The Crusade Advances
On Google Maps, the red pins started popping up.
One by one. Then by the dozens—each one stamped with the golden emblem of Humbleism.
At first, it looked like a few scattered marks in the city’s far east.
But then they multiplied. Fast.
Pretty soon, the clusters got so dense it was uncomfortable to look at—like the screen itself had caught some kind of disease.
And in a way, it had.
Under Pastor Simon’s leadership—a guy who blended faith with straight-up business savvy—Humbleism was expanding with military precision.
They weren’t just winning hearts. They were taking territory.
Shopping mall after shopping mall went under their control.
Especially in the eastern districts.
Because here’s the thing: the east side had always been a mess.
Gangs everywhere. No clear leadership. Just fragments.
Tiny factions constantly at odds. Loud, aimless, and broken.
So when the Crusaders rolled in—organized, united, and relentless—they didn’t face much resistance.
They were a tank.
And that tank had a media crew.
Their rise wasn’t just boots on the ground—it was algorithm-deep.
Their official YouTube channel, Humbleism Crusade, exploded.
Clips of tearful confessions, intense rituals, dramatic healings, and Simon’s “miraculous compassion” started going viral.
The views were pouring in. Comments. Shares. Subscriptions.
The algorithm loved them.
So did the desperate.
New followers joined by the hundreds. Then thousands.
With every click came more believers, more donations, more firepower.
The movement wasn’t just growing. It was consuming.
Somewhere else in the city, in a dark, smoky room, a man stood hunched over a massive tabletop model of the city.
He cracked open a beer and took a long sip.
He stared at the eastern half of the miniature grid. It was smothered in tiny golden flags.
His own crew’s markers—green—were vanishing. Getting overtaken one square at a time.
Without warning, he hurled the bottle at the wall.
Glass exploded. Foam sprayed across the room.
No one moved.
His lieutenants stood in silence. They knew they couldn’t stop this.
Not with what they had.
Daylight was coming.
And with it, a force too big to fight.
Elsewhere, in a fortified compound, more than a dozen men sat quietly around a round table.
In the middle of the table lay a hand-drawn paper map—creased, frayed, color-coded with urgency and sweat.
Robinson sat among them, calm but cold.
He pointed to the chart.
“This pattern—it’s breaking our balance.”
The gold zones were surging deeper into the east.
The green territory had already started pulling back to the south.
And his own zone—blue—was getting pushed west and north.
“If this continues,” he said flatly, “we’ll get forced out to the suburbs.
Maybe out of the city altogether.”
The men around him nodded. All serious.
But nobody had a plan.
Just like that, a new rising power shattered the uneasy balance the city had lived under for years.
Now?
Every faction was plotting quietly in the dark.
A New Force in Uniform
For years, the city had balanced on the edge.
Four main forces shared its streets like chess pieces frozen mid-game.
Yellow—the zealots. The Humbleism Crusade. Faith-fueled, organized, and surging in numbers.
Blue—Robinson’s disciplined crime syndicate. Sharp. Structured. Cold.
Green—Canelo’s gang. Wild, reactive, and deeply embedded in the streets.
And White—the strange one. A silent, scattered presence. Hooded. Vague. Unaffiliated.
Until now.
The white force had been pushed into full retreat.
On the map, their markers fell back hard, shrinking into a single, decaying neighborhood.
It was like they were getting flushed down a drain.
Eventually, they retreated to the shadows—holed up in a rotting subway station underneath the red-light district.
The Crusaders had them surrounded.
Down in that tunnel, the lights flickered. The ceiling dripped. The walls peeled with mold.
The place smelled like time had given up.
Pastor Simon walked in with his followers.
Their robes dragged behind them. Their ropes swayed. Their chanting filled the space like low thunder.
Across the station stood the white force.
Men in black hoodies. Sunglasses. Still. Silent.
Simon walked straight to their leader.
No words. No warm-up.
He pulled down the man’s hood.
