refusing to show weakness to her men.
"Sergeant, we’re out of ammo," one of her soldiers whispered, his voice trembling.
Reyna stared out into the distance. She could see the Iron Guard moving in, their exoskeletons gleaming in the sunlight. There was no way out, no chance for escape. The enemy was closing in, and Reyna knew what was coming.
“Get ready for hand-to-hand combat,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her insides. “We fight to the end.”
Before they could brace themselves, the Russians were upon them. The clash was brutal, with soldiers fighting with knives, fists, and anything they could grab. Reyna’s squad was outnumbered, and the Iron Guard’s strength was overwhelming. One by one, her men were torn apart. She saw her closest friend, Private Ramon, impaled on a Russian bayonet, his eyes wide with terror before the light left them forever.
Despair washed over her, but Reyna refused to let it break her. She fought with everything she had, blood splattering across her face as she struck down another enemy. But it wasn’t enough. She was forced to her knees, watching as the last of her squad fell in the mud, their bodies broken and lifeless.
For the first time, she felt true helplessness. The Iron Guard captain stood over her, his boot on her chest, pressing down as he raised his rifle. Reyna closed her eyes, waiting for the shot that would end her suffering. But it never came.
Suddenly, a deafening explosion rocked the battlefield, and the Russians were thrown back. Captain Arman Delgado and his Brazilian Jungle Operatives had arrived, launching a surprise attack from the trees. Arman pulled Reyna to her feet, his face grim but determined.
“Not your time yet,” he said simply before charging into the fight.
Reyna, shaken but alive, grabbed a fallen weapon and joined the assault. Together, the Brazilians and what was left of the Philippines squad managed to push back the Russians, but the cost had been heavy. The battlefield was littered with bodies, and the stench of death hung thick in the air.
Elsewhere, deep in the Northern Hills, Lieutenant Amir al-Fayed of the Egyptian Pharaoh’s Guard sat in a trench, staring at the dirt-covered photograph of his family. He had lost most of his men in a disastrous ambush by the Turkish Anatolian Falcons, and now he was alone, cut off from the rest of his forces. The once confident and strategic Amir was now a man on the edge of breaking.
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His hands trembled as he gripped his rifle, his mind replaying the massacre over and over. The screams of his soldiers, the blood, the horror—it was all too much. His thoughts spiraled into madness, unable to separate reality from the nightmares that haunted him. He couldn’t even bring himself to stand.
As he sat there, lost in his despair, he heard footsteps approaching. A group of Turkish soldiers, the same ones who had slaughtered his men, were moving through the trench, searching for survivors.
Amir’s breathing quickened, panic clawing at his chest. He wanted to fight, to stand and face them, but his body refused to move. The once proud lieutenant was now paralyzed by fear, his mind shattered by the horrors he had witnessed. As the Turks came closer, Amir shut his eyes, waiting for the end.
But instead of killing him, the soldiers passed by without noticing him. Amir remained there, curled in the dirt, too broken to do anything but survive another day.
On the frontlines of the Western Front, Private Leo Mendes of the Mexican Aztec Warriors had completely lost himself to the chaos. The war had twisted him, turning the once brave soldier into something far more dangerous. He moved through the battlefield like a man possessed, his eyes wild with madness as he slaughtered everything in his path.
The Mexican forces had been locked in a deadly struggle with the United Kingdom’s Special Task Forces, and Leo was at the center of it. His rifle was gone, discarded long ago in favor of a machete he had picked up from a fallen soldier. He hacked and slashed through the British troops, his mind numb to the violence.
One of his comrades, Corporal Martinez, tried to pull him back. “Leo! Snap out of it! You’re killing our own men!”
But Leo couldn’t hear him. He had descended into madness, the lines between friend and foe blurred beyond recognition. He turned, his machete raised high, and in a split second, Martinez was dead—killed by the very man he had tried to save.
Leo stood over the body, panting, his mind racing as he struggled to understand what he had done. For a moment, clarity broke through the fog of his madness, and he stared down at his friend’s lifeless form.
“What… have I become?” he whispered, his voice hollow. But before he could process the horror of his actions, more British soldiers appeared, and the madness took him again. He ran at them, screaming, his mind lost to the slaughter.
In a hidden valley, Jaegal Taek, still leading the Chinese Dragon Strike Corps, had been tracking down a coalition of Indian and Israeli forces. His cold rage fueled every decision, every strike. He had no time for mercy, no patience for weakness. His only goal was victory, and he would crush anyone who stood in his way.
The battle had been fierce, and the ground was soaked in blood. The Indian forces had fought hard, but Taek’s men overwhelmed them with their superior firepower. As the last of the Israelis fell, Taek stood amidst the carnage, his sword dripping with blood.
Around him, his soldiers celebrated their victory, but Taek felt nothing. He stared blankly at the bodies, his mind already moving to the next fight. He had no time for rest, no time for emotion. In this place, emotion was a weakness he couldn’t afford.
But deep down, something in him was starting to crack. The endless killing, the relentless push for victory—it was all beginning to take its toll. And though he didn’t show it, the first seeds of doubt had been planted.
The Warmongers Tournament was breaking them all, piece by piece. Some had already fallen into despair, others had lost their minds entirely.
And for those who remained, the fight was only getting harder.