"What the hell is that?""Holy shit! Could it be…?"
A roar of whispered exclamations swept through the crowd as everyone tilted their heads skyward, shading their eyes against the sun or squinting to see more clearly. Five dark specks hovered in the distance, growing larger by the second.
"Helicopters!""No, holy shit—an entire fleet of helicopters!""Damn, those helicopters look like they're coming right for us!""What's going on?"
Speculation rippled through the students as they continued to stare skyward. As the helicopters drew nearer, the thunder of their rotors grew deafening. The spinning blades churned the air with such force that the sunlight fragmented into flickering shards across their glossy fuselages.
Seeing just one helicopter is rare enough for most people, but five arriving together was a scene straight out of an action movie. When those five behemoths—each over forty feet long—descended from the sky with a bone-shaking roar, every onlooker felt an almost indescribable shock deep in their chest, a crushing sense of their own insignificance.
On the grass below, Damon waved his two flags—one red, one yellow—running back and forth to guide the pilots toward the chalked circles he had drawn earlier. As each helicopter zeroed in on those five chalk rings on the lawn, the crowd finally understood.
"Wait a second—could these be the reinforcements that kid called for?""No way. We thought he was just delusional—imagining himself as some heir from a comic book family. Turns out…he was serious?""Those aren't just any choppers. They're the latest Apache X007 Elite series, built at fifty million dollars apiece!"
A few students with an eye for military tech couldn't resist chiming in.
"Fifty million for just one?! That Rolls-Royce Phantom Kayla's uncle arrived in probably cost only five hundred thousand. So one helicopter equals a hundred Phantoms? And here come five—like five hundred Phantoms' worth of firepower!"
"If you think money alone matters, you're a sucker. The X007 hasn't even been cleared for export to our most 'friendly' European Union partners—let alone private ownership here. How on earth did these five get here?"
"Beats me. Civil aviation authority would have to sign off on any chopper deployment. Even in an emergency, it takes hours, sometimes days. But this kid calls his family, and in half an hour? Five choppers!"
A hush fell as the five choppers touched down in perfect alignment on the grass. One by one, their cabin doors slid open. Twenty figures emerged: five dressed as pilots, and fifteen in full tactical gear—bulletproof vests, riot boots, camouflage helmets. The handles of combat knives protruded from their cargo-pocket pants. But the most startling detail was that every single one of them carried a submachine gun strapped across their chests.
They advanced toward Grayson as a single unit. Behind them, Viktor's men still held their knives at the ready, encircling Grayson and Jasmine.
Bang!
The lead combat trooper smashed his elbow into the jaw of one of Viktor's henchmen. The man grunted and collapsed to the ground. Fifteen heavily armed warriors charged forward like a pack of tigers tearing into a flock of sheep.
Clang! Bang!
In less than a minute, Viktor's dozens of goons lay incapacitated or cowering on the lawn. Each move by the troopers was precise, efficient—no wasted motion. They were professionals through and through.
Kayla, standing before Grayson, watched in stunned silence. Her face had drained of color; the fierce, arrogant swagger she'd worn minutes ago was gone. A single trooper approached her. Kayla's legs buckled beneath her—she tried to move, but she couldn't.
"I—I'm just a girl—" she stammered.
But without hesitation, the trooper rammed his helmet into Kayla's skull. Blood spurted as she crumpled to the ground, unconscious. To these elite fighters, there was no distinction between men and women, young or old. Anyone within Young Master Grayson's vicinity was considered a threat.
"Bring Kayla over here—now!"
Viktor stared in disbelief. Even as the head of Cleveland's deadliest gang, he had weathered countless storms. Yet this level of opposition shattered his expectations and stripped away all notions of his own power. He had dealt with the wealthiest families and most ruthless criminal clans in the country. But none of them had ever dared to make a statement like this—except perhaps…? His mind raced as he realized that maybe this world was not what he thought it was.
Still, Kayla lay injured, so Viktor barked an order for his closest lieutenant to carry her to safety. But before his man could take a single step, another trooper blocked his path, drawing a razor-sharp combat blade from his thigh.