Then tore off the sunglasses.
And there it was.
A police badge.
And a perfectly parted combover.
“…Grayson.”
Simon stepped back, caught off guard.
“The white force… was the police?”
Grayson gave a sheepish smile and raised his hands.
“I didn’t plan this, okay? I lost over a million at the casino.
Couldn’t pay it back. Had to improvise. Honestly, the whole department’s a mess.
I’m not the only one walking both sides. I just… got there first.”
One by one, Crusaders pulled the hoods off the others.
Uniforms underneath.
Guns. Batons. Radios.
This wasn’t a gang.
It was a rogue police unit.
Outnumbered. Exposed. Surrounded—
Grayson dropped to his knees.
He clasped his hands—not in prayer, but in panic.
“Please… don’t tell anyone.
If the precinct finds out, I’m finished. They’ll eat me alive.
I’ll do anything. I swear. Anything.”
His voice cracked.
His fingers shook.
Pastor Simon didn’t say a word.
He reached into his robe and pulled out a folded contract.
Already printed.
He handed it over.
Grayson read it once.
Sweat dotted his face.
He signed.
And just like that—it was done.
The Crusaders walked out.
And then, in a move no one saw coming—
Simon gave everything back to Grayson.
All of it.
Not one shop.
Not a single corner.
Not even the entrance to the subway.
The next day, Grayson stood at a podium in front of reporters.
His uniform was freshly pressed. Combover aligned to perfection.
Junior officers stood on either side.
Cameras flashing. Microphones stacked.
“As of this morning,” he said, “the group known as the Humbleism Crusade has successfully pushed back criminal elements and brought stability to many business districts.”
“The police department has no plans to interfere.”
A brief pause.
“We consider them… a force for justice.
Their presence has helped reduce illegal protection rackets.
We stand with them—for the good of the city’s small business owners.”
Applause followed.
Reporters smiled. Cameras zoomed.
No one asked about the subway.
No one saw the contract.
No one saw him kneel.
The Fall of Pineapple Gang
The Humbleism Crusaders kept sweeping through the city like a force of nature.
Wherever they went, gangs didn’t fight—they disappeared.
Whole blocks were emptied out just from the rumor that the Crusaders were coming.
Especially the smaller crews.
The ones without leaders.
They didn’t run.
They gave up before it even started.
In the middle of a big charity compound—meant for peace and public service—a strange moment unfolded.
A perfect circle of white-robed followers stood motionless.
Their posture was calm. Their energy unshakable.
At the center was one man.
Small, wiry. Hair spiked like a pineapple top.
That was what people called him: Pineapple Head.
Leader of the short-lived Pineapple Gang.
Now? He was the only one left.
The robed followers didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
They just stood there.
It felt more like a funeral than a fight.
Pineapple Head stood frozen.
He didn’t know if he was being honored… or about to be erased.
Then he screamed.
And ran.
With a sudden burst of energy, he exploded forward—legs pumping hard across the marble floor.
He charged for the front gate like a football player at the buzzer.
And somehow, he made it through the edge of the human circle.
No one saw it coming.
He reached the front steps of the compound.
Just a few more seconds… and he’d be free.
But then—
“In the name of faith and righteousness!”
Pastor Simon’s voice rang out, loud and theatrical.
“In the name of God—you shall become the holy boot!
Lock the wheel of evil!
Prevent the escape of chaos!”
And then came Kyle.
Out of nowhere, eyes blazing with fanatical purpose, Kyle launched himself toward Pineapple Head’s leg.
He clamped on like a human wheel lock.
Pineapple kicked.
Once. Twice. Right in Kyle’s skull.
Didn’t matter.
Kyle didn’t flinch.
He wasn’t a person anymore.
He was a divine parking boot.
Unmoving. Unblinking. Totally committed.
Pineapple Head dragged him—ten meters, maybe more—scraping across the ground.
Still no luck.
He twisted, shouted, thrashed.
