Chapter 97: LEONHARD’S TROUBLE

Kai walked along the trail leading to the old base—with two pistols in his hands, with an AR on his shoulder, with eyes watching every corner. The trees on the left and right began to thicken—tall pines with branches touching each other, creating a natural canopy that covered most of the sky. Sunlight entering through the gaps in the leaves created moving patterns on the ground—golden yellow, flickering every time the wind blew. Whoosh... The wind blew softly, carrying the scent of wet earth and sharp tree sap. Kai didn’t slow his steps. He didn’t quicken them either. He just walked at his usual rhythm—with relaxed hands, with alert eyes, with ears listening to every sound.

He hadn’t gone far when he saw it. Footprints. Many. Too many to ignore. Kai stopped and crouched—observing those footprints carefully. The prints were deep—meaning their owners carried fairly heavy loads. The weight of weapons. The weight of ammunition. The weight of equipment. Their size was large—meaning adults. And the pattern—Kai furrowed his brow—tactical shoe patterns. Not ordinary shoes. Not street thug shoes. Shoes used by trained people. People who knew what they were doing.

He stood up. He stared toward the old base—toward the smoke billowing from several windows, toward the sound of gunfire occasionally heard, toward the shadows moving among the trees. He calculated in his head—the number of footprints, the direction of the footprints, the spread pattern—and he came to one conclusion: if he followed this path, he would meet them. If he followed this path, he would become a target before he reached the door.

He turned to the side—toward the grassy field not far from where he stood. Leonhard had once told him about a secret passage—a path known only to a few people, a path never used except in emergencies. "If you’re ever trapped at the base," Leonhard had said at the time, "and you can’t get in through the front door—look for the grassy field on the east side. There’s a door there. Under the fake grass. You’ll know when you’ve found it."

Kai walked toward that grassy field—past several trees, past several bushes that clung to his pants, past several stones that made him step carefully. He stopped in front of a stretch of grass that looked ordinary. Too ordinary. Almost suspicious. The grass was green—just like the grass around it—but there was something different. Something he couldn’t explain with words. Maybe because it was too neat. Maybe because it was too flat. Maybe because there wasn’t a single blade of grass taller than the others.

He crouched and started feeling around—his fingers tracing the ground, tracing the grass, searching for something that shouldn’t be there. He felt the soil—slowly, carefully, with patience he had trained for years—until his fingers touched something different. Not soil. Not grass. Something hard. Something smooth. Something made of plastic. Fake grass.

He lifted it—slowly, with hands that made no sound—and beneath it was a wooden door. An old door—with a surface full of scratches, with hinges rusted in places, with an iron handle worn from frequent use. But still sturdy. Still usable.

Kai lifted that door—creak—and he saw stairs leading down. Dark. Very dark. He couldn’t see anything—just thick darkness, which seemed to swallow all light from outside. He descended those stairs—one by one, with a hand feeling the wall, with feet searching for footing—and he reached the bottom. There, on a small shelf attached to the wall, were a candle and matches. The candle was half burned—maybe left over from previous use. The matchbox was still new—with its box not yet opened.

Kai took both—lighting the candle with one strike—and the yellow light illuminated a narrow passage leading somewhere. The passage wasn’t wide—only enough for one person—and its ceiling was low—enough to make him bend slightly. Its walls were made of earth—damp, with roots protruding in places, with several stones clinging to its surface. And the air—stuffy, with the scent of earth and mold that stung the nose. But Kai didn’t care. He had been in worse places. He had breathed worse air.

He walked along that passage—slowly, with the candle in his left hand, with the pistol in his right. Every step was calculated—where he placed his foot, how much weight he shifted, how fast he breathed. He passed several turns—left, right, left again—and he passed several branches he didn’t take. Leonhard had once told him about those branches. "Don’t take the branch heading north," he had said. "That’s a dead end. Don’t take the branch heading south. That’s a trap. Take the branch heading west. That’s the only way out."

Kai followed those directions—past the north branch, past the south branch—and he reached the end of the passage. A door. The same wooden door as the entrance earlier—with a surface full of scratches, with hinges rusted, with an iron handle worn from use. He pushed that door—creak—and he immediately met the muzzle of a pistol aimed right at his face.

"It’s me," Kai said.