"This area is now under temporary martial jurisdiction—designated a protected compound of the Cole family. Any unauthorized personnel, advance and be neutralized on sight."
The trooper's voice was as cold and cutting as his blade, and Viktor's henchman instantly backed away, tripping over himself in retreat. Even Viktor sank into the plush chair Kayla had occupied, his face pale, beads of sweat dotting his forehead.
"Report, Captain—left flank is secure.""Report, Captain—right flank is secure.""Report, Captain—threats neutralized."
Voices crackled through radios as each trooper confirmed their sectors. At this moment, within a fifty-foot radius of Grayson, there remained only Damon, the twenty-one disembarked troops, the incapacitated Red Snake enforcers, and Kayla. The zone was completely secured.
"This is unbelievable.""Those fighters—no question, they're some of the best in the world.""It's like watching a Hollywood blockbuster!""My blood's pumping so hard right now!"
From the moment those helicopters landed, the crowd had held its breath. Every move had been brutally precise, thrilling to the core.
But nothing could prepare them for what came next.
"West Division, C-Level Support Unit Three, report to Young Master Grayson."
In unison, the fifteen troopers, the five pilots, and Damon Cross—all twenty-one—dropped to one knee and bowed deeply before Grayson.
A reverent silence fell over the courtyard. Everyone watched in stunned awe. The very same men who had crushed Viktor's elite enforcers, who had laid Kayla low without a second thought, now bowed before the one person they all had once mocked: Young Master Grayson.
"Oh my God."
An unspoken tremor of reverence rippled through the onlookers. They realized now that this kid was the genuine article: an heir from one of the world's most powerful families, modest and unassuming…until called upon.
Grayson did not glance at the assembled troopers. His focus was entirely on Jasmine, who lay limp in his arms. Her breathing was shallow; she was too weak to speak. He gently stroked her smooth skin, wiping away the dried blood and tears.
Not a single soldier dared straighten up. They stayed in that humble bow, not daring to move until Grayson spoke.
"Jasmine," he whispered, lifting her close so she could feel his warmth. "I'll show you exactly what happens when someone lays a hand on you."
He stood, cradling her, and the fighters snapped to attention. They formed a protective ring around him, plating up like living shields.
Grayson strode toward Viktor, each step sending a shiver through the defeated gang boss. When Grayson came to a halt in front of him, he leveled a steely gaze at Viktor.
"Do you know what to do now?" Grayson asked quietly.
Viktor's skin was ashen. He nodded, trembling, then retrieved a dagger from his belt. In a swift motion, he severed his own little finger.
"From today on, the Red Snake gang is disbanded in Cleveland."
"Yes…" Viktor pressed a hand to his bleeding stump, nodding again. Regret must have bled from every pore—he'd thought this would be a simple intimidation, only to lose his entire empire.
"Destroy all the vehicles they came in," Grayson ordered.
Without hesitation, the troopers raised their rifle butts and began hammering down on the line of exotic cars—Ferraris, Lamborghinis—obliterating them into twisted wrecks within minutes.
"Now I want all of you to strip off your shoes and socks. Walk home barefoot. No cars. Anyone who disobeys—dies. Get moving!" Grayson barked.
So there stood Viktor and his gang, their bare feet pressing against the hot pavement as they formed a two-by-two line. They shuffled out of the schoolyard and onto the street, a humiliating procession.
"Isn't that the head of the Red Snake?" passersby murmured."What the hell's going on—walking barefoot in public? This can't be real.""If the Red Snake gang can be taken down, what else is possible?"
Meanwhile, Grayson carried Jasmine onto one of the waiting helicopters.
"Take us to Ashford Isle," he said in a cold, unwavering tone. Exhaustion weighed on him as he settled into his seat, holding Jasmine close. The five helicopters lifted off in formation, heading toward the horizon.
As they rose above the street, Grayson whispered to the unconscious Jasmine, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Jasmine…do you see them? Those barefoot men walking down the road? I…finally got justice for you."
Somehow, as the helicopter climbed higher, a single tear rolled down Jasmine's cheek—proof that, even in her weakened state, she could sense that her protector had won their battle.