Nothing worked.
The rest of the Crusaders caught up.
They closed in like buzzards around a dying animal.
And Pineapple Head?
He gave up.
Hands raised.
No fight left.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
The Pineapple Gang was officially declared dead.
It no longer existed.
Later, a rumor started spreading.
No one could prove it, but everyone said the same thing:
“They sold Pineapple Head to a human trafficking network.
Shipped him off to Honduras.
Now he’s digging ditches.
No name. No gang.
Just a guy with pineapple hair, shoveling dirt under the sun.”
The Alliance of Unholy Forces
High above the wreckage, on the rooftop of a sleek glass tower, two men sat across from each other at a long table.
Canelo.
Robinson.
Behind them—dozens of followers, standing in clean formation like hired militias.
The sky stretched wide and empty above.
But the tension was thick.
This wasn’t a battlefield.
This was something worse: a negotiation.
Both their empires were shrinking.
The yellow wave of Humbleism had already swallowed half the city.
Even the most hardened criminals were starting to tremble at the mention of “the robe people.”
There was nowhere left to run.
Only one move left:
Work together… or disappear.
And to everyone’s surprise, the meeting actually started well.
They talked maps.
Strategy.
Weak points in Crusader supply routes.
Plans to surround, isolate, and choke off the Crusade’s expansion.
It felt professional. Almost military.
For nearly an hour, they clicked like old friends in a chess club.
“If we strike first,” Canelo said, “we can smother their expansion before they fully consolidate.”
“Agreed,” Robinson replied. “A child is easiest to kill in the womb.”
The rooftop buzzed with cautious hope.
They actually believed this might work.
But then came the part that always ruins a partnership.
Power.
Who gets the final say?
Who calls the shot?
Neither would budge.
Then came the second problem:
Money.
Robinson, with slightly more manpower, proposed a 70/30 split.
Canelo shut it down instantly.
“It’s either 50/50,” he said, “or it’s nothing.”
What started as unity dissolved into ego.
The clock ticked.
Tempers flared.
Momentum evaporated.
And then it broke.
From Robinson’s side, a young hothead stepped forward.
He pointed at Canelo, fire in his voice:
“Who the hell do you think you are?
You’re a nobody. Our boss gave you a golden offer. You should’ve taken it—”
CRACK.
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Canelo lunged across the table.
In one motion, he grabbed the kid by the waist, spun, and flung him.
Off the edge.
No railing.
Fifty stories down.
The scream vanished before it hit the ground.
By the time his body did, it was just a splash of red on concrete.
Down below, pedestrians panicked.
Screams filled the street.
People ran like ants.
Up on the rooftop?
Silence.
Only the wind spoke.
Robinson stood up slowly.
Then calmly punched the table between them.
It exploded.
Wood chips everywhere.
He paused.
Took a breath.
“That kid was out of line,” he said, voice low.
“Still… looks like we’re not making a deal today.”
He turned his back.
“If you’re serious,” he added, “you know where to find me.
Two conditions:
I give the orders.
I get 70%.”
With that, he walked off.
His men followed in silence.
Canelo didn’t say a word.
A few minutes later, he left too.
No handshake.
No alliance.
Just a broken table, a dead kid, and a new crack in the city’s sky.
The Stalemate at Latitude 38
The next month was hell.
Robinson’s blue forces clashed with the yellow tide of the Humbleism Crusaders over and over again.
It wasn’t a few skirmishes here and there.
It was all-out, layered chaos.
And it never stopped.
Every single day, hundreds of fighters died.
Shops didn’t just close—they gave up.
Shopping malls shut down completely.
No one dared open their doors anymore.
Because a store might be taken by the blue force in the morning…
and by that same night, golden-robed Crusaders would take it right back.
No warning. No rules.
Just violent tug-of-war.
And the civilians?
They suffered the most.
A lot of shopkeepers stayed open too long.
They thought the fighting would pass.
They got caught in the crossfire.