The pistol didn’t move. Kai could see the eyes behind that pistol—sharp eyes, alert eyes, eyes used to combat. Eyes he recognized. Then—slowly—the pistol lowered. Leonhard stood there—with wrinkled clothes, with dried blood at his temple, with a pistol in a still slightly trembling hand. His face was older than Kai remembered—with deeper wrinkles, with darker circles under his eyes—and there was something in his eyes he had never seen before. Something like—exhaustion.

"You’re late, Kai," he said. His voice was hoarse.

Kai lowered his candle and placed it on the table near the door. "If you want to blame someone, blame Gunner. He only took me to within two hundred meters of here."

Leonhard let out a breath—slowly, with shoulders slightly slumped. "Gunner," he said. "He’s not what he used to be."

"I know." Kai looked at him. "What actually happened?"

Leonhard walked to the chair in the corner of the room and sat down—with the pistol still in his hand, with eyes staring at the floor. The room was small—just enough for one table, two chairs, and several cabinets attached to the wall. On the floor, there were several scattered papers—maybe documents, maybe maps, maybe something Leonhard had been reading before the attack began. On the wall, there were several photos—old photos, with faded colors—and Kai could see faces he recognized in them. Faces that no longer existed.

"A meeting," Leonhard said. "With government officials. About the school."

Kai looked at him. "The school?"

"Yes." Leonhard lifted his head. "They want to turn Phoenix Academy into a public school. Fully managed by the state. No more—" he paused for a moment, "—no more foundation. No more me. No more us."

Kai furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"Because they think that school is already too—" Leonhard stopped again, like he was searching for the right word, "—too free. Too independent. Too—" he smiled bitterly, "—too uncontrollable."

Kai looked at him. "And you refused."

"Of course I refused." Leonhard stood from his chair—with the pistol still in his hand, with eyes starting to blaze. "That school was built for children who were victims of war. For children who lost their parents. For children who had nowhere else. That was a promise—a promise agreed upon by the government and my side. Eight years ago. They can’t just withdraw it."

Kai looked at him—for a long time. "But they tried."

"Yes. They tried." Leonhard walked to the window and stared outside—toward the trees, toward the smoke still billowing, toward the shadows moving among the trees. "And when I refused—" he paused for a moment, "—they decided to take it another way."

Kai looked at him. "By attacking you?"

"By attacking me. By destroying this base. By—" Leonhard turned to Kai, "—by killing me. If I die—no one will oppose them. No one will protect that school. No one will—" he stopped, "—no one will protect those students."

Kai clenched his fists. "Who’s leading this attack?"

Leonhard opened his mouth to answer—but before he could say anything, a voice from outside broke the silence. A voice amplified by a megaphone—loud, with a tone too confident.

"Leonhard!" The voice echoed throughout the base. "You’re surrounded! There’s no way out! Surrender, and there will be no casualties!"

Kai turned to the window. He saw a man standing among the trees—with a megaphone in his hand, with neat clothes, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The man wasn’t tall—not short either—with slicked-back hair and a white shirt that looked expensive. Behind him—dozens of men with weapons, with trained positions, with eyes watching every corner.

"Who’s that?" Kai asked.

Leonhard stared at that man—for a long time, with narrowed eyes, with jaw tightened. "Roky," he said. "One of the people at that meeting. One of the people who wants to take the school."

Roky raised his megaphone again. "You have ten minutes! After that—we’re coming in! And if we have to come in—" he paused for a moment, "—nothing will be left!"

Leonhard looked at Kai. "Do you have a plan?"

Kai looked at him—for a long time. Then he turned to the window—toward Roky, toward the dozens of men behind him, toward the weapons they carried. He calculated in his head—numbers, positions, distances—and he let out a breath.

"We can’t fight them all," Kai said. "Not with the weapons we have. Not with the people we have."

Leonhard nodded slowly. "I know." He raised his pistol—with a hand no longer trembling, with eyes no longer hesitating. "But we also can’t surrender."

Kai looked at him—for a long time. Then he nodded—slowly, almost imperceptibly. "I know."

He raised his pistols—two pistols, one in each hand—and he stood beside Leonhard. Outside—Roky was still shouting, still giving ultimatums, still counting down. But Kai didn’t hear him. He only heard the sound of his own breathing—steady, calm—and the sound of his heartbeat—slow, stable.

"Let’s end this," he said.