Some died from random blasts.
Some were burned alive when the mortar fire caught the ramen oil.
A few didn’t even have bodies left to bury.
Back in his command center, Pastor Simon sat in front of a massive screen.
He swiped across a digital map—tracking movement, studying patterns.
Something didn’t add up.
The blue-and-green alliance had suddenly become sharper. Faster. More tactical.
They weren’t just street thugs anymore.
They were organized.
And deadly.
What really caught his eye were the ambushes.
The kind where black-pantsed fighters popped up from behind police stations and alleyways.
Pistols. Batons. Coordination.
It felt… official.
“These aren’t ordinary gangsters,” Simon muttered to himself.
“They move like trained men…”
And he was right.
Because behind the scenes, Grayson was playing his own game.
He couldn’t publicly join forces with Robinson.
But privately?
He sent dozens of officers—undercover—into Robinson’s army.
They swapped their uniforms for gang gear.
Kept their guns. Kept their tactics. Kept their discipline.
And just like that, Robinson’s forces leveled up.
This wasn’t just a street crew anymore.
This was an unofficial military.
Blue and white had become one.
The battle devolved into a standstill.
Both sides moved a little.
Then got pushed back.
Then moved again.
Then pushed again.
Back and forth.
Every single day.
The front line?
A strip of war-torn city centered on one place:
Latitude 38.
No one made real progress.
But the bodies kept adding up.
First, it was thirty thousand fighters involved.
Then forty.
Then fifty.
Reinforcements kept coming.
And eventually—
Over one hundred thousand people were part of the conflict.
The war had become a mud pit.
No side could climb out.
And now?
People started whispering.
Not about a win.
But about a ceasefire.
Everyone was tired.
The city was crumbling.
And the world was watching.
Latitude 38: Wasteland
The shopping mall at Latitude 38 didn’t have a roof anymore.
Chunks of concrete littered the ground.
Support beams stuck out like broken ribs.
The air reeked—of death, dust, and abandonment.
This place used to be bright.
Full of lights, color, life.
Now?
Just a concrete skeleton with shattered glass teeth.
The streets nearby were worse.
Corpses slumped in gutters.
Some were bloated. Purple. Melting into the pavement.
Others were already picked clean—only bones left.
The dogs roamed freely now.
They didn’t even look afraid.
It was quiet.
But it wasn’t peace.
Chief Johnson walked through it slowly.
His badge was still pinned to his chest.
His uniform was dusty. Torn. But still holding.
He didn’t flinch at the bodies.
Didn’t look away from the blood.
He just… walked.
Like a man carrying something heavy in his chest.
It hadn’t always been this way.
Just a few months ago, the city was still hanging on.
Still functional.
Sure, it was corrupt. Chaotic.
But there was rhythm. Structure. Predictability.
Back then, gangs controlled territory with payments and deals.
There was violence. But it was controlled.
There was fear. But also balance.
Then came Humbleism.
And they weren’t just a gang.
They weren’t just a cult.
They were something else entirely.
A holy militia.
Marching with chants instead of threats.
Wearing robes instead of colors.
And wherever they passed—
they left rubble.
Johnson clenched his fists.
Didn’t say anything.
Just kept walking.
Up ahead, a stray dog gnawed on a moldy crust of bread in the middle of the road.
Then—suddenly—
A young boy, maybe nine years old, came sprinting from behind a collapsed bus.
He kicked the dog straight in the head.
Snatched the bread.
Dropped to his knees.
And started eating.
No chewing.
Just swallowing.
Like someone who hadn’t eaten in days.
The kid’s ribs stuck out like twigs under his skin.
His eyes were empty.
No tears. No shame. Just survival.
Chief Johnson stood there.
And he watched.
For a long time.
That was it.
That was the moment.
He didn’t say a word out loud.
But in his mind, it rang like a siren.
“I will bring this city back.
I swear I’ll drive those Crusaders out.
Whatever it takes